ALL ENDS WELL
The hours passed on. It was still a dead calm, and, as Martyn had
thought likely, no visit was paid by the Turkish port officials, as
the brig was lying a good mile below the usual anchorage, and would no
doubt move up to the wharves as soon as she got the wind. Horace went
to the main deck and gave a sketch of his adventures to Tom Burdett,
who he knew would retail them to the crew.
“Well, Mr. Horace,” the boatswain said, “you are certainly a good one
at getting out of scrapes.”
“I had nothing to do with getting out of it, Tom; it was all done
without any effort on my part.”
“It was mighty well done, sir, and I would not have given them Turks
credit for putting such a plan together. I always liked the chaps
myself when I served with them as a young fellow in that Egyptian
business under Abercrombie. Good-natured sort of coves they was, and
wonderful good-tempered considering what shocking bad grub they had;
but I never looked upon them as sharp. Still, there you are; you see,
one never knows what a chap can do till he is pushed. Well, there is
one thing, Mr. Horace, I don’t care how many Turkish fugitives we may
take on board this ship in future, they will be heartily welcome by
every man Jack on board for the sake of what these fellows did for
you. I wish I had known it when you first came on board. I should have
liked to have given that young Turk a hearty shake of the hand, and
the men would have given him as good a cheer as ever you heard come
from fifty British sailors.”
“It is just as well you didn’t know, Tom, for if they had given a
cheer together on deck it would have been heard from shore to shore,
and everyone who heard it would have known that it never came from
Turkish throats.”
As soon as it was dark the anchor was weighed, and the vessel drifted
down with the current, a boat towing ahead so as to give her
steerage-way, while the rest of the crew set to work to unbend her
sails.
“You are not going to put up her own sails, are you, Captain Martyn?”
Horace asked, for as soon as it got dusk Martyn had removed the stain
from his skin, and exchanged the Nubian attire for his uniform.
“No, Horace, the white sails would tell their tale at once. We got two
suits at Athens, one that miserable lot you saw on us to-day, the
other we had cut up to fit us as we are sparred now. They are not very
clean, but that won’t affect her sailing, and though I don’t mean to
say she will walk along as she would under her proper canvas, I fancy
she is likely to sail as fast as anything we shall meet. I shall only
get her foresail, a jib, and that square top-sail on her, as we want
to go along as slowly as possible. I want to manage to anchor below
Gallipoli after sunset; or if I can’t manage that I shall anchor a
mile or two this side of the town, so as not to be visited by any of
the port officers. Then when it gets quite dark we will get up all
sail and run down the straits. It is against the rules to pass through
at night, and if the forts catch sight of us no doubt they will send a
few shots after us, but we must risk that. It is not easy to hit a
moving mark when it is so dark that you can scarcely see her outline.
There are half a dozen of their ships-of-war lying abreast of the
forts. We must keep as far as we dare over on the other shore. I am
not afraid of the ships. We shall be a mile away before the crews wake
up and load, but I expect they keep a pretty sharp look-out in the
forts, though most likely their attention is chiefly directed below
them.”
It took a couple of hours’ work to unbend all the sails and bend on
fresh ones. Horace spent the evening in the cabin chatting with his
father, and when the others came down at ten o’clock for a glass of
grog he heard that the boat had been run up and housed, and that the
brig was now under easy sail.
“There is very little wind,” Martyn said, “but there is enough to give
steerage-way. I shall not count you in for duty until to-morrow.”
“Oh, I am ready to take my watch as usual. I have been living a very
lazy life for the last three weeks, and shall be very glad to be on
duty again.”
“I shall get the guns up the first thing in the morning, Miller. We
will throw a tarpaulin over them when we get into the narrow part of
the straits.”
“Will you have the pivot-gun up too?”
“Yes, I think so; if we have to fight, we may as well fight as hard as
we can. When we get it mounted we can put a few barrels along each
side of it, cover the whole over with a sailcloth, and stow one of the
gigs at the top of all. No one would have a suspicion that there was a
gun there then, and if we wanted to use it we could clear it in a
minute.”
“The Turkish custom-house officers will stare in the morning when they
see the brig gone,” Miller said, “and will wonder what has become of
her.”
“If they think of her at all, Miller, they will think she has got up
sail at daylight and gone up the Bosphorus on her way to Varna or one
of the Black Sea ports.”
“It would require a good deal more breeze than there is now.”
“Yes, I did not think of that. Well, then, perhaps they will suppose
that we made a try to go up to the anchorage as soon as the day began
to break, but simply drifted back. You see another half a mile astern
would take us round that point there and out of sight of them.
However, we don’t care much what they think. They are not likely to be
interested enough in the matter to bother themselves about it one way
or the other, and certainly not likely to do the only thing that would
be of any consequence to us, I mean send down a messenger to Gallipoli
telling them to overhaul us if we came down the straits. Now, then,
the watch on deck; the others turn in. I am sure, Mr. Beveridge, you
will be all the better for a quiet night’s rest. You have certainly
not slept much for the last month, and you have been getting thinner
and thinner daily, while you have also long arrears in the way of food
to make up. It has been quite pitiful to see the faces of the Greeks
as you sent away plate after plate untouched.”
“I shall soon be myself again, Martyn, and even one good night’s rest
will, I am sure, do wonders for me.”
“We have been getting quite uneasy about your father,” Miller said as
he and Horace went up on deck for the middle watch.
“Yes, he looks sadly broken down, Miller. Directly he had taken off
that beard I was quite shocked; he looks years older.”
“We have been really anxious about him. He would turn up three or four
times during the night watches and walk the deck for an hour or two
talking to one or other of us as if he could not stop alone in his
cabin. Neither Martyn nor I ever had the slightest idea of finding you
were alive when we got here, and still less of getting you out. But
when Tarleton proposed disguising the schooner and coming up, he
caught at the idea so eagerly that we fell in with it at once. It
seemed to us both rather a mad sort of business, but we should not
have cared what it was so that it would but rouse him up; for from the
time when we first got word that you had been taken to the Turks, till
Tarleton made that proposal at Tenedos, he had scarcely spoken a word.
He cheered up for an hour or two when Marco brought news that at any
rate you had not been killed at Ali Pasha’s camp, but had been sent on
to Constantinople; but that lasted for a very short time, for he soon
saw that so far from improving your chances, it had lessened them. Ali
might have taken a handsome sum for your ransom, or your guards might
have been bribed; anyhow, there would have been a much better chance
of getting you away from his camp than from a prison in
Constantinople.
“Of course we did all we could to cheer him, and, I am afraid, told
some awful crammers as to the easy job it would be to get you out.
Still, the plan did do him good. It gave him something to think about,
as at Athens we were constantly thinking of something or other that he
could go ashore and see about. Since we sailed from there he has been
in a sort of fever, walking restlessly about the deck, going down to
the cabin and coming up again twenty times every hour, worrying about
the wind, and complaining at the boat’s loss of speed. He took to
Tarleton most, because he was nearest your age, I think. He talked to
him several times about you as a child, and seemed specially unhappy
because he had seen so little of you up to the time when he bought you
that first craft you had. The two Greeks were terribly concerned about
him. They are two fine fellows those. They were as gentle as women.
Well, it has been an anxious time for us all. Even the men have felt
for him, and it was quite curious to see how silent the ship became
when he was on deck. They seemed to speak almost in whispers, and I
have not heard a laugh forward from the hour that you and the doctor
were missed. I was glad he was taken with you, for he is a good
fellow, and it was a comfort to know that you were together.”
“It was a great pull,” Horace agreed. “He was just the same all the
time as he is on board, quiet and slow in his talk, but with an
occasional gleam of humour. It has been rather hard on him, too,
because, from the day we first landed, there has always been someone
with us who could speak Greek, and it is very slow for a man sitting
listening to talk that he can’t understand, waiting for bits to be
translated to him. Still, he never showed that he minded.”
“Yes, that must have been very annoying,” Miller agreed, “especially
when the talk was about matters that concerned his life. It makes you
feel so helpless and baby-like to have everything managed for you and
to be able to do nothing yourself. I don’t think he took kindly to
that Turkish dress. He slipped away and changed it before he had been
on board five minutes, while you kept yours on till you turned in for
a nap two hours ago.”
“I was comfortable enough, and never gave the clothes a thought after
I had worn them an hour or two,” Horace laughed. “Of course one felt
very baggy about the legs, and I certainly should not like to go aloft
in the things. No wonder the Turks are such clumsy sailors with their
legs in bags like that; but I did notice that the doctor never seemed
to move about naturally. I expect if he could have talked away as I
did he would not have thought of them so much. The wind is heading us
a bit.”
“Yes, it is;” and Miller gave the orders for the sheets and braces to
be hauled aft.
“I should not be surprised if it is in the south by morning.”
“That would be all the better, for then we could choose our own time
for getting off Gallipoli. We must get up all our sail when it is
daylight and make a show of doing our best; but when one is tacking
backwards and forwards one can always manage either to keep a little
off the wind or so close into it as pretty well to deaden one’s way
through the water.”
Horace turned in at four o’clock, and an hour and a half later heard a
trampling of feet on deck, and knew that the watch was making sail.
When he went up at eight o’clock the wind was blowing briskly from the
south-east, and the schooner was making a long leg out from the land.
He was now able to see the set of the sails that had been bent on the
evening before. The lower sails were of the same size as the
schooner’s original suit, and fitted her well. The upper sails
contained less than half the canvas of her old ones, but her spread
was sufficient to lay her over well and to send her through the water
at an encouraging rate of speed.
“She is not going along so badly, is she, Horace?” Martyn asked.
“No, indeed. Of course in a light wind the loss of all that upper
canvas will tell, but at present she is doing well enough for
anything, quite well enough for anything we are likely to meet.”
“We have been holding our own for the last two hours with that
felucca on the other tack, and we have been purposely sailing her a
good bit off the wind. We could overhaul her soon enough if we liked,
and most of those boats are fast; but we don’t want to get along too
quickly. If the wind freshens any more I shall tow a sail alongside to
deaden her way a bit. I want to arrive off Gallipoli about half an
hour after sunset.”
Two of the broadside guns had just been brought up and put in
position, and by midday the other six and the pivot-gun were in place,
and the latter hidden by a screen of barrels and one of the gigs,
bottom upwards, laid over it. The decks had been scrubbed, but, as
Martyn said mournfully, it would take weeks to get them back to their
former colour. The ropes still hung slackly, and although the schooner
looked a good deal more ship-shape than when Horace had first seen her
on the previous day, she was still as untidy as the average of vessels
in Eastern waters. Her course was timed well, and the sun had already
sunk some time, when she dropped anchor a short distance outside the
craft lying off Gallipoli.
“I see some of their ships of war have come up from below since we
passed three days ago. However, there is no fear of their sending a
boat off to-night,” Martyn said as they gathered in the cabin for
dinner, “and they will naturally suppose that we anchored so far out
because we were going on down the straits the first thing in the
morning.”
Mr. Beveridge had remained in his berth all day. The reaction after
the long excitement and anxiety told severely upon him. Although he
had got up the first thing, he had been obliged to lie down again,
being too weak to stand. The doctor, however, told Horace that this
was only to be expected.
“He will want a week’s quiet and plenty of nourishment to set him on
his legs again. He has been fairly worn out. But there is no fever
about him, and we can trust the Greeks to feed him up. It is just as
well that he should keep perfectly quiet to-day and sleep as much as
he can. To-morrow I hope I shall be able to get him up on deck. Then
chatting with you and taking an interest in things will rouse him.”
At nine o’clock sail was again made and the anchor weighed. The wind
had gone down very much, and had veered round to the south, which
enabled them to lay their course through the greater part of the
straits. Two men were placed in the chains with lead-lines. The lights
were all extinguished, with the exception of the binnacle. The
tarpaulins were removed from the guns and the barrels and gig from
around the pivot-gun. The watch off duty was sent below, and two of
the keenest-eyed men on board placed as look-outs at the bow. The
European shore, which was comparatively high, could be made out as a
dark bank, but the Asiatic shore, which was low, could scarcely be
seen. The chart was laid on the cabin table, the port-holes having all
been carefully covered with curtains, and a tarpaulin laid over the
skylight.
The men in the chains kept on taking soundings, Horace going backwards
and forwards between them and the quarterdeck with the news as to the
depth of water. Miller was in charge of the deck, while Martyn paid
frequent visits to the cabin to determine their position on the chart
according to the depth of the soundings. There was no fear of their
meeting with any craft until they approached the forts; but in the
darkness it was necessary to be very careful, as the water was shallow
on the eastern side, and were they to run on to a shoal, going as they
were with the force of the current, there would be little chance of
getting off again, unless by lightening the ship. There was just wind
enough to give her steerage-way. Men were stationed in readiness to
let go the anchor instantly, should it be necessary; while ten men, in
the longboat, paddled gently ahead of her, just keeping a tow-rope
taut in readiness to tow her instantly in any direction that might be
required. None of them were acquainted with the set of the current,
and Martyn had only the depth of water and the dim outline of the
banks to direct his course by. Several times, when the water shoaled,
the crew of the boat were directed to row vigorously in the direction
of the right bank; and once or twice there were but a few feet under
the keel, and a keen feeling of anxiety was experienced on board
until the leads-man announced that the water was deepening. At last,
according to Martyn’s calculations they could not be far away from the
formidable forts.
The boat was directed to fall astern and hang on to the rope, in
readiness either to come on board or to carry out any orders that
might be given. The crew on deck were told to take axes and
capstan-bars, so that should they drive down against one of the
Turkish ships they could fend the schooner off as much as possible, or
cut away any rope that might catch. They were directed to stand
perfectly still, and not a word was to be spoken whatever happened.
The greatest danger lay in the fact that most of the ships of war were
lying above the forts, and that, consequently, should an alarm be
given by them, the gunners at the batteries would be in readiness to
pour in their fire upon her as she passed.
“The ground to our right looks much higher than it did, Miller. I
think we must have been drifting a good deal over towards that side.”
“I think so too,” Miller agreed. “I have been fancying that we were
getting over that way ever since we stopped sounding.”
“At any rate we must take our chance,” Martyn said. “I daren’t sound
again; the splash would attract attention half a mile away on a quiet
night like this. Besides, we could not tow her the other way now; we
must take our chance. It is not likely they are keeping much of a
look-out on board. We might pass within twenty yards of a vessel
without being noticed on such a night as this. I will stay at the
helm, Miller. Her sails are still full, and we have got steerage-way.
Do you go up into the bow. Let two of the men take their boots off,
and if they make out anything ahead, let one of them run to me like
lightning with orders whether to port or starboard the helm.”
The conversation was carried on in the lowest tone. Miller stole
lightly forward; Tarleton and Horace were already there, one on each
bow, straining their eyes into the darkness.
“We are a long way over on this side, Miller, I don’t believe that
high ground over there is more than two or three hundred yards away.”
“That is just what I have been saying, Tarleton. The current must have
set us across tremendously. Martyn is at the helm, and you see we are
heading off that shore, but I don’t think we are going more than a
couple of knots through the water.”
In five minutes Tarleton whispered:
“I think there is something dark just over the cathead.”
At the same moment Horace stepped from the other side.
“There is a ship a short way ahead, Miller, unless I am mistaken.”
“By Jove, so there is!” Miller said, looking out. “We shall never be
able to clear her with the current taking us down.”
He had kicked off his own shoes when he reached the bow, thinking it
better himself to carry any message.
“Port your helm, Martyn,” he said as he ran up. “There are two craft
ahead, and we can never clear the outside one in this current. Our
only chance is to run between them.”
Martyn had jammed the helm down as Miller spoke.
“Keep it there,” Martyn said to the helmsman, and sprang to the
bulwark to look out himself. “That is enough,” he said; “straighten
her now, just as she is. You con her from the other side, Miller.”
All on board saw the two vessels now. By their height and bulk they
were evidently large frigates or men-of-war. They were not fifty yards
away, and were about the same distance apart. Martyn pulled off his
jacket and threw it over the binnacle, as its light would have been at
once noticed by anyone looking down from the lofty hulls. Noiselessly
the schooner passed into the gap between the ships; not the slightest
sound was heard from her decks. The two officers looked anxiously up
at the sails, for had one of these flapped, or a block rattled, the
sleepiest look-out must have noticed it. The silence on the decks of
the Turkish ships was as profound as that on the schooner. Rapidly
the latter slid between them, the current taking her along faster than
the wind. A minute more and she was beyond them; still no hail was
heard. Another minute and they loomed dark and indistinct behind her.
“Thank God for that!” Miller said in a whisper as he crossed the deck
to Martyn.
“Yes, indeed; it was touch and go. I expect they have only an anchor
watch. Most likely they are asleep; they would know that nothing could
come up the straits with this light breeze. I think, Miller, those are
the two eighty-gun ships we noticed as we came up. They were moored a
good bit outside the others; in which case we have a clear course
before us.”
“Yes; I have no doubt those are the two,” Miller agreed.
“Now we have only the forts; they are about a quarter of a mile
further down. Go forward, please, and tell the men not to move till
they get orders.”
Another quarter of an hour passed, and Martyn felt sure that they were
now well beyond the forts. For a few minutes longer he held on, and
then passed the word along the deck that the danger was over. Now that
they knew their exact position there was no longer any occasion for
sounding. The men in the boat were called up, and the watch off duty
ordered below, and when morning broke the land was far behind them. A
brisk wind had sprung up from the south-east, and the vessel was just
able to lay her course for Athens.
The doctor had remained below during their passage through the
straits.
“I should only have been in the way if I had been on deck,” he said
when Horace chaffed him for taking matters so easily. “When a man can
do no good, it is always better for him to get out of the way; and
after all there is no great pleasure in standing for hours afraid to
move, and without any duty to perform; so I just chatted for a bit
with your father, and directly I saw the sleeping draught I had given
him was beginning to take effect I turned in myself, and had as
comfortable a sleep as ever I had in my life. After sleeping on sofas
for three weeks, in that heathen sort of way, it was a comfort to get
between sheets again.”
“Well, but you went to bed the night before, doctor?”
“That was so,” the doctor agreed. “But a good thing is just as good
the second time as it is the first--better, perhaps. The first time
the novelty of a thing prevents you altogether enjoying it. I knew
very well that if we ran into any of the Turkish ships, or the forts
opened fire at us, I was like to hear it plainly enough.”
“And would you have lain there then, doctor?”
“No, lad. I would have had my duties to perform; and I would have
dressed and gone into the main deck at once, with my instruments ready
to do anything I could for those that required it.”
“Have you seen my father this morning, doctor?”
“Yes; and I am glad to say that he is all the better for his two
nights’ sleep. His pulse is stronger, and I shall get him up here
after breakfast. The news that we were fairly out to sea, and that all
danger was over, was better for him than any medicine. Well, lad, we
did not think eight-and-forty hours ago that we would be racing down
the Ægean again, on board the _Misericordia_, by this time. We have
had a wonderful escape of it altogether, and I would not like to go
through it again for enough money to set me up for life in Scotland.
When we were on board that Turkish brig, on our way to Constantinople,
I would not have given a bawbee for our chances.”
When they arrived at Athens the Greek sailors who had personated Turks
were landed. Mr. Beveridge was unequal to the exertion of going
ashore; but day after day he was visited by politicians, military
leaders, and others. After a fortnight spent there, Dr. Macfarlane
said to him:
“It is no use, sir, my giving you medicines and trying to build you
up, if you are going on as you are now doing. You are losing
strength, man, instead of gaining it. Each morning you seem a little
better; each evening you are fagged and worn out by these importunate
beggars. I can see that it worries and dispirits you. It is all very
good to wish well to Greece, Mr. Beveridge; but unless you have a
desire to be buried in Greek soil, the sooner you are out of this the
better. It is not so much change of air as change of thought that you
require. Go anywhere, so that it is to some place where you will never
hear the name of Greece.”
“I think you are right, doctor. The worry and disappointment has, I
know, been telling on me for months. Yes, I will definitely decide to
go away, at any rate for a time. Will you ask Captain Martyn to come
down?”
“Captain Martyn,” he went on when the latter entered the cabin, “the
doctor tells me I must absolutely get away from here.”
“I am quite sure that he is right, sir. You have been gradually
wearing yourself out ever since you came here.”
“I think we will go back to England in the first place, Martyn. I have
no doubt more bracing air will do me good. Then we can see how events
go on here.”
“Very well, sir. I think we shall be all heartily glad to be on our
way back.”
“You had better go ashore at once, Martyn. Take Horace with you, and
go to my agents. You know they have always kept the papers in
readiness for a re-sale of the vessel back to me. Go with them to the
consulate and have the sale formally registered. I will write a note
for you to take to my agent.”
Ten minutes later the gig took Martyn and Horace ashore. They returned
four hours later. There was a little move of excitement among the crew
as they stepped on deck again, for through the Greeks, who had heard
the news from Mr. Beveridge, it had spread forward. On reaching the
deck Martyn went to the signal locker. “Now, Miller,” he said, “down
with that flag.”
The Greek flag fluttered down from the peak, and as the British ensign
was run up in its place Martyn took off his cap and shouted: “Three
cheers for the old flag, lads!” and the shout, given with all the
strength of the lungs of officers and crew, showed how hearty was the
pleasure that was felt at the change. As soon as the cheers had
subsided orders were given to get down the awnings and prepare to make
sail. In a few minutes the clank of the anchor chain was heard, and by
the evening the schooner was running down past the shores of the
Morea.
A month later they anchored in Portsmouth. Here half the crew were
paid off, and as during their absence from England they had had but
small opportunities of spending money, they had nearly two years’ pay
coming to them, together with £30 a head, being their share of the
prize-money. The remainder of the crew also received their pay and
prize-money and two months’ leave of absence. Mr. Beveridge and Horace
had had many discussions on the subject, and it had been agreed that
the _Misericordia_ (now again, since she re-hoisted the English flag,
the _Creole_) should for a time be kept up as a yacht, with a
complement of two officers and twenty men. Martyn, having been
consulted, had chatted the matter over with Miller and Tarleton.
Although both these had enjoyed their trip greatly, and had made a
comfortable sum in pay and prize-money, both preferred to return to
the Royal Navy, if they could do so, rather than remain in a yacht;
and Mr. Beveridge promised to use his influence as soon as he returned
to get them appointed to ships. This promise he was able to fulfil a
few weeks after his arrival at home.
For home cruising as a yacht, Martyn considered that Tom Burdett would
be sufficient for him. If she again went out to Greece there would be
no difficulty in obtaining other officers and making up the crew to
its full strength. Portsmouth had been chosen instead of Plymouth as
their point of arrival, because from there Mr. Beveridge could much
more easily get up to town, Dr. Macfarlane insisting that he should go
up to obtain the best medical advice.
“But there is nothing the matter with me,” Mr. Beveridge had urged.
“That is just it, sir. If you had anything the matter with you I might
have a chance of curing it. It is because I can’t see any reason why
you do not gain strength that I want other opinion about you.”
The doctor had frequently talked it over with Horace during the
voyage.
“I can see nothing bodily the matter with your father, Horace. I wish
I could. There is nothing to account for his being in this feeble
state. All that he says is that he feels tired. My opinion is that
really this is a sort of reaction after mental excitement, just as
there is reaction after great bodily fatigue. Your father has lived a
smooth, easy, tranquil life, and the change, the excitement, the
worry, and his utter disappointment with the Greeks themselves, have
had the same sort of effect upon him as a climb up to the top of Ben
Nevis might have on a man who did not stir out of his house for months
together. As for that being the cause I have no doubt whatever. It is
as to the cure that I want to consult with some big-wig. I don’t know
whether quiet or movement would be the best for him. He could have had
no quiet more complete than that he has had on the way home, and yet
it has done him no good. If he were to go down home the inducement to
arouse himself would be still less. But what sort of change would
really suit him is more than I can say.”
Horace thoroughly agreed with the doctor. If even the cheerful society
on board the yacht did not rouse his father, he dreaded what it would
be when he was at home, with no one to stir him up in any way. There
were two or three consultations in town with some of the leaders of
the profession. After hearing the whole circumstances they were
unanimous in agreeing that there seemed no serious disease of any
kind, but at the same time his condition gave cause of anxiety.
“Your patient is evidently a man of highly nervous organization, and
at present his nerves are a wreck. We quite agree with you that were
he to go down to a lonely house in the country he would probably sink
into the grave in a few months at the outside. If you could get him to
go in that yacht of his on some expedition in which he feels what I
may call a healthy interest, it might do him good. I should say a cold
climate would be better for him than a warm one. He has had more than
enough of that enervating work in Greek waters. Try and interest him
in Polar expeditions. There have been a great many of them just
lately. Ross and Parry and Franklin have all been trying their best to
find the North-west Passage, which is not likely to be of any good if
they do find it; but that is nothing to the point. Get him interested
in the matter, and let him go and poke about for a bit among the
icebergs. If you can get him to do that we see no reason why in time
his mind should not recover its tone.”
The matter had to be done cautiously. Horace professed a vast interest
in the recent expeditions; the doctor was full of interesting facts,
and little by little they kindled an interest on the subject in Mr.
Beveridge’s mind; and when Horace broke out one day, as if the idea
had only just struck him, “My dear father, why shouldn’t we go up
north in the yacht for a few months and become explorers? It would be
glorious to see the icebergs and to shoot bears and seals, and would
be a splendid change for us all. I am sure you would find it
frightfully dull going back to Seaport,”--he did not entirely
repudiate the idea, but said that he should not like to go away when
things were looking so dark for Greece. Fortunately, a week later the
news came that all the immense preparations the Sultan had been making
for an invasion of Greece with a great army had been arrested by a
tremendous fire, supposed to be the work of the janissaries, who did
not like the prospect of leaving Constantinople. The fire had
destroyed all the vast stores collected, the artillery,
baggage-trains, and munitions of war of all kinds, and it was probable
that at least a year would pass before a fresh effort could be made.
This news evidently relieved Mr. Beveridge’s mind, and when Horace,
backed by Macfarlane, returned to the charge, he at once consented.
Martyn was written to by Horace the same day. He at once came up to
town, and saw some of the officers who had been out with Franklin and
Parry. Returning to Plymouth, where the _Creole_ was lying, a body of
shipwrights were at once set to work to strengthen her by a network of
timber below, and to sheath her with thick planking outside. The
captain of a whaler was engaged as first officer. He was to come on
board at Dundee, and to bring with him twelve picked hands accustomed
to the Polar Seas. With great exertion the schooner was got ready in a
month.
By this time the enthusiasm expressed by Horace and the doctor in the
matter had infected Mr. Beveridge, who read up everything that had
been written on the subject, and was visibly very much better by the
time they went down with him to Portsmouth to join the _Creole_ there.
They were away from England eighteen months. They made no discoveries
of the slightest importance, but they had numerous exciting
adventures, had many narrow escapes of being nipped by icebergs, and
passed a winter frozen up in Baffin’s Bay. The voyage achieved the
object for which it was undertaken. The subject of Greece was a
forbidden one, and Mr. Beveridge came to take a lively interest in the
new scenes with which he was surrounded, joined in the hunting
parties, took a prominent part in all the amusements got up for
keeping the crew in good spirits and health through the winter, and
returned to England a more healthy and vigorous man than Horace had
ever before seen him. The _Creole_ had taken out with her barrels and
all other appurtenances for whaling, and having been fairly successful
in that way, returned with sufficient oil and seal-skins to pay the
greater part of her expenses.
“I feel another man, Horace, to what I was when I started,” Mr.
Beveridge said as he stepped ashore at Plymouth.
“You look a different man, father--a different man altogether to what
you have been since I first remember you. I don’t suppose you have
grown, but you are so much more upright that you look as if you had,
and you walk differently, and even your voice seems changed. Now, you
know, you must not go back again.”
“I don’t mean to, my boy. It seems to me that I have thrown away
twenty years of my life, and what there is remaining to me shall be
spent differently. Now we have got a long arrear of news to get up.”
Horace felt at first uneasy when his father obtained a complete file
of the newspapers from the time they had left England, and read up the
history of affairs in Greece. There was, however, little to learn. Two
civil wars had taken place, some large loans had been raised in
England, but had been entirely frittered away and wasted; and when in
June, 1824, the Turkish fleet had at last sailed, the Greeks had been
as unprepared for resistance as they were when they first took up
arms. Kasos and Psara had both been captured and their inhabitants
either massacred or carried away into slavery, while the sailors of
Hydra and Spetzas had not moved a hand to succour their countrymen.
Ibrahim Pasha of Egypt had sent an army to Greece, and had besieged
Navarino and Pylos. The Greek army had advanced to relieve them, but
being attacked by half their number of Egyptian troops were routed
without the least difficulty at Krommydi. They were beaten again at
Sphakteria, and Pylos and Navarino were forced to surrender; the
Egyptians observing faithfully the terms they granted, and allowing
the garrisons to depart in neutral ships. Dikaios was defeated and
killed at Maniaki, having been deserted by all his troops but fifteen
hundred. These fought splendidly although attacked by six thousand
men. A thousand of them died on the field after having killed four
hundred of their assailants. This was by far the most gallant affair
throughout the war. Kolokotronis assembled ten thousand men, but was
defeated with the greatest ease with the loss of over two hundred men,
most of whom were killed in their flight.
When the _Creole_ returned to England the siege of Missolonghi had
begun. Reshid Pasha’s army, ten thousand strong, sat down before it.
It was defended with extreme gallantry and resisted for many months,
while the rest of Greece did little to assist it. After six months’
siege Reshid retired, being straitened for provisions and suffering
from the vigorous sorties of the besieged; but in a short time Ibrahim
arrived with his army and again besieged the place; throwing up
formidable batteries and works against it. Several times terms were
offered to the garrison, but were contemptuously refused, and several
attacks were beaten off with great loss. At last the provisions were
absolutely exhausted.
The brave defenders of the town resolved upon a step almost unexampled
in history, namely, that the whole of the men should sally out,
placing the women and children in their centre, and cut their way
through the enemy. There were still nine thousand persons in the town,
of whom only three thousand were men capable of bearing arms, two
thousand men, women, and children were too weak from starvation and
disease to join the movement; the rest were divided into three
divisions. Most of the women dressed themselves in men’s clothing and
carried arms, and even the children had loaded pistols. Unfortunately
the Turks had been informed by a deserter that the attempt was about
to be made.
The three divisions, in spite of the opposition of the Turks, attacked
with such fury that they made their way through the lines of the
enemy; but the people of Missolonghi itself, who were to form the
fourth division and follow the others, were seized with a panic and
fell back into the town. Had the Greeks outside fulfilled their
promise, and moved forward a body of troops stationed a short distance
away to receive the defenders of the place when they reached the open
country, all the rest would have been saved; but instead of the
fifteen hundred who were to have met them, but fifty were there. The
Turkish cavalry and the Albanians harassed and cut them up, and even
those who gained the shelter of the hills received no assistance from
the irregulars, and many perished from hunger and disease, and
finally only fifteen hundred escaped. The soldiers left behind in
Missolonghi either by wounds or sickness intrenched themselves in
stone buildings, and there defended themselves till the last, blowing
up the magazines and dying in the ruins when they could no longer hold
out. Four thousand Greeks were killed, three thousand were taken
prisoners, chiefly women and children, and two thousand altogether
escaped. The Acropolis of Athens resisted stoutly for a long time, but
at last fell. The Greeks were defeated in almost every action upon
which they entered, and affairs went from bad to worse, until the
European governments at last determined to interfere; and their united
fleets destroyed that of the Turks at the battle of Navarino, and
forced Turkey to grant the independence of Greece.
As these events happened Mr. Beveridge followed their course with
interest, but it was only with the interest shown by Englishmen in
general. His personal feeling in the matter had entirely left him.
During the last four years of the struggle there was no sign whatever
that misfortune and disaster had had any effect in inducing the Greeks
to lay aside their personal jealousies and ambitions, or to make any
common effort against the enemy. The large sums they had received from
the loans raised for the most part in England were spent in the most
unworthy uses. They covered their uniforms with gold lace, and the
dress of the men on foot often cost fifty pounds; those of horsemen
ten times that amount. They affected all through to despise the Turks,
and yet, except the fifteen hundred men under Dikaios and the
defenders of Missolonghi, they never once opposed anything like an
obstinate resistance to them, and the last show of resistance was
almost crushed out when the intervention of Europe saved them.
The _Creole_ had been laid up after her return from the Arctic Seas.
Mr. Beveridge had purchased a large share in a fine East Indiaman,
making the proviso that Martyn should be appointed to the command, he
himself buying a share in her with the money he had earned during the
four years’ service on board the schooner. Mr. Beveridge had, to the
immense satisfaction of his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce, entirely abandoned the
study of Greek, devoted himself to the affairs of his estate, became
an active magistrate, and had, three years after his return, stood for
Parliament as member for the county, and had won the seat. Horace was
twenty when they returned from the north. He had a long talk with his
father as to his future prospects and career. He was too old now to
take up the thread of his studies again or to go to the university,
and he finally determined, at the advice of his father, to study for
the bar.
“You will never have any occasion to practise, Horace, but a few
months every year in London will make a pleasant change for you; and
as you may look to be a county magistrate some day you will find a
knowledge of the law very useful to you. You will be in London five or
six months every year, then you will have your shooting and hunting in
the winter, and we will have two or three months’ cruise together in
the _Creole_. I find that our expedition in Greece cost me, one way
and another, just fifteen thousand pounds, which is a good deal less
than I should have thrown away if it had not been for your advice. I
hear that it is likely that Sir James Hobhouse’s estate will be in the
market before long, and I think, as it almost adjoins ours, I shall
buy it. I fancy that I shall get it for about thirty thousand pounds.
That I should settle on you at once. I am not fifty yet, and feel that
I have more life in me than I ever had, and I don’t want you to be
waiting another twenty or thirty years to step into my shoes. Its
management will be an occupation for you, and then you can marry
whenever you feel inclined.”
This happened four years later; it arose out of a meeting at a dinner
party in London. Horace had taken down a very pretty girl to whom he
had just been introduced. He thought that she looked at him rather
curiously when his name was mentioned. They chatted on all sorts of
subjects during dinner, and when the ladies arose to go she said:
“Please find me out when you come upstairs. I have a question I
particularly want to ask you, but I could not very well do it here.
Please do not forget, for it is important.” A good deal puzzled Horace
made his way upstairs as soon as he could and saw that the girl was
with another lady sitting in a quiet corner of the drawing-room. He
crossed to them at once. “Mother,” the young lady said, “this is Mr.
Beveridge.”
“You are right, Ada,” the lady said, rising and holding out her hand,
“I recognize him at once now I see him. Oh, Mr. Beveridge, you do not
know how we have longed to see you again, and you don’t know us, do
you?”
“No, I can’t say that I do, madam,” Horace replied, more and more
astonished.
“I am the lady you saved from being sold as a slave at Algiers when
you captured the ship we were in off the coast of Asia Minor. This is
my daughter. No wonder you don’t remember us for I was a
strange-looking creature in that Greek dress, and Ada was but a
child.”
“I remember you now, Mrs. Herbert,” Horace exclaimed. “I ought to have
done so before, as we were four or five days on board together.”
“You must have thought us so ungrateful,” Mrs. Herbert said; “but we
were not so; we never knew where to write to when you were out in
Greece. Then two or three years afterwards we heard from someone who
had been out there that you had returned, and my husband, who left
Smyrna and came back to England after we got back, made all sorts of
inquiries, and found out at last that you had gone away again on an
Arctic expedition. Then he went out to Malta, where we have been
living for the last three years, and only returned a month ago to
England. My husband had to return to Smyrna; he had large business
connections there that could not be broken off suddenly. Nothing could
induce me ever to return there, but it was an easy run for him to
Malta, and he was able to come and stay with us for a week or so every
two or three months. For the last year he was training the son of the
senior partner of the house to take his place at Smyrna, and he
himself has now come back altogether, as Mr. Hamblyn has now retired,
and he is the head of the firm. He is not here to-night, but will be
delighted to hear that we have found you.”
“We have been back three years,” Horace said.
“Of course we did not know that you were in England. It has been a
great grief to us. It seemed so extraordinary that after being saved
by you from the most awful of all fates you should have disappeared
out of our life as suddenly as you came into it. Of course it was not
much to you--you who saved so many hundreds, we heard afterwards
thousands of women and girls from slavery; but to us it was
everything. And your father, Mr. Beveridge, is he quite well?”
“Yes, he is far better than I have ever known him to be. I am going
down next week to help him; he is going to stand for our part of the
county for Parliament. There is a vacancy there, and I fancy that he
has a very good chance.”
“Is he, indeed? He did not give me the idea of being a man who would
have cared for that sort of thing. Of course we only saw him just for
those four days.”
“I am happy to say that he has changed very much since then. He came
home very ill from Greece, but our eighteen months among the ice
entirely set him up and made a new man of him. I am sure he will be
very pleased when he hears that I have met you. And did you recognize
me at once, Miss Herbert?”
“The name helped me,” the girl said. “When I heard it I felt sure it
was you at once. It was very hard work sitting there talking to you as
if you were a stranger.”
“Why did you not tell me at once?” Horace asked smiling.
She did not answer, but her mother said for her: “You can’t tell how
we felt about you and your father, Mr. Beveridge, or you would not ask
the question. The chances are that if Ada had told you who she was she
would have burst out crying. She told me it was as much as she could
do to restrain herself; and I think we have both had a quiet cry in
this corner since we came upstairs. Now, please give me your address
in town?”
“I have chambers in Mitre Court Temple, No. 3.”
“My husband will call to see you the first thing in the morning, I am
sure. Mr. Beveridge and you must dine with us quietly to-morrow, so
that we can talk it all over. You are not, I hope, engaged.”
Horace was not engaged, but if he had been he would probably have
thrown it over.
Under these circumstances it was not very much to wonder at that a few
months later the _Morning Post_ contained this announcement:--“We
understand that a marriage has been arranged between Mr. Horace
Beveridge, the son of Mr. H. Beveridge, M. P., and Ada, only child of
Mr. Herbert, of Bedford Square, the head of the firm of Herbert &
Sandeson, the well-known firm of Levant merchants. We understand the
acquaintance of Mr. Beveridge with the young lady he is now about to
lead to the altar commenced under singularly romantic circumstances in
the Levant six years ago.”
On the day after their marriage Horace and his wife sailed to spend
their honeymoon among the fiords of Norway and in the Baltic on board
the _Creole_. She was commanded by Miller, whose ship had been paid
off a month previously, and Tarleton, whose frigate belonged to the
Channel squadron, obtained three months’ leave to sail in her as first
officer. Macfarlane was with them for a fortnight, not being able to
get away for a longer time from the practice in which he had purchased
a partnership at Plymouth. Tom Burdett went, of course, in his old
capacity; but this was his last trip in her though he long remained
the commander of the _Surf_, which was always kept in commission at
Seaport, and in which Horace’s boys and girls learned to love the sea
as much as did their father.
THE END