The guns were served on the Randolph with the desperate rapidity of men

who, awfully pressed for time, had abandoned hope and only fought to

cripple and delay before they were silenced; those on the Yarmouth, on

the contrary, were fired with much more deliberation, and did dreadful

execution. The different guns were disabled on the Randolph by heavy

shot; adjacent ports were knocked into one, the sides shattered, boats

smashed, rails knocked to pieces, all of the weather-shrouds cut, the

mizzenmast carried away under the top, and the wreck fell into the

sea,--fortunately, on the lee side, the little body of men in the top

going to a sudden death with the rest. The decks were slippery with

blood and ploughed with plunging shot, which the superior height of the

Yarmouth permitted to be fired with depressed guns from an elevation.

Solid shot from the heavy main-deck batteries swept through and through

the devoted frigate; half the Randolph's guns were useless because of

the lack of men to serve them; the cockpit overflowed with the wounded;

the surgeon and his mates, covered with blood, worked like butchers, in

the steerage and finally in the ward room; dead and dying men lay where

they fell; there were no hands to spare to take them below, no place in

which they could lie with safety, no immunity from the searching hail

which drove through every part of the doomed ship. Still the men,

cheered and encouraged by their officers, stood to their guns and

fought on. Presently the foretopmast went by the board also, as the

long moments dragged along, Seymour was now lying on the quarter-deck,

a bullet having broken his leg, another having made a flesh-wound in

his arm; he had refused to go below to have his wounds dressed, and one

of the midshipmen was kneeling by his side, applying such unskilful

bandages as he might to the two bleeding wounds. Nason had been sent

for, and was in charge, under Seymour's direction. That young man, all

his nervousness gone, was most ably seconding his dauntless captain.

The two ships were covered with smoke. It was impossible to tell on

one what was happening on the other; but the steady persistence with

which the Randolph clung to her big enemy had its effect on the

Yarmouth also, and the well-delivered fire did not allow that vessel

any immunity. In fact, while nothing like that on the frigate, the

damage was so great, and so many men had fallen, that Captain Vincent

determined to end the conflict at once by boarding the frigate. The

necessary orders were given, and a strong party of boarders was called

away and mustered on the forecastle, headed by Beauchamp and Hollins;

among the number were little Montagu, with other midshipmen. Taking

advantage of the smoke and of the weather-gage, the Yarmouth was

suddenly headed for the Randolph. As the enormous bows of the

line-of-battle ship came slowly shoving out of the smoke, towering

above them, covered with men, cutlass or boarding pike in hand, Seymour

discerned at once the purpose of the manoeuvre. Raising himself upon

his elbow to better direct the movement,--

"All hands repel boarders!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the

ship as powerfully as ever.

This was an unusual command, as it completely deprived the guns of

their crews; but he rightly judged that it would take all the men they

could muster to repel the coming attack, and none but the main-deck

guns of the Yarmouth would or could be fired, for fear of hitting their

own men in the mêlée on the deck. The Randolph was a wreck below, at

best; but while anything held together above her plank shears, she

would be fought. The men had reached that desperate condition when

they ceased to think of odds, and like maddened beasts fought and raved

and swore in the frenzy of the combat. The thrice-decimated crew

sprang aft, rallying in the gangway to meet the shock, Nason at their

head, followed close by old Bentley, still unwounded. As the bow of

the Yarmouth struck the Randolph with a crash, one or two wounded men,

unable to take part in repelling the boarders but still able to move,

who had remained beside the guns, exerted the remaining strength they

possessed to discharge such of the pieces as bore, in long raking

shots, through the bow of the liner; it was the last sound from their

hot muzzles.

The Yarmouth struck the Randolph just forward of the mainmast; the men,

swarming in dense masses on the rail and hanging over the bowsprit

ready to leap, dropped on her deck at once with loud cheers. A sharp

volley from the few marines left on the frigate checked them for a

moment,--nobody noticing at the time that the Honorable Giles had

fallen in a limp heap back from the rail upon his own deck, the blood

staining his curly head; but they gathered themselves together at once,

and, gallantly led, sprang aft, handling their pistols and pikes and

waving their cutlasses. Nason was shot in a moment by Hollins' pistol,

Beauchamp was cut in two by a tremendous sweep of the arm of the mighty

Bentley, and the combat became at once general. Slowly but surely the

Americans were pressed back; the gangways were cleared; the

quarter-deck was gained; one by one the brave defenders had fallen.

The battle was about over when Seymour noticed a man running out in the

foreyard of the Yarmouth with a hand-grenade. He raised his pistol and

fired; the man fell; but another resolutely started to follow him.

Bentley and a few other men, and one or two officers and a midshipman,

were all who were able to bear arms now.

"Good-by, Mr. Seymour," cried Bentley, waving his hand and setting his

back against the rail nearest to the Yarmouth, which had slowly swung

parallel to the Randolph and had been lashed there. The old man was

covered with blood from two or three wounds, but still undaunted. Two

or three men made a rush at him; but he held them at bay, no man caring

to come within sweep of that mighty arm which had already done so much,

when a bullet from above struck him, and he fell over backward on the

rail mortally wounded.

Seymour raised his remaining pistol and fired it at the second man, who

had nearly reached the foreyard arm; less successful this time, he

missed the man, who threw his grenade down the hatchway. Seymour

fainted from loss of blood.

"Back, men! back to the ship, all you Yarmouths!" cried Captain

Vincent, as he saw the lighted grenade, which exploded and ignited a

little heap of cartridges left by a dead powder-boy before the

magazine. Alas! there was no one there to check or stop the flames.

The English sailors sprang back and up the sides and through the ports

of their ship with frantic haste; the lashings were being rapidly cut

by them, and the braces handled.

"Come aboard, men, while you can," cried Captain Vincent to the

Americans. "Your ship 's afire; you can do no more; you 'll blow up in

a moment!"

The little handful of Americans were left alone on their ship. The

only officer still standing lifted his sword and shook it impotently at

the Yarmouth in reply; the rest did not stir. The smoke of battle had

now settled away, and the whole ghastly scene was revealed. A woman's

cry rang out fraught with agony,--"Seymour, Seymour!" and again was her

cry unheeded; her lover could not hear. She cried again; and then,

with a frightful roar and crash, the Randolph blew up.

CHAPTER XXXVII

For Love of Country

The force of the explosion occurring so near to the line-of-battle ship

drove her over with irresistible power upon her beam-ends until she

buried her port main-deck guns under water; her time was not yet come,

however, for, after a trembling movement of sickening uncertainty, she

righted herself, slowly at first, but finally with a mighty roll and

rush as if on a tidal wave. For a few seconds the air was filled with

pieces of wreck, arms, spars, bodies, many of which fell on the

Yarmouth. The horrified spectators saw the two broken halves of the

ill-fated frigate gradually disappearing beneath the heaving sea,

sucking down in their inexorable vortex most of the bodies of those,

alive or dead, who floated near. The fire had come in broad sheets

through the portholes of the main-deck guns of the ship from the

explosion, driving the men from their stations, and, by heating the

iron masses or igniting the priming, caused sudden and wild discharges

to add their quota of confusion to the awful scene. Pieces of burning

wreck had also fallen in the tops, or upon the sails, or lodged in the

standing rigging, full of tar as usual, and dry and inflammable to the

last degree. The Yarmouth, therefore, was in serious danger,--more so

than in any other period of the action,--her little antagonist having

inflicted the most damaging blow with the last gasp, as it were; for

little columns of flame and smoke began to rise ominously in a dozen

places. Then was manifested the splendid discipline for which British

ships were famous the world over. Rapidly and with unerring skill and

coolness the proper orders were given, and the tired men were set to

work desperately fighting once more to check and put out the fire.

Long and hard was the struggle, the issue much in doubt; but in the end

the efforts of her crew were crowned with merited success, and their

ship was eventually saved from the dangerous conflagration which had

menaced her with ruin, not less complete and disastrous than had

befallen the frigate.

While all this was being done, a little scene took place upon the

quarter-deck which was worthy of notice. Something heavy and solid,

thrown upward by the tremendous force of the discharge, struck the rail

with a mighty crash at the moment of the explosion, just at the point

where Katharine, wide-eyed, petrified with horror, after that one vivid

glance in which she apparently saw her lover dead on his own

quarter-deck beneath her, stood clinging rigidly to the bulwarks as if

paralyzed. It was the body of a man; instinctively she threw out her

strong young arm and saved it from falling again into the sea on the

return roll of the ship. One or two of the seamen standing by came to

her assistance, and the body was dragged on board and laid on the deck

at her feet. Something familiar in the figure moved Katharine to a

further examination. She knelt down and wiped the blood and smoke and

dust from the face of the prostrate man, and recognized him at once.

It was old Bentley, desperately wounded, his clothes soaked with blood

from several severe wounds, and apparently dying fast, but still

breathing. A small tightly rolled up ball of bunting was lying near

her on the deck; it was a flag from the Randolph, which had been blown

there by the force of the explosion. She quickly picked it up and

pillowed the head of the unconscious man upon it. Then she ran below

to her cabin, coming back in a moment with water and a cordial, with

which she bathed the head and wiped the lips of the dying man. The

fires were all forward, and, the wind being aft, the danger was in the

fore part of the ship; no one therefore paid the least attention to

her. There was, in fact, save the captain and one or two midshipmen,

no one else on the poop-deck except her father, who like herself had

been overwhelmed by the sudden and awful ending of the battle. Being

without anything to do, the colonel, who had been watching the men

fight with the fire, happened to look aft for a moment and saw his

daughter by the side of the prostrate man. He stepped over to her at

once.

"Katharine, Katharine," he said to her in a tone of stern reproof and

surprise, not as he usually spoke to her, "you here! 'T is no place

for women. When did you come from below?"

"I've not been below at all, father," she replied, looking up at him

with a white, stricken face which troubled his loving heart.

"Do you mean to tell me that you have been on deck during the action?"

"Yes, father, right here. Do you not understand that it was Mr.

Seymour's ship--I could not go away!"

"By heavens! Think of it! And I forgot you completely-- The fault

was mine, how could I have allowed it?" he continued in great agitation.

"Never mind, father; I could not have gone below in any case. Do you

think he--Mr. Seymour--can be yet alive?" she asked, still cherishing a

faint hope.

The colonel shook his head gloomily, and then stooping down and looking

at the prostrate form of the man on the deck, he asked,--

"But who is this you have here?"

The man opened his eyes at this moment and looked up vacantly.

"William Bentley, sir," he said in a hoarse whisper, as if in answer to

the question; and then making a vain effort to raise his hand to his

head, he went on half-mechanically, "bosun of the Randolph, sir. Come

aboard!"

"Merciful Powers, it is old Bentley!" cried the colonel. "Can anything

be done for you, my man? How is it with you?"

Katharine poured a little more of the cordial down his throat, which

gave him a fictitious strength for a moment, and he answered in a

little stronger voice, with a glance of recognition and wonder,--

"The colonel and the young miss! we thought you dead in the wreck of

the Radnor. He will be glad;" and then after a pause recollection came

to him. "Oh, God!" he murmured, "Mr. Seymour!"

"What of him? Speak!" cried Katharine, in agony.

"Gone with the rest," he replied with an effort "'T was a good fight,

though. The other ships,--where are they?"

"Escaped," answered the colonel; "we are too much cut up to pursue."

"Why did you do it?" moaned Katharine, thinking of Seymour's attack on

the ship of the line.

The old man did not heed the question; his eyes closed. He was still a

moment, and then he opened his eyes again slowly. Straight above him

waved the standard of his enemy.

"I never thought--to die--under the English flag," he said slowly and

with great effort. Supplying its place with her own young soft arm,

Katharine drew forth the little American ensign which had served him

for a pillow--stained with his own blood--and held it up before him. A

light came into his dying eyes,--a light of heaven, perhaps, no pain in

his heart now. One trembling hand would still do his bidding; by a

superhuman effort of his resolute will he caught the bit of bunting and

carried it to his lips in a long kiss of farewell. His lips moved. He

was saying something. Katharine bent to listen. What was it? Ah! she

heard; they were the words he said on the deck of the transport when

they saw the ship wrecked in the pass in the beating seas,--the words

he had repeated in the old farmhouse on that winter night to the great

general, when he told the story of that cruise; the words he had made

to stand for the great idea of his own life; the words with which he

had cheered and soothed and sustained and encouraged many weaker men

who had looked to his iron soul for help and guidance. They were the

words to which many a patriot like him, now lying mute and cold upon

the hills about Boston, under the trees at Long Island, by the flowing

waters and frowning cliffs of the Hudson, on the verdant glacis at

Quebec, 'neath the smooth surface of Lake Champlain, in the dim

northern woods, on the historic field of Princeton, or within the still

depths of this mighty sea now tossing them upon its bosom, had given

most eloquent expression and final attestation. What were they?

"For--for--love--of--country." The once mighty voice died away in a

feeble whisper; a child might still the faintly beating heart. The

mighty chest--rose--fell; the old man lay still. Love of

country,--that was his passion, you understand.

Love of country! That was the great refrain. The wind roared the song

through the pines, on the snow-clad mountains in the far north, sobbed

it softly through the rustling palmetto branches in the south-land, or

breathed it in whispers over the leaves of the oak and elm and laurel,

between. The waves crashed it in tremendous chorus on rock-bound

shores, or rolled it with tender caress over shining sands. Under its

inspiration, mighty men left all and marched forth to battle; wooed by

its subtle music, hero women bore the long hours of absence and

suspense; and in its tender harmonies the little children were rocked

to sleep. Ay, love of country! All the voices of man and nature in a

continent caught it up and breathed it forth, hurled it in mighty

diapason far up into God's heaven. Love of country! It was indeed a

mighty truth. They preached it, loved it, lived for it, died for it,

till at last it made them free!

CHAPTER XXXVIII

_Philip Disobeys Orders_

"Who is this, pray?" said Captain Vincent, at this moment stepping back

to the silent little group.

"The boatswain of the Randolph," replied the colonel. "He has just

died."

"Poor fellow! but there are many other brave men gone this day. What

think you was the complement of the frigate, colonel?"

"Over three hundred men certainly," replied the colonel (the actual

number was three hundred and fifteen). "Most of them not already done

for were lost in the explosion, I presume?"

"Yes, assuredly; and now I owe you an apology, my dear sir. I never

saw a more gallant action in my life. The man 's gone, of course, but

he shall have full credit for it in my report; 'twas bravely done, and

successfully, too. We are frightfully cut up, and in no condition to

pursue. In fact, I will not conceal from you that some of our spars

are so severely wounded, and the starboard rigging so damaged and

scorched and cut up, that I know not how we could stand a heavy blow.

Twenty-five are killed, and upward of sixty wounded too, and about

thirty missing, killed, or wounded men of the boarding party, who were

undoubtedly blown up with the frigate. Beauchamp is gone; and that

little fellow there," pointing to a couple of seamen bringing a small

limp body aft, "is Montagu. Poor little youngster!"

"This has indeed been a frightful action, captain," replied the

colonel. "I knew young Seymour well. He was a man of the most

consummate gallantry. This sacrifice is like him," he continued

softly, looking at Katharine and then turning away. Perhaps the

captain understood. At any rate he stepped to her side and said

gently,--

"Mistress Katharine, this is no place for you; you must go below.

Indeed, I must insist. I shall have to order you. Come--" and then

laying his hand on her arm, he started back in surprise. "Why, you are

wounded!"

"'Tis nothing, sir," said Katharine, faintly. "I welcome it; 'twas an

American bullet. Would it had found my heart!"

"Only a flesh-wound, colonel; no cause for alarm," said the captain,

looking at it with the eye of experience. "It will be all right in a

day or two. But now she must go below. I can't understand how you

were allowed to stay here, or be here. What were they thinking of?

But you saw one of the hottest and most desperate battles ever fought

between two ships since you were here. They can fight; you were right,

colonel," he went on in ungrudging admiration.

"Here, Desborough," he added, addressing the lieutenant, who just then

put his foot on the deck, "take Miss Wilton below, and ask the surgeon

to attend her at his convenience; she 's gone and got herself wounded

by her friends."

Lieutenant Desborough, black and grimy, streaked with smoke and powder,

turned pale at the captain's words, and sprang forward anxiously and

led the object of his love down the steps to her cabin. "Wounded!" he

murmured. "Oh, my love, why did no one take you to a place of safety?"

"'T is nothing," she replied, going on as if in a dream.

Desborough had his wish: his rival was gone; he had the field to

himself; but he was too manly to feel any exultation now that it was

over, and too sorry for the vacant despair he saw on her face. He

tenderly whispered to her as he led her on,--

"Believe me, dear Katharine, it is not thus I would have triumphed over

Mr. Seymour. He was in truth a knightly gentleman."

Overwhelming pity for her filled his heart, and he went on

magnanimously,--

"I am sorry--"

She made no answer; she did not hear. In the cabin the body of little

Montagu was lying on a table. He would never get his frigate now. How

small and frail and boyish looked the Honorable Giles to-day! Why did

they send children like that to war? Had he no mother?--poor lad!

Moved by a sudden impulse, she stooped and kissed him, as she had done

an hour before. No throb of the proud little heart answered responsive

to her caress now. Alas! she might kiss him when and as she pleased;

he would not feel it, and he would not heed. Entering her own berth at

last, she closed the door and sank down upon her knees,--alone with God!

"A sail coming down fast,--the little brig, sir," reported the officer

of the deck to Captain Vincent. "Shall we come about and give him a

broadside?"

"No, no; we dare not handle the braces yet,--not until the gear and

spars have been well overhauled."

"Shall we use the stern-chaser then, sir?"

The Yarmouth had left the scene of the explosion some distance away by

this time, but she was still within easy gun-shot. Captain Vincent

earnestly examined the brig; as he looked, she came up to the wind,

hove to, and dropped a boat in the water. There was a bit of spar

still floating there. The captain saw that three or four men were

clinging to it.

"No; she's on an errand of mercy. There are men in the water on that

topmast there. Let her go free," he said generously. "We 've done

enough to-day to satisfy any reasonable man."

The colonel grasped his hand warmly and thanked him. The little brig

picked up her boat, swung her mainyard, and filled away again on the

port tack, in the wake of the rest of the little squadron now far

ahead; then, understanding the forbearance of the big ship, she fired a

gun to leeward and dipped her ensign in salute.

The force of the explosion had thrown Seymour, from his advantageous

position aft, far out into the water and away from the sinking ship.

The contact with cold water recalled him to his senses at once; and

with the natural instinct of man for life, he struck out as well as he

might, considering his broken leg and wounded arm and weakened state.

There was a piece of a mast with the top still on it floating near by.

He struggled gallantly to make it,--'twas no use, he could do no more;

closing his eyes, he sank down in the dark water. But help was near: a

hand grasped him by his long hair and drew him up; one of his men,

unwounded fortunately, had saved him. The two men presently reached

the bit of wreck; the sailor scrambled up on it, and by a great effort

drew his captain by his side; two more men swam over desperately, and

finally joined the little group. They clung there helpless, hopeless,

despairing, fascinated, watching the remains of the Randolph disappear,

marking a few feeble swimmers here and there struggling, till all was

still. Then they turned their eyes upon their late antagonist, running

away before the wind in flames; they saw her fight them down

successfully; appalled, none spoke. Presently one of the seamen

glanced the other way, and saw the little brig swiftly bearing down

upon them.

"God be praised! Here's the brig, the Fair American," he cried. "We

shall be saved--saved!"

The brig was handled smartly; she came to the wind, backed the

maintopsail, and lay gently tossing to and fro on the long swells. The

young captain stood on the rail, clinging to the back-stays, anxiously

watching. The boat was dropped into the water, and with long strokes

shot over to them. The men sprang aboard; rude hands gently and

tenderly lifted the wounded captain in. They pulled rapidly back to

the brig; the falls were manned, and the boat was run up, the yard

swung, and she filled away. Seymour was lifted down; Philip received

him in his arms.

"I ought to arrest you for disobedience of orders," said the captain,

sternly. "Why did you pay no attention to my signals? You have

jeoparded the brig. Yon ship can blow you out of the water; you are

quite within range."

But they soon saw that no motion was made by the ship; and in

accordance with Seymour's orders the gun was fired and the colors

dipped,--a salute which the ship promptly returned.

"I ought to put you under arrest, Philip," again said Seymour, faintly,

while he was lying in the tiny cabin, having his wounds dressed; "but I

will not. 'T was gallantly done; but obey orders first hereafter,--'t

is the first principle of action on the sea." That was rather cool

comfort for the young officer, considering that his somewhat reckless

action had just saved Seymour's life. He made brief reply, however,

and then resumed his station on the deck of his little vessel, which

was rapidly overhauling the rest of the fleet. As soon as the night

fell, the wind permitting, they were by Seymour's direction headed for

the harbor of Charleston once more. Now that his mind was free again,

Seymour's thoughts turned to that woman's form of which he had one

brief glimpse ere the line-of-battle ship disappeared in the smoke.

Could it indeed have been Katharine Wilton? Could fate play him such a

trick as to awaken once more his sleeping hope? Through the long night

he tossed in fevered unrest in his narrow berth. Again he went over

the awful scenes of that one hour of horror. The roar of the guns, the

crash of splintered timbers, the groans of the wounded men, rang in his

fretted ear. They seemed to rise before him, those gallant officers

and men, the hardy, bold sailors, veterans of the sea, audacious

youngsters with life long before them, Bentley, his old, his faithful

friend,--lost--all lost. Was there reproach in their gaze? Was it

worth while, after all? Ay, but duty; he had always done his

duty--duty always--duty-- Ah, they faded away, and Katharine looked

down upon--it was she--love--duty--love--duty! Was that the roar of

battle again, or only his beating heart? They found him in the

morning, delirious, shouting orders, murmuring words of love, calling

Kate,--babbling like a child.

CHAPTER XXXIX

_Three Pictures of the Sea_

A short time before sunset that same evening the Yarmouth was hove to,

and the hoarse cry of the boatswain and his mates was once more heard

through the ship, calling,--

"All hands! Bury the dead."

Skilled hands had been working earnestly all the afternoon to repair

the damage to the vessel; much had been accomplished, but much more

still remained to be done. However, night was drawing on, and it was

advisable to dispose of the dead bodies of those who had been killed in

the action, or who had died since of their wounds, without further

delay. Some of the sailmaker's mates had been busy during the

afternoon, sewing up the dead in new, clean hammocks, and weighting

each one with heavy shot at the feet to draw it down. The bodies were

laid in orderly rows amidships, forward of the mainmast, and all was

ready when the word was passed. The crew assembled in the gangways

facing aft, the boatswain, gunner, carpenter, sailmaker, and other

warrant officers at their head. The captain, attended by Colonel

Wilton and the first lieutenant in full uniform, and surrounded by the

officers down to the smallest midshipman, stood facing the crew on the

quarter-deck; back of the officers, on the opposite side of the deck,

the marine guard was drawn up. At the break of the poop stood the

slender, graceful figure of a woman, alone, clearly outlined against

the low light of the setting sun, looking mournfully down upon the

picture, her heart, though filled with sadness and sorrow particularly

her own, still great enough to feel sympathy for others.

The chaplain, clothed in the white vestments of his sacred office,

presently came from out the cabin beneath the poop-deck, and stopped

opposite the gangway between the line of men and officers. Two of the

boatswain's mates, at a signal from the first lieutenant, stepped to

the row of bodies and carefully lifted up the first one and laid it on

a grating, covering it at the same time with a flag. They next lifted

the grating and placed one end of it on the rail overlooking the sea,

and held the other in their hands and waited. The captain uncovered,

all the other officers and the men following his example.

The chaplain began to read from the book in his hand. The first body

on the grating was a very small one,--only a boy, looking smaller in

contrast to those of the men by which it had lain. The little figure

of the Honorable Giles looked pathetic indeed. Some of the little

fellow's messmates had hard work to stifle their tears; here and there

in the ranks of the silent men the back of a hand would go furtively up

to a wet eye, as the minister read on and on.

How run the words?

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, in His wise Providence, to

take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother--" Was it

indeed Thy pleasure, O God, that this little "brother" should die? Was

Thy Providence summed up in this little silent figure? Alas, who can

answer?

And then as the even voice of the priest went on with the solemn and

beautiful words which never grow familiar,--"we therefore commit his

body to the deep,"--the first lieutenant nodded to the watching

sailors. They lifted the inboard end of the grating high in the air; a

fellow midshipman standing by pulled aside the covering flag; the

little body started, moved slowly,--more rapidly; there was a flash of

light in the air, a splash in the water alongside.

The chaplain motioned for another; it was a man this time,--all the

rest were men; four of the seamen lifted him up. Again the few short

sentences, and the sailor was launched upon another voyage of life.

Tears were streaming from eyes unused to weeping, tracing unwonted

courses down the strangely weather-beaten, wrinkled cheeks; men

mourning the loss of shipmate and messmate, friend and fellow. The

last one in the row was a gigantic man; over his bosom was laid a

little blood-stained flag of different blazoning: there was the blue

field as in the heavens, white stars, and red and white stripes that

enfolded him like a caress. The sailors lifted him up and waited a

moment, until the tall, stately, distinguished figure of the colonel,

in his plain civilian dress, stepped out from the group of officers and

stood beside the grating; he put his hand upon the flag of his country,

glad to do this service for a faithful if humble friend. It was soon

over; with a little heavier splash old Bentley fell into the sea he had

so loved, joining that innumerable multitude of those who, having done

their duty, wait for that long-deferred day when the sea shall give up

her dead! The woman hid her face within her hands, the great bell of

the ship tolled solemnly forward, the sun had set, the men were

dismissed, the watch called, and the night fell softly, while the ship

glided on in the darkness.

Another week had elapsed. The Yarmouth had been driven steadily

northward, and by contrary winds prevented from making her course. She

was in a precarious condition too; a further examination had disclosed

that some of her spars, especially the mainmast, had been so severely

and seriously wounded, even more so than at first reported, as scarcely

to permit any sail at all to be set on them, and not fit in anyway to

endure stress of weather. The damages had been made good, however, as

far as possible, the rigging knotted and spliced, the spars fished and

strengthened as well. The ship had been leaking slightly all the time,

from injuries received in the fight, in all probability; but a few

hours at the pumps daily had hitherto kept her free, and though the

carpenter had been most assiduous in a search for the leaks, and had

stopped as many as he had been able to come at, some of them could not

be found. The weather had steadily changed for the worse as they had

reached higher latitudes, and it was now cold, rainy, and very

threatening. The captain and his officers were filled with anxiety and

foreboding. Katharine kept sedulously in her cabin, devoured by grief

and despair; and the once cheery colonel, full of deep sympathy for his

unfortunate daughter, went about softly and sadly during the long days.

The day broke gloomily on one certain unfortunate morning; they had not

seen the sun for five days, nor did they see it then. No gladsome

light flooded the heavens and awoke the sea; the sky was deeply

overcast with cold, dull, leaden clouds that hung low and heavy over

the mighty ship; a horror of darkness enshrouded the ocean. Away off

on the horizon to the northeast the sky was black with great masses of

frightful-looking clouds; through the glass the watchful officers saw

that rain was falling in torrents from them, while the vivid lightning

played incessantly through them. Where the ship was, it had fallen

suddenly calm, and she lay gently rolling and rocking in the moderate

swell; but they could see the hurricane driving down upon them, coming

at lightning speed, standing like a solid wall, and flattening the

waves by sheer weight. All hands had been called on deck at once, at

the first glimpse of the coming hurricane. Desborough had the trumpet;

the alert and eager topmen were sent aloft to strip the ship of the

little canvas which the heavy weather and weakened spars had permitted

them to show. It was a race between them and the coming storm. The

men worked desperately, madly; some of them had not yet reached the

deck when the rain and the wind were upon them. By the captain's

direction, the colonel had brought Katharine from below, and she was

standing on the quarter-deck sheltered by the overhang of the poop

above, listlessly watching. Desborough had made no progress in his

love-affairs; he had too much tact and delicacy to press his suit under

the present untoward circumstances, and indeed had been too incessantly

occupied with the pressing exigencies of the shattered ship, and the

duties of his responsible position thereon, to have any time to spare

for more than the common courtesies. The awful storm was at last upon

them: a sudden change in its direction caused the first fierce blow to

fall fairly upon the starboard side of the ship; it pressed her down on

her beam-ends; over and over she went, down, down. Would she ever

right again? Ah, the spliced shrouds and stays on the weather-side,

which had been that attacked by the Randolph, finally gave way, the

mainmast went by the board about halfway below the top, the foremast at

the cap, and the mizzentopmast, too; relieved of this enormous mass of

heavy top hamper, the ship slowly righted herself. The immense mass of

wreckage beat and thundered against the port side; it was a fearful

situation, but all was not yet lost. Gallantly led by Desborough

himself, who saw in one sweeping glance that Katharine was still safe,

the men, with axes and knives, hacked through the rigging which held

the wreck of the giant spars to the ship, and after a few moments of

sickening suspense she drifted clear; a bit of storm canvas was spread

forward on the wreck of the foremast, and the ship got before the wind

and drove on, laboring and pitching in the heavy sea. The decks were

cleared; and indeed there was little left to clear, the waves having

broken over her several times when she lay in the trough of the sea,

sweeping everything out with them, and the vessel was a total

wreck,--the spars gone, rails and bulwarks battered in and smashed,

boats lost, the battle having destroyed these on the starboard side,

and the wreck and the sea the others. Stop! there was one boat left

amidships, a launch capable of holding about forty persons in a pinch,

and still seaworthy; it was, by the captain's order, promptly made as

serviceable as possible in view of the probable emergency.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the carpenter came aft with the

sounding-rod of the well in his hand. The strain had been too much for

her; some of the weakened timbers had given way, or some of the seams

had opened, or perhaps a butt had started, for the ship was leaking

badly. Still those dauntless men did not despair. The crew were told

off in gangs to work, and all night the clank, clank, of the pumps was

heard. Katharine dutifully laid down as she was bidden; but there was

no sleep for her nor any one else on the ship that long night. The day

broke again finally, but brought them no cheer: their labor had been

unavailing; the leak had gained on them so rapidly that the ship lay

low in the water, listless and inert, rolling in a sick, sluggish,

helpless way in the trough of the sea. The wind had abated somewhat,

and a boat well handled might live in the water now. By Captain

Vincent's direction the men were sent to their stations on the spar, or

upper deck. The boat's crew was chosen by selecting every fifteenth

man in the long lines, the division officers doing the counting. The

boat was launched without tackles, by main strength, sliding on rollers

over the side through the broken bulwarks. Katharine, listless and

indifferent, still attended by Chloe, was put aboard. Captain Vincent

looked about among his officers; whom should he put in charge? They

all looked deprecatingly and entreatingly at him. None desired to go;

no one wished to be singled out to abandon the ship and his brother

officers. His glance fell on Desborough.

"The duty is yours; you are the first officer of the ship."

"Oh, Captain Vincent, do not send me, I beg you. My place surely is on

the ship with you. Cannot some one else--"

"No, you must go. My last command to you, my lord," he said, smiling

faintly and extending his hand. Desborough, seeing the futility of

further appeal, grasped it warmly in both his own, bowed to the other

officers, and with a wave of his hand stepped on the rail and sprang

into the tossing boat alongside.

"Are there any others to go?" he said.

The captain's eye fell upon the figure of the colonel standing among

the officers.

"You are to go, sir. Nay, I will hear of no objections. You are my

prisoner, and I am bound to see you delivered safely. Go, colonel. I

mean it; I will have you put aboard by a file of marines if you do not

go at once."

Katharine awoke from her apathy and stretched out her hands with a

piteous cry,--

"Father, father, oh, I cannot lose you too."

"Prisoner or no prisoner, sir," said the colonel, "let me say that I am

proud of my connection with you and your officers and your men. If I

live to reach the shore, the world shall hear of this noble ending.

Good-by, captain; good-by, gentlemen. I would fain stay with you."

"No, no!" was the cry from this band of heroes; and then Hollins sprang

forward and shouted,--

"Lads! Three cheers for the colonel and for our shipmates in the

launch! Let them tell at home that we were glad to stay by the old

ship."

The hearty cheers came with a roar from five hundred throats.

"Good-by, good-by; God bless you!" cried the colonel, choking and

utterly overcome, as he got into the boat, and sank down in the stern

sheets beside his daughter.

"Colonel, we have n't a moment of time," whispered Desborough, who saw

that the ship was sinking.

"Shove off, men; pull hard!"

A few moments of hard rowing in the heavy sea put them some little

distance away, and the boat waited under just enough way to give them

command of her. The men of the ship kept their stations; calm and

peaceful, they also waited. The ship settled lower and lower; a man

stepped hurriedly aft; and a moment later the bold and brilliant ensign

of Old England, which never waved over braver men, fluttered out in the

heavy breeze from the wrecked mast-head, the vivid red of the proud

flag making a lurid dash of color against the gray sky-line. The ship

was lower now. Now she plunged forward; the water rose; the captain

raised his hand; three hearty cheers rang out; the drums beat; the

marines presented arms. She was gone! The flag streamed out bravely

on the surface of the water, and then it was drawn down; a confused

mass of heads and waving arms was seen in the water, and they too in a

moment were slowly drawn down into the vortex caused by the sinking

ship. The woman again hid her face in her hands; the colonel laid his

arm across the shoulder of his daughter; Desborough and the men in the

boat stared horribly at the spot left vacant; a deep groan broke from

them; they rose on the crest of a wave, sank down again, rose once more

and looked again,--the little boat was alone on that mighty sea!

Oh, the agony of those long and frightful days in that little boat!

Never a sail did they sight, as day after day they rowed or sailed to

the westward, eagerly scanning the horizon for a landfall. The waves

washed over them, saturating their clothing; the chill winds of winter

froze them. First their provisions gave out, though served with the

most rigid economy by Desborough himself; then the water, husbanded as

no precious jewel was ever hoarded, was exhausted to the last drop, and

that drop, by common consent, Desborough forced between Katharine's

reluctant lips, though she would fain have refused it, claiming no

indulgence beyond the others. The rare qualities of that young officer

showed themselves brilliantly in this frightful peril. It was due to

his skill and careful management that they were not swamped a dozen

times; tireless, unselfish, cheerful, unsparing of himself, without him

they would have died. The men bore their sufferings, when all food and

water failed them, with the sturdy resolution of British sailors;

Desborough his, with the courage of the hero that he was, his fiercest

pang being for the white-faced girl who suffered in uncomplaining

silence. The colonel exhibited the stoical indifference of a seasoned

old soldier, as to his own personal condition, all his thoughts being

centred upon his daughter, who passed through the dreadful experience

with the calm resignation of a woman who had nothing left to live for,

and, strange to say, seemed to feel it less acutely than the rest; even

black Chloe, who had impartially shared with her mistress in all the

favors accorded to her, being in a state of utter exhaustion, amounting

to collapse.

When the pangs of hunger and thirst got hold of them, they refused--and

were indeed entirely unable--to work longer with the oars, so that,

unless the wind was fair and the sail was set, they simply drifted on.

One by one the sailors died. Waking from a troubled sleep of short

duration, Katharine one day found Chloe's dead hand around her feet,

her cold lips pressed upon them. Some of the men grew mad before they

died, and raved and babbled of green fields and running brooks until

the end came, and still the little boat drifted on. Few and short were

the prayers the living said as, day by day they cast the dead into the

sea. Desborough, the resolute, with undying strength kept steadily at

the helm. Once only did he speak to Katharine in words of love. As

their situation grew more and more hopeless, and even his resolute

optimism began to fail him, he bent down and whispered in her ear,--

"I would not trouble you now, Katharine, but before we die I must tell

you once again that I love you. Will you believe it?"

"I will believe it," she answered dully, giving him her hand. Oh, he

thought in agony, as he bent over it and kissed it, how thin and white

and feeble it was I One morning, after hope was dead, he was listlessly

scanning the line of the horizon as the rising sun threw it into

relief, more from habit than expectancy, when his heart almost stopped

its feeble beating, for land was there before him if his strained eyes

did not deceive him. Doubting the evidence of his weakened senses, and

fearing the delusions of a disordered imagination, he refrained from

communicating his impressions to any of the others until the light of

day determined the accuracy of his vision. Then he whispered the news

to Katharine, the apathetic woman told it to the sinking colonel, and

then Desborough cried it to his dying crew. The wind sprang up at the

moment too, and in a few hours they beached the boat upon a low sandy

shore, with the waves breaking gently over it in long easy rollers. It

was a desolate coast, sparsely wooded with small trees, and having

little evidence of human habitation about it; but no glimpse of heaven

could have more rejoiced a dying soul than this bleak haven to which

they had been brought. They staggered, half fell, out of the boat, and

lay exhausted, with ghastly haggard faces, on the shining sands, giving

thanks to God for His mercy.

Desborough, as the strongest of the party, started inland, finding by

and by a little stream of fresh water, and farther on, on higher

ground, seeing a house, the smoke curling from its chimneys showing

that it was inhabited. To the bubbling spring he half led, half

dragged his shipwrecked party. They drank sparingly by his direction,

and were refreshed, for with the cool water life and hope came back to

them once more. Then he left them again and went on to the house.

They had landed on the shore of Virginia, and the people of the house

welcomed and cared for the poor castaways, sharing with them their

humble store with the kindly hospitality for which the land was famous.

Their long voyage was at an end, their troubles were over. The colonel

and Katharine would be free again; they might go home once more, and

Desborough would be a prisoner.

BOOK V

THE DEAD ALIVE AGAIN

CHAPTER XL

_A Final Appeal_

It was springtime again in Virginia. The sky, its blue depths

accentuated by the shifting clouds, was never more clear, wherever it

appeared in the intervals of sunshine, nor the air more fresh and pure,

even in that land famed for its bright skies and its mild climate, than

it was this April day; which, with its sunshine and showers in

unregulated alternation, seemed symbolical of life,--that life of which

every tender blade of grass, every venturesome flower thrusting its

head above the sod, seemed to speak. There was health and strength in

the gentle breeze which wantonly played with the budding leaves of the

great trees, already putting forth little evangels of that splendid

foliage with which they decked themselves in the full glory of summer.

That merry wind which swept through the open boat-house at the end of

the wharf laid a bold hand upon the curls which fell about the neck of

the young girl sitting there by the door near the water on one of the

benches, gazing out over the broad reaches of the quiet, ever beautiful

Potomac, rippled gently by the wind under the late afternoon sun. The

gallant little breeze, fragrant with balm and perfume of the trees and

flowers, kissed a faint color into her pale cheek, and seemed to

whisper to her despondent heart in murmuring sounds that framed

themselves into the immortal words "hope, hope."

The young girl had but yesterday entered upon her twentieth spring.

Four months ago there had not been a merrier, lighter-hearted, gayer,

more coquettish young maiden in tidewater Virginia; and to-day, she

thought, as she looked down at her thin hand outlined so clearly upon

the vivid cardinal cloak she wore, which had dropped unheeded on the

seat by her side, to-day she was like that man in the play of whom her

father read,--a grave man. No, not a man at all. Once, in her

enthusiasm, she had fondly imagined that she had possessed all those

daring qualities of energy and action, those manly virtues, which might

have been hers by inheritance could the accident of sex have been

reversed. But now she knew she was but a woman, after all,--so weak,

so feeble, so listless. What had she left to live for? Once it was

her father, then it was her country, then it was her lover; now?

Nothing! Her father at the request of Congress would soon resume his

interrupted duties in France, now become more important than ever. He

was a man of the world and a soldier, a diplomat. The hard experiences

of the past few months were for him episodes, exciting truly, but only

part of a lifetime spent in large adventure, soon forgotten in some

other strenuous part demanded by some other strenuous exigency. But

she,--no, she was not a man at all, but a woman,--unused to such scenes

and happenings as fate had lately made her a participant in. Her

father might have his country,--he had not lost his love, his heart was

not buried out in the depths of the cruel sea. What had become of that

Roman patriotism upon which she prided herself in times past? Her

country! What had changed her so? There were many answers.

There was Blodgett's grave at the foot of the hill. She had played in

childhood with that faithful old soldier. Many a tale had he told her

of her gallant father when, as a young man, he gayly rode away to the

wars, leaving her lady mother in tears behind. She could sympathize

with waiting women now, and understand. Those were such deeds of

daring that the rude recital of the old man once stirred her very heart

with joy and terror; now she was sick at the thought of them. And

Blodgett was gone; he had died defending them, where he had been

stationed. That was an answer.

There, too, far away in another State, lay the lover of her girlhood's

happy day,--the bright-eyed, eager, gallant, joyous lad. What good

comrades they had been! How they had laughed, and played, and ridden,

and rowed, and hunted, and danced, and flirted, through the morning of

life,--how pleasant had been that life indeed! He was quiet now; she

could no longer join in his ringing laugh, the sound of his voice was

stilled, they might never play together again,--was there any play at

all in life? That was another answer.

There was the white-haired mother, the stately little royalist, Madam

Talbot, who slept in peace on the hill at Fairview Hall, her ambitions,

her hopes, and her loyalty buried with her, leaving the place

untenanted save by wistful memories; she too had gone.

Answers?--they crowded thick upon her! There were the officers of the

Yarmouth, Captain Vincent, Beauchamp, Hollins, and the little boy, the

Honorable Giles, and all the other officers and men with whom she had

come in contact on that frightful cruise. There were the heroic men

who had stayed by their ship, who had seen the favored few go away in

the only boat that was left seaworthy, without a murmur at being left

behind, who had faced death unheeding, unrepining, sinking down in the

dark water with a cheer upon their lips. There was the old sailor,

too, with his unquenchable patriotism, her friend because the friend of

her lover; and Philip, her brother; and there was Seymour himself. Ah,

what were all the rest to him! Gone, and how she loved him!

She leaned her head upon her hand and thought of him. Here in this

boat-house he had first spoken to her of his love. Here she had first

felt his lips touch her cheek. There, rocked gently by the light

breeze, upon the water at her feet was the familiar little

pleasure-boat; she had not allowed any one to row her about in it since

her return, in spite of much entreaty. It was this very cloak she wore

that day, nearly the very hour. The place was redolent with sweet

memories of happy days, though to think on them now broke her heart.

It all came back to her as it had come again and again. She briefly

reviewed that acquaintance, short though it was, which had changed the

whole course of her life. She saw him again, as he struck prompt to

defend her honor in the hall, resenting a ruffian's soiling hand

stretched out to her; she saw him lying wounded and senseless there at

her feet. She saw him stretched prone on that shattered deck, on that

ruined ship, pale, blood-stained, senseless again, again unheeding her

bitter cry. She would have called once more upon him, save that she

knew humanity has no voice which reaches out into the darkness by which

it may call back those who are once gone to live beyond. She did not

weep,--that were a small thing, a trifle; she sat and brooded. What

had she lost in the service of her country? What sacrifices had been

exacted from her by that insatiable country! Alas, alas, she thought,

men may have a country, a woman has only a heart.

Four short months had changed it all. How young she had been! Would

she ever be young again? How full of the joy of life! Its currents

swept by her unheeded now. Why had not God been merciful to her, that

she could have died there upon the sea, she thought. Ah, poor humanity

never learns His mercy; perhaps it is because we have no measure by

which to fathom its mighty depths. She saw herself old and lonely,

forgotten but not forgetting. But even then lacked she not

opportunity; woman-like, in spite of her constancy, she took a

melancholy pleasure in the thought that there was one still who

hungered for the shattered remnants of her broken heart, who lived for

the sound of her voice and the glance other eyes and the light of her

face. One there was, handsome, brave, distinguished, gentle, of

ancient name, assured station, ample fortune, who longed to lay all he

was or had at her feet.

But what were these things? Nothing to her, nothing. There was but

one, as she had said on the ship to Desborough: "I love a sailor; you

are not he." And yet her soul was filled with pity for the gallant

gentleman, and she thought of him tenderly with deep affection.

Presently she heard quick footsteps on the floor of the boat-house, and

turning her head she saw him. He held a letter, an official packet,

with the seal broken, open in his hand.

"Oh, Miss Wilton, you here?" he said. "I have looked everywhere for

you. Do you not think the evening air grows chill? Is it not too cold

for you out here in the boat-house? Allow me;" and then, with that

gentle solicitude which women prize, he lifted the neglected cloak and

tenderly wrapped it about her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, faintly smiling up at him, "but I

hardly need it. I do not feel at all cold. The air is so pleasant and

the sun is not yet set, you see. Did you wish to see me about anything

special, Lord Desborough?"

"No--yes--that is-- Oh, Mistress Katharine, the one special want of my

life is to see you always and everywhere. You know that,--nay, never

lift your hand,--I remember. I will try not to trespass upon your

orders again. I came to tell you that--I am going away."

"Going away," she repeated sadly. "Has your exchange been made?"

"Yes; a courier came to the Hall a short time since, and here it is.

My orders, you see; I must leave at once."

"I am sorry, indeed sorry that you must go."

He started suddenly as if to speak, a little flash of hope flickering

in his despondent face; but she continued quickly,--

"It has been very pleasant for us to have you here, except that you

have been a prisoner; but now you will be free, and for that, of

course, I rejoice. But I have so few friends left," she went on

mournfully, "I am loath to see one depart, even though he be an enemy."

"Oh, do not call me an enemy, I entreat you, Katharine. Oh, let me

speak just once again," he interrupted with his usual impetuosity; "and

talk not to me of freedom! While the earth holds you I am not free:

ay, even should Heaven claim you, I still am bound. All the days of my

captivity here I have been a most willing and happy prisoner,--your

prisoner. I have looked forward with dread and anguish to the day when

I might be exchanged and have to go away. Here would I have been

content to pass my life, by your side. Oh, once again let me plead!

My duty, my honor, call me now to the service of my king. I no longer

have excuse for delay, but you have almost made me forget there was a

king. Now that I must go, why should I go alone?" he went on eagerly.

"I know, I know you love the--the other,--but he is gone. You do not

hate me, you even like me; you regret my going; perhaps as days go by,

you will regret it more. We are at least friends; let me take care of

you in future. Oh, it kills me to see you so white, and indifferent to

life and all that it has or should have for you. You are only a girl

yet,--I cannot bear to see all the color gone out of your sweet face,

the light out of your eyes; the sight of that thin hand breaks my

heart. Won't you live for me to love,--live, and let me love you?

Your father goes to-morrow, so he says, and you will be left alone

here; why should it be? Go with me. Give me a right to do what my

heart aches to do for you,--to coax the roses back into your cheek, to

woo the laugh to your lips, to win happiness back to your heart; to

devote my life to you, darling. Have pity on me, have pity on my

love,--have pity!"

His voice dropped into a passionate whisper; as he pleaded with her, he

sank down upon one knee by her side, beseeching by word and gesture and

look that she should show him that pity he could see in her eyes, that

he knew was in her heart, and to which he made his last appeal; and

then, lifting the hem of her dress to his lips with an unconscious

movement of passionate reverence, he waited.

She looked at him in silence a moment. So young, so handsome, so

appealing, her heart filled with sorrow and sympathy for him. There

was hope in his eyes which she had not seen for many days; how could

she drive it away and crush his heart! It might be cruel, but she had

no answer, no other answer, no new word, to tell him. Her eyes filled

with tears; she could not trust herself to speak, she only shook her

head.

"Ah," he said, rising to his feet and throwing up his hands with a

gesture of despair, "I knew it. Well, the dream is over at last. This

is the end. I sought life, and found death; that, at least, if it

shall come I shall welcome. Would God I had gone down with the ship!

You have no pity; you let a dead image--an idea--stand between you and

a living love. Will you never forget?"

"Never," she said softly. "Love knows no death. He is alive--here.

But do not grieve so for me; I am not worth it. You will go away and

forget, and--"

"No; you have said it, 'Love knows no death.' I, too, cannot forget.

As long as I live I shall love--and remember. How if I waited and

waited? Katharine, I would wait forever for you," he said, suddenly

catching at the trifle.

"No, it would be no use. My friend, we both must suffer; it cannot be

otherwise. I esteem you, respect you, admire you. You have protected

me, honored me; my gratitude--" She went on brokenly, "You might ask

anything of me but my heart, and that is given away."

"Let me take you without it, then. I want but you."

"No, Lord Desborough, it cannot be. Do not ask me again. No, I cannot

say I wish it otherwise."

His flickering hope died away in silence. "Katharine, will you promise

me, if there ever comes a time--"

"I promise," she said; "but the time will never come."

He looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a long

silence, and then he said,--

"I must go now, Katharine. I suppose I must bid you good-by now?"

"Yes, I think it would be best."

"I shall pass this way again on my journey to Alexandria in half an

hour; may I not speak once more to you then?"

"No," she said finally, after a long pause. "I think it best that we

should end it now. It can do no good at all. Good-by, and may God

bless you."

He bent and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked at

her, saying never a word.

"Good-by, again," she said.

On the instant he turned and left her.

CHAPTER XLI

_Into the Haven, at last_

Two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river road

just where it entered the Wilton plantation. One was young, a mere boy

in years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibility

accompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his age

warranted. The other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than his

companion, though closer inspection would show that he was still a

young man, and that those marks upon his face which the careless

passer-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by the

fingers of grief and trouble. The bronzed and weather-beaten faces of

both riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go down

upon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by the

faded, worn naval uniforms they wore. In spite of the joy of

springtime which was all about them, both were silent and both were

sad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, less

intense, than that of the man. He was too young to realize the

greatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father and

sister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by the

presence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the careless

elasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his own

sorrow. The man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearer

still. He looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of his

countenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness were

plainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thick neatly tied

locks, too, that had no rightful place there in one of his age. The

younger and stronger assisted and watched over his older companion with

the tenderest care and attention.

They rode slowly up the pleasant road under the great trees, from time

to time engaging in a desultory conversation. Philip endeavored to

cheer his companion by talking lightly of boyhood days, as each turn of

the road brought familiar places in the old estate in view. Here he

and Katharine and Hilary had been wont to play; there was a favorite

spot, a pleasant haunt here, this had been the scene of some amusing

adventure. These well-meant reminiscences nearly drove Seymour mad,

but he would not stop them. Finally, they came to the place where the

road divided, one branch pursuing its course along the river-bank past

the boat-house toward the Talbot place, the other turning inland from

the river and winding about till it surmounted the high bluff and

reached the door of the Hall. There Philip drew rein.

"This is the way to the Hall, you know, Captain Seymour," he said,

pointing to the right. Seymour hesitated a moment, and said finally,--

"Yes, I know; the boat-house lies over there, does it not, beyond the

turn? I think I will let you go up to the house alone, Philip, and I

will go down to the boat-house myself. I will ride back presently."

"Well, then, I will go with you," said Philip. "I really think you are

too weak, you know, especially after our long ride to-day, to go alone."

"No, Philip," said Seymour, gently, "I wish to be alone for a few

moments."

The boy hesitated.

"Oh, very well," he said, beginning to understand, "I will sit down

here on this tree by the road and wait for you. I 'll tie my horse,

and you can leave yours here also, if you wish. There is nothing at

the Hall, God knows, to make me hurry up there now, since father and

Katharine are gone," he continued with a sigh. "Go on, sir, I'll wait.

You won't mind my waiting?"

"No, certainly not, if you wish it I shall be back in a few minutes

anyway. I just want to see the--the--ah--boathouse, you know."

"Yes, certainly, I understand, of course," replied Philip, bluntly, but

carefully looking away, and then dismounting from his tired horse and

assisting Seymour to do the same from his.

"Poor old fellow!" he murmured, as he saw the man walk haltingly and

painfully up the road and disappear around the little bend.

Left to himself Seymour stumbled alone along the familiar road over

which a few short months before he had often travelled light-heartedly

by the side of Katharine. As he pressed on, he noticed a man leave the

boat-house and climb slowly up the hill. Desirous of escaping the

notice of the stranger, who, he supposed, might be the factor or agent

of the plantation, he waited in the shadow of the trees until the man

disappeared over the brow of the hill, and then he staggered on. A

short time after, he stood on the landward end of the little pier, and

then his heart stood still for a second, and then leaped madly in his

breast, as he seemed to hear a subtle voice, like an echo of the past,

which whispered his name, "Seymour! Seymour!" Stepping toward the

middle of the pier so that he could see the interior of the boat-house

through the inner door, his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman

standing in the other doorway looking out over the water, stretching

out her hands. The sun had set by this time, and the gray dusk of the

evening was stealing over the river. He could not see distinctly, but

there was light enough to show him a familiar scarlet cloak at her

feet, and although her back was turned to him, he recognized the

graceful outlines of her slender figure. It was Katharine, or a dream!

But could the dead return again? Had the sea given up her dead indeed?

He could not believe the evidence of his bewildered senses. It might

be an hallucination, the baseless fabric of a vision, some image

conjured from the deep recesses of his loving heart by his enfeebled

disordered imagination, and yet he surely had heard a living voice,

"Seymour--John--Oh, my love!" Stifling the beating of his heart,

holding his breath even, stepping softly, lest he should affright the

airy vision, he staggered to the door and stood gazing; then he

whispered one word,--

"Katharine!"

It was only a whisper she heard, but it reached the very centre of her

being.

"Katharine," he said softly again, with so much passionate entreaty in

his wistful voice, that under its compelling influence she slowly

turned and looked toward the other door from whence the sound had come.

Then as she saw him, lifting one hand to her head while the other

unconsciously sought her heart, she shrank back against the wall, and

stared at him in voiceless terror. He dropped unsteadily to his knee,

as if to worship at a shrine.

"Oh, do not go away," he whispered. "I know it is only a dream of

mine--so many times have I seen you, ever since the night the frigate

struck and I sent you to your death on that rocky pass, in that beating

sea. Ay, in the long hours of the fever--but you did not shrink away

from me then, you listened to me say I love you, and you answered." He

stretched out his hand toward her in tender appeal. She bent forward

toward him. He rose to his feet, half in terror.

"Kate," he said uncertainly, "is it indeed you? Are you alive again?"

She was nearer now. One glad cry broke from her lips; he was in her

arms again, and she was clasped to his heart!--a real woman and no

dream, no vision. What the wind could only faintly shadow forth upon

her cheek, sprang into life under the touch of his fevered lips, and

color flooded them like a wave. Laughing, crying, sobbing, she clung

to him, kissed him with little incoherent murmurs, gazed at him, wept

over him, kissed him again. All the troubles of the intervening days

of sadness and privation faded away from her like a disused chrysalis,

and she sparkled with life and love like a butterfly new born.

He that was dead was alive again, he had come back, and he was here!

As for him, in fearful surprise, he held her to his breast once more,

still unbelieving. She noticed then an empty sleeve, and raised it

tenderly to her lips.

"I lost it after an action with the British ship Yarmouth,--it was only

a flesh wound at first,--we were long in reaching Charleston; the arm

had to be amputated. It was a fearful action."

"I know it," she interrupted; "I was there."

"You, Katharine! Ah, that woman on the ship! I was not deceived then,

and yet I could not believe it."

"Yes, 'twas I. I gloried in your bravery, until I saw you lying, as I

thought, dead on the deck. Oh, John, the horror of that moment! Then

I called you, and you did not answer. Then I wanted to die, too, but

now I am alive again, and so happy--but for this;" she lifted the empty

sleeve to her lips. "How you must have suffered, my poor darling," she

went on, her eyes filling with tears, her heart yearning over him.

"And how ill you look, and I keep you standing here,--how thoughtless!

Come to the bench here and sit down. Lean on me."

"Nay, but, Kate, you too have suffered. See!" He lifted her arm, the

loose sleeve fell back. "Oh, how thin it is, and how smooth and round

and plump it was when I kissed it last," he said, as he raised it

tenderly again to his lips.

"It is nothing, John. I shall be all right now that you are here. You

poor shattered lover, how you must have suffered!" she went on, with a

sob in her voice.

"Oh, Katharine, this," looking down at his empty sleeve, "was nothing

to what I suffered before, when I thought I had killed you!"

"When you thought you had killed me!" she said in surprise. They were

sitting close together now, and she had his hand in both her own.

"How--when, was that?"

And then he told her rapidly about the loss of the Radnor, and the idea

which her note had given that she was on board of it.

"And you led that ship down to destruction, believing I was on her!

How could you do it, John?" she said reproachfully.

"It was my duty, darling Kate," he said desperately.

"And did you love your duty more than me?"

"Love it? I hated it! But I had to do it, dearest," he went on

pleadingly. "Honor--you told me so yourself, here, in this very spot;

I remember your words; do you not recall them?--'If I stood in the

pathway of liberty for a single instant I should despise the man who

would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation.' Don't you

know you said that, Katharine?"

"Did I say it? Ah, but that was before I loved you so, and you swept

me aside,--well, I love you still, and, John, I honor you for it too;

but I could not do it. You see, I am only a woman."

"Kate, don't say 'only a woman' that way; what else would I have you,

pray? But tell me of yourself."

Briefly she recited the events that had occurred to her, dwelling much

upon Desborough's courage and devotion to her in the first days of her

captivity, the death of Johnson, the burning of Norfolk, the death of

Bentley. He interrupted her there, and would fain hear every detail of

the sad scene over again, thanking her and blessing her for what she

had done.

"It was nothing," she said simply; "I loved to do it; he was your

friend. It seemed to bring me closer to you." Then she told him of

the foundering of the ship, of the frightful voyage in the boat, and

rang the changes upon Desborough's name, his cheerfulness, his

unfailing zeal and energy, until Seymour's heart filled with jealous

pain.

"Kate," he said at last, "as I came up the road I saw a man leave the

boat-house and climb the hill; who was it?"

"It was Lord Desborough, John."

Seymour was human, and filled with human feeling. He drew away from

her.

"What was he doing here?" he said coldly. She smiled at him merrily.

"Bidding me good-by. He was made prisoner, of course, by the first

soldier we came across after we landed, and has been spending the days

of his captivity with us. He was exchanged to-day, and leaves

to-night."

"Katharine, he was in love with you!" he said, with what seemed to him

marvellous perspicacity.

"Yes, John," she answered, still smiling.

"Was he making love to you here?"

"Yes."

"And you? You praise this man, you like him, you--"

"I think him the bravest man, the truest gentleman in the world--except

this one," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder and her head

upon his breast. "No, no; he pleaded in vain. I only pitied him; I

loved you. Do not be jealous, foolish boy. No one should have me. I

am yours alone."

"But if I had not come back, Kate,--how then?"

"It would have made no difference. I told him so."

Neither of them in their mutual absorption had noticed that a horse had

stopped in the road opposite the boat-house, and a horseman had walked

to the door and had halted at the sight which met his eyes. Desborough

recognized Seymour at once, and he had unwittingly heard the end of the

conversation. He was the second. The man was back again. It was

true. The gallant gentleman stood still a moment, making no sound,

then turned back and mounted his horse, and rode madly away with

despair in his heart.

"Oh, Katharine," Seymour said at last, "do you know that I am a poor

man now? Lame! See, I can no longer walk straight." He stood up.

"Poor surgery after the battle did that."

"The more reason that in the future you should not go alone," she said

softly, standing by his side.

"And with but one arm," he continued.

"No, three," she said again, "for here are two."

"Besides, my trading ships have been captured by the enemy, my private

fortune has been spent for the cause. I am a poor man in every sense."

"Nay, John, you are a rich man," she said gayly.

"Oh, yes, rich in your love, Katharine."

"Yes, that of course, if that be riches, and richer in honor too; but

that's not all."

"What else pray, dearest?"

"Did you know that Madam Talbot had died?" she answered, with apparent

irrelevance.

"No, but I am not surprised at it. After her son's death I expected

it, poor lady. He loved you too, Kate. We fought about you once," he

said; and then he told her briefly of Talbot's end, his burial, the

interview he had with Talbot's mother, and the letter.

"I have seen that letter since I returned," she said. "It is at

Fairview Hall now awaiting you, awaiting its master like the other

things there,--and here. Shall we live there, think you, John?"

"Awaiting me! Its master! Live there! What mean you, Kate?" he cried

in surprise.

"Yes, yes, it is all yours," she replied, laughing at his astonishment.

"A codicil to her will, written and signed the day before she died, the

day after you saw her, left it all to you. It was to have been her

son's and then mine; and when she believed us dead, as she had no

relatives in this land she left it to you, 'As,' I quote her own words,

'a true and noble gentleman who honors any cause, however mistaken, to

which he may give his allegiance.' I quote them, but they are my own

words as well. You are a rich man, John, and the two estates will come

together as father and Madam Talbot had hoped, after all."

"I am glad, Kate, for your sake."

"It is nothing. I should have taken you, if you had nothing at all."

A young man ran down the little pier and into the house at this moment.

"Kate," he cried, "where are you? It is so dark here I can hardly

see-- Ah, there you are!" he ran forward and kissed her boisterously.

"You 'll have to forgive me, I could not wait any longer, Captain

Seymour. Father rode down the hill after Lord Desborough galloped by

me, and met me there, waiting. Oh, I was so glad to know you were

alive again! We felt like a pair of murderers, did n't we, Captain

Seymour? Father told me you were here, Kate, and then we waited until

now, to give you a little time, and then I could n't stand it any

longer, I had to see you. Father's coming too, but I ran ahead."

"Why, Philip," cried Kate, as soon as he gave her an opportunity,

kissing him again and laughing light-heartedly as she has not done for

days, "how you have grown! You are quite a man now."

"It is entirely due to Philip, Katharine, that I am here," said

Seymour. "He commanded the little brig which ran down to the Yarmouth

at the risk of destruction, and picked me up. Disobeyed orders too,

the young rogue. He brought me into Charleston, nursed me like a

woman, and then brought me here. I should have died without him."

"Oh, Philip," said the delighted girl, kissing the proud and happy

youngster with more warmth than he had ever known before, "promise me

always to disobey your orders. How can I thank you!"

"Very bad advice that. Promise nothing of the kind, Philip; but what

are you thanking him for, Kate?" said the cheery voice of the colonel

as he came in the door.

"Thanking him for Seymour, father."

"Ah, my boy," said the colonel, grasping his hand, "you don't know how

glad I am to see you. It is like one returning from the dead. But it

is late and cold and quite dark. Supper is ready, let us go up to the

Hall. I shall see the Naval Commissioners in a few days, Seymour, and

get you another and a better ship. The country is full of your action;

they 've struck a medal for you and voted you prize money and thanks,

and all that. I make no doubt I can get you the best ship there is on

the ways, or planned. 'T was a most heroic action--"

"Not now, father," said Katharine, jealously, throwing her arm about

her lover. "He shall not, cannot, go now; he must have rest for a long

time, and he must have me! We are to be married as soon as he is well,

and the country must wait. Is it not so, John?"

"What's that?" said the colonel, pretending great surprise.

"Sir," answered Seymour, nervously, "I have something to say to

you,--something I must say. Will you give me the privilege of a few

moments' conversation with you?"

"Seymour," said the colonel, smiling, "you asked me that once before,

did you not?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so."

"And I answered you--how?"

"Why, you said, if my memory serves me, that you--"

"Exactly, that I would see you after supper, and so I will. Come,

children, let us go in; this time I warrant you there will be no

interruptions."

The father and son turned considerately and walked away, leaving the

two lovers to follow.

"You won't leave me, John, will you, now that you have just come back?"

"No, Kate, not now; I am good for nothing until I get strong."

"Good for me, though; but when you do get strong?"

"Then, if my country needs me, dearest, I shall have to go. But I fear

there will be no more ships of ours to get to sea, the blockade is

getting more strict every day. I can be a soldier, though. No, Kate,

do not beg me. My duty to my country constrains me."

"Don't talk about it now, then, John. At least I shall have you for a

long time; it will be long before you are well again."

"Yes, I fear so," he said with a sigh.

"Why do you sigh, dearest?"

"Because I want to stay with you, and I ought to welcome any

opportunity to enter active service. Think what old Bentley would say."

"Old Bentley did not love you," she replied quickly, with a jealous

pang.

"Ah, did he not!" said Seymour, softly.

There was a long pause.

"Well," said Katharine at last, "I suppose nothing will move you if

your duty calls you, but I warn you if you get killed again, I shall

die. I could not stand it another time," she cried piteously.

"Well, dearest, I shall try to live for you. Now we must go to the

Hall."

But, to anticipate, fate would be kinder toward Katharine in the future

than she had been in the past and it was many a day before her lover,

her husband rather, was able to get to sea; and, as if they had

suffered enough, he went through the rest of the war on land and sea

scatheless, and was one of those who stood beside the great commander

before the trenches of Yorktown, when the British soldiers laid down

their arms. But this was all of the future, and now they turned

quietly and somewhat sadly to follow the others.

This time it was Katharine who helped Seymour up the hill. Slowly,

hand in hand, they walked across the lawn, up the steps of the porch,

and toward the door of the Hall. The night had fallen, and the house

was filled with a soft light from the wax candles. They paused a

moment on the threshhold; Katharine resolutely mastered her fears and

resolved to be happy in the present, then, heedless of all who might

see, she kissed him.

"Home at last, John," she said, beaming upon him. And there, with the

dark behind, and the light before, we may say good-by to them.

End of Project Gutenberg's For Love of Country, by Cyrus Townsend Brady