"AS YE SOW."
To roam the seas for months, storm-beaten and tempest-tossed, chilled
to the bone with cold at one moment, burnt black by the sun at others;
without food sometimes, and sometimes without drink--such has often
been the lot of the English seamen in voyages and war-time, and so it
was now in "The Wonderful Year," the year 1759.
Only with, perhaps, more added miseries and discomforts during the
present hostilities than had been present in earlier times, since, in
those days of the past, our enemy--our one great and implacable enemy,
with whom it seemed almost that God created us to strive--had ever
sought us as eagerly as we sought him. Yet, now, all appeared changed.
The more we sought him the more he evaded us; upon the open sea we
could never bring him--or very rarely bring him--to battle with us;
and, vaunt as he might his determination to crush us, to invade our
land, to sink us into a third-rate Power, yet, when we put forth to
seek him, he was never to be found. Instead his fleets were in harbour
and his ships far up inland rivers; the sight of our topsails was
sufficient to cause his own to instantly disappear beneath the
horizon. Yet that, at this period, there had been innumerable
encounters was still true. Had not Boscawen shattered De la Clue off
Cape Lagos, Pocock defeated the French in the East Indies, and
countless ships of war and frigates been captured by us? But still the
great action--the one that was to be decisive--seemed as far off as
ever when "The Wonderful Year" was drawing to its close, and when,
after many returns to English ports, Sir Edward Hawke once more put to
sea from Torbay, on November 14th, to find, if possible, the great
fleet of Conflans, which was known to be lurking somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Belleisle.
November, 1759! a month of terrible storm and stress--yet, what is
storm or stress to the seaman bent on finding his foe and vanquishing
him?--a month when tempest after tempest howled across the seas, when
days broke late and nights came early, when land-fogs and sea-fogs
enveloped all for hours, so that inaction was forced to prevail. Yet,
through all those furies of the elements the gallant fleet went forth,
the Royal George (she flying proudly the Admiral's flag) leading
twenty-three ships of the line and many frigates and bomb-ketches. It
went forth, to be joined later by numerous other vessels, including
amongst them the _Mignonne_, under the command of Captain Sir Geoffrey
Barry.
On board the old French capture was Lewis Granger, too, again a
sailor, though not yet again an officer; that, Geoffrey said, would
come--after the war was over.
"After the war is over," Granger would repeat to himself; while
sometimes he would repeat the words aloud as the captain uttered them,
"After the war is over."
Then he would turn away, saluting his superior if with him, or
uttering some muttered ejaculation if alone.
He was not all unhappy now; the work which he had been allowed to
resume occupied him sufficiently to distract his memories, and, for
the rest, he had fallen easily into his duties. Moreover, he was
better situated than he might have hoped to be. Their Lordships had
made no objection to his being borne on the books of the _Mignonne_
after hearing her captain's story of the man's innocence, more
especially as that captain was one whose destiny seemed of great
promise; and so Granger had gone on board the frigate ere she sailed
from the Thames. Though that was months ago now--months spent, as told
above, in scouring the seas, in hardships, and sometimes disaster.
But, during those months, an accident had placed Lewis Granger in an
even better position than that which he had at first assumed.
The master-gunner had been killed in a conflict between the _Mignonne_
and a French corvette, which the former was chasing, and Granger had
stepped into his shoes. And, though such promotion was not much to one
who had once worn the uniform of a commissioned officer, yet it was
something. It gave him a cabin to himself where he could brood and
meditate--as he did too often!--it enabled him to take his meals alone
and be alone. And so, with his various duties, his charge of the
ordnance and ordnance stores, his long hours devoted to the
instruction of the raw hands who as yet scarcely understood the
gunnery exercises, and a thousand other matters, he passed those
months away. Passed them thus--and in forgetting, or, rather, in
striving to forget.
For he could not forget. That was the curse laid on him and beneath
which he had to bow.
"If I could do that," he would say to himself, again and again; and
most often when he lay awake for hours in his berth--"if I could do
that. If, at last, her sweet, innocent face, her braided chestnut
hair, the look of love that never failed to greet me as I drew near,
might vanish for ever from my memory! If, too, I could think that she
also forgets--then--some day, I might obtain peace. But--I know
it!--she no more forgets than I."
Stubbornly, doggedly, as it ever is when a man wrestles with himself,
so he wrestled now. And it was all of no avail. It was useless! But
one woman had ever dawned a star above his existence; the woman
who--star-like!--had fallen away from him for ever.
"Such love should never have been," he would continue musing, "never
have been, or, coming into my life, should have stayed always with me.
Other men knew better what to do than I--could fool women, for a
pastime, into loving them, could lead them on to madness and then grow
weary and fling them contemptuously aside. And I despised such men. Do
I despise them now?"
But only a moment later he would find his own answer to his own
question, and would whisper to himself, "Yes. Even as it is, ours was
the fonder, better love."
Keeping much to himself--as much as could be in a ship of war full of
action, and chasing sometimes a vessel of the enemy's that hove in
sight, or fleeing on others from two or three of their ships with
which it would have been madness to risk an encounter--he went about
his duties, performing each and all as though he lived for them alone;
as though, too, his frame was impervious to fatigue or the burden of a
rough, hard life. With Sir Geoffrey he could hold but little
communion--that, considering the different positions each was now
filling, would have been impossible!--though sometimes they could be
together in the captain's cabin for a short time. And then the latter
would say words to the other of approbation and approval, as well as
comfort, which, had it not been that all his future was blank and
hopeless, must have cheered him. But, because such was the case, those
words could not do so, and murmuring again, as he had murmured so
often, "It is too late," he would withdraw to his solitude.
Yet, now, every day brought it more home to those in the English fleet
that, at last, the great conflict was drawing near. Before they had
been two days out of Torbay on this their last putting to sea, a
French bilander had been captured, from which the Admiral obtained
some news of Conflans, while, on the morning of the 17th, the
_Magnanime_ (also a capture) let fly her top-gallant sheets as a
signal that she had sighted something that might be, or might belong
to, the enemy. And a moment later the _Mignonne_--which had been
abreast of the lee line--was signalled to stand to the north to see
what she could discover. What she did discover, when under full sail
she had set forth in the direction ordered, was a French privateer
making off as fast as she could go in the direction of the French
coast. Also, ahead of her, some two or three miles away, was a fleet
of vessels, which, cruelly enough, did not stand by to assist their
slower sister.
"She must be ours," cried Sir Geoffrey now, as, flinging the waves off
from her forefoot contemptuously, the _Mignonne_, with every sheet
fisted home, tore through the turbulent waters. "She must be ours. We
gain upon her, too." Then he cried to the master, "Lay me alongside of
her, as soon as possible. And tell the master-gunner to be ready."
That the privateer knew she was outpaced was evident from the manner
in which she tacked--as the hare tacks and twists before the hound
unleashed; while she showed that she did not mean to yield without a
fight if she yielded at all. Coming round suddenly when the _Mignonne_
was almost close upon her, she fired three of her lower deck guns, the
English vessel only escaping being hit by the tossing of the waves
which carried her high upon their crests, while the balls passed
harmlessly beneath her.
That Granger was at his place was evident a moment later, when, from
the gun-deck of the frigate, there poured forth a broadside that, as
it struck the privateer, sent her keeling over to her larboard side.
Then, as she recovered herself and the _Mignonne_ came round on the
wind, another broadside belched forth.
"That has done it," cried Geoffrey. "Fire no more. She will sink in
ten minutes. Lower away there to save as many as may be. They are
taking to the water already."
However many might be taking to the water, as he said, it was certain
that none would escape in the privateer's boats. For now she lay over
so much that it was impossible any such should be lowered from her;
and that she would founder in a few moments, sucking down with her
everything in the immediate neighbourhood, was not to be doubted.
There remained nothing, consequently, but for those in the ship to
throw themselves into the sea and to take their chance of either being
picked up by the _Mignonne's_ boats, or of being engulfed by the
sinking vessel, or--which was equally likely--have the breath beaten
out of them by the waves that ran mountains high.
Of such who were picked up at last, there were only three--one, a
young man, who swam towards the _Mignonne's_ boats with all the vigour
of despair; the others being two middle-aged men. As for the privateer
herself, she was gone for ever, leaving behind her no traces except a
flag tossed on the water, some floating barrels, and a few coops full
of drowned fowls.
"Bring brandy," cried Sir Geoffrey, as these men were carried over the
side of the _Mignonne_, more dead than alive, and with one alone, the
sturdy swimmer, still conscious. "Bring brandy, and pour it down their
throats. They must not die. They can tell much, and tell they shall."
Then, to his astonishment, the mam who had swam so stoutly--the
youngest of the three--opened his eyes and looked up at him, saying in
English--
"What is it you would have us tell?"
"First," said Sir Geoffrey, "what was the name of that privateer?
Next, how you, an Englishman; came in her? You, an Englishman, in a
French ship at such a time! Man, do you know what may be your fate?"
"The privateer was _La Baleine_, of Dunkirk. As for myself and scores
of others, we were not there willingly. We were bound for the
colonies, and taken out of a schooner called the _Amarynth_ some
months ago, and kept----"
"The _Amarynth_," said a voice--deep and low as ever--in Sir
Geoffrey's ear, "was the right name of the _Nederland_."
"Great heaven!" said Sir Geoffrey, turning round suddenly on Granger,
and himself speaking in a whisper now, so that the officers and men
who were about should not hear him. "Great heaven! The _Nederland!_
The ship that carried that scoundrel who, had he had his will, would
have placed Ariadne and Anne in her."
"Ay," replied Granger, "if he had had his will. He who would have
kidnapped them and me."
"Speak," said Sir Geoffrey now, "speak and tell all. How has this
thing happened?"
"Thus," said the man, looking up defiantly at his questioner: "Some
were kidnapped into her, some went willingly. Bah! you both know that:
both of you, sailors though you be. You were the one who led and
encouraged the press-gang, who came to _his_ house for men; that other
by your side was----"
"Silence!" said Sir Geoffrey, white, and speaking sternly--though
hating himself for having to do so. "Silence! and continue your
narrative. I command here, and desire no opinion on my conduct. And I,
at least, did not press you. Go on."
"We were half across the Atlantic," the fellow said moodily, "when her
captain, a Frenchman called Boisrose, took us, and, after fighting
contrary winds for weeks, was nearing France to hand us over as
prizes. Now--well? now, you have altered all that. What are you going
to do with us?"
"That you will know later. At present, thank your God that you
are saved--from death, if not worse. At least you are in an English
ship. You shall be well cared for. Take them below," he said to the
master-at-arms, "and give them food and dry clothes."
"Yet first," said Granger, "answer me one question: There was a man on
board named Bufton. Was he _there?_" and he directed his eyes to the
spot beneath which the privateer had sunk.
"There was no man of that name to my knowledge."
"A man whom one could not mistake. A man with a strangely long and
pointed chin."
"Oh! He! Oh! yes, he was there. But he was a cur. He could not stand
his fate. He had been a dandy, it seems, whose heart was burst."
"Why?" asked Granter, in an even deeper voice, "why? What did he do?"
"Threw himself overboard in despair one dark, rough night--as they
told us--a week before Boisrose captured the schooner."
Instinctively Geoffrey and Lewis Granger both turned away at the same
time, the latter looking at the other with hollow eyes.
"Take heart," whispered the former, "it was the fate he had prepared
for--for----"
"Ay, it was. Yet still his death is on my soul."
"Had they not slain him, his death would have been at my hands. For he
would have been killed to-day. He who would have killed others. Take
heart. Take heart."