emotion occasioned by the kind tone of Mr. St. Clair. As I moved away my
eyes fell on Annette. Her gaze was fixed on me with an expression I
shall never forget, but which I would have given the world to have been
able to interpret. There was an expression of the deepest interest in
that look, and the eyes, I fancied, were partially humid. As soon as she
caught my gaze, she blushed deeply, and looked down. What meant that
earnest gaze—this sudden embarrassment? Did she then really love me? My
heart beat fast, my brain fairly swam around, my emotion, for an
instant, almost overpowered me. I could, if no one had been present,
have rushed to her feet and told my suit. But a moment’s reflection
changed the current of my thoughts. Perhaps she had noticed my feelings
while her father had been speaking. If so, her subsequent emotion arose
from being detected in observing me. I ran over everything which had
happened since she had been on board, and could find nothing
corroborating, directly, the idea that she loved me. Her manner had
always been frank and kind; but what had she said or done to give me
hope? As these thoughts rushed through my mind my towering hopes fell.
The revulsion was extreme. I despaired now as much as I had exulted but
a moment before. I was about to turn gloomily away, when the voice of
Isabel called me. I looked up. She was beckoning me gayly toward her as
she leaned on Annette’s arm.
“Why, I declare, Mr. Cavendish,” she said laughingly, “you seem to be
determined to leave us depart without even saying ‘adieu’—a pretty
gallant you are, to be sure! Here is Annette really displeased at your
coldness.”
A look of silent reproach was the only reply of her cousin, who dared
not raise her eyes to mine. With the vacillation of a lover my
sentiments again underwent a change. Had Annette really been wondering
at my coldness? How unjust then had been my suspicions. I advanced
eagerly to her side. Yet when I had done so I knew not what to say.
Isabel seemed not only to see my embarrassment but to enjoy it. She
continued gayly—
“There, now, do your _devoir_ like a gallant knight and soldier—coz,
have you no glove or other favor for him to wear on his bosom in battle?
Ah! me, the days of courtesy and chivalry have gone forever. But there I
see uncle ordering down my package, I must see that he does not let it
drop clumsily over-board,” and she tripped laughingly away.
Left almost _tête-à-tête_ with Annette—for every eye was that moment
turned to the gangway where some of the passengers were already
embarking, I yet felt unable to avail myself of an opportunity for which
I had longed. A single word would decide my fate, and yet that word I
could not pronounce. My boldness had all disappeared, and I stood before
that fair girl equally agitated with herself. At length I looked up. She
stole a furtive glance at me as I did so, and blushed again to the very
brow. I took her hand, it was not withdrawn. Words of fire were already
on my lips when her father turned toward us, saying—
“Annie, my love, they wait for you—Mr. Cavendish, a last good-bye”—and
as he spoke every eye was turned toward us. The precious moment was
past. I could do nothing but lead Annette forward. Yet I ventured to
press her hand. My senses deceived me, or it was faintly, though very
faintly, returned. I would have given worlds, if I had them, for the
delay of a minute, that I might learn my fate from the lips of that fair
girl. But it was not to be. We were already in the centre of the group.
Mr. St. Clair took his daughter and lifted her into the chair, and in
another moment her white dress fluttered in its descent to the boat. My
heart died within me. The golden moment had passed, perhaps forever; for
when should we meet again? New scenes, new friends would in all
probability drive me from Annette’s remembrance before we should next
see each other. These thoughts filled my mind as I leaned over the
bulwark and waved my hand while the boat put off. Mr. St. Clair stood up
in the barge and bowed in return, while I thought I could see, through
the shadowy moonlight, the fair hand of Annette returning my parting
adieus.
I watched the receding figures until they reached the schooner, and even
after they had ascended the deck, and the two vessels had parted each on
its own way, I continued gazing on the white dress of Annette until I
could no longer detect the faintest shadow of it. When at length it
disappeared totally in the distance, I felt a loneliness of the heart,
such as no language can express. To a late hour I continued pensively
walking the deck, unable to shake off this feeling, and it was only a
gay remark of one of my messmates that finally aroused me from my
abstraction. I shook off my pensiveness by an effort, laughed gayly in
reply, and soon sought my hammock, as my spirits would not permit me
much longer to carry on this double game.
For a week we cruized in the track of the homeward bound fleet from the
West Indies, but without success. During this time Annette was
constantly in my thoughts. Her last look—that gentle pressure of her
hand thrilled through every vein, as often as they recurred to me. Never
could I forget her—would she continue to think of me?
More than a week had passed, as I have said, since we had parted from
the St. Clairs, yet still we had not spoken a sail. At length one day,
when I had the morning watch, the lookout hailed from the cross-trees,
that a sail was down on the seaboard to leeward. Chase was instantly
given to the stranger. The breeze was fresh, and we were in consequence
soon close enough to discern the character of our neighbor. She had not
from the first appeared to avoid us, and no sooner did we show our
colors, than she ran up the ensign of France. We were going on different
tacks, and, as we approached, both ships lay-to for a moment’s
conversation. The French merchantman was a noble ship, and as she came
up gallantly towards us, her long bowsprit sunk far down into the trough
of the wave, and then, with a slow swan-like motion she rose on the
ensuing swell until her bows were elevated almost clear of the water,
while the bright copper dripping with brine glistened gloriously in the
sunbeams.
The Frenchman backed his topsails as he drew near, and the two vessels
stood head on, while we sent a boat on board. The merchantman proved to
be upon her homeward passage, and had consequently no intelligence from
Europe to furnish us. But the French skipper told us what was far more
interesting to us. He mentioned that he had, but the day before, fallen
in with the homeward bound English fleet, from the West Indies,
amounting to some sixty sail. The fleet was convoyed by four men-of-war.
Our captain, however, resolved to have a dash at the convoy. He
conceived the daring project of cutting off a portion of the fleet,
under the very batteries of the men-of-war. The French skipper wished us
a “_bon voyage_,” and the two vessels parted company.
We cracked on all sail, during the whole of the day and night. The next
morning, at the dawn of day, our lookout descried the English fleet, on
our larboard-side. Luckily, we had the weather-gauge. We kept crowding
on our canvass, however, during the whole forenoon, and as we gained on
the convoy, we saw sail after sail rising in the seaboard, until the
whole horizon was dotted with them, and the lookout reported more than
fifty, in sight. By this the men-of-war had caught the alarm, and were
firing guns to keep their flock around them. The dull sailers, however,
fell rapidly behind. This forced one of the English frigates to leave
the advance, and run astern of the fleet. During the whole day we kept
coquetting to windward of the fleet, but no demonstrations against us
were made on the part of the men-of-war.
“A cowardly set, by the Lord Harry,” said our old boatswain, who often
beguiled a dull hour with a yarn, “here are we giving them a chance for
a fair stand-up fight, and the cowardly lubbers haven’t the pluck to
come up and take or give a thrashing. I can’t stand such sneaking
scoundrels—by St. George,” and the old fellow energetically squirted a
stream of tobacco-juice from his mouth, as if from a force-pump.
“We’ll have a brush with them, nevertheless, Hinton,” said I, “or I know
nothing of the captain. He has got his eye on more than one rich prize
in that fleet, and depend upon it, he’ll make a dash for it before
long.”
“Ay! ay! you’re right,” answered the boatswain “and he’ll do it, too,
before two bells have struck in the morning watch.”
The night shut in squally and dark. The fleet was some three miles to
leeward, for during the whole day we had carefully maintained the
weather gauge. As the darkness increased we lost sight of the enemy’s
ships, but their numerous lights glistening like stars along the
seaboard, still pointed out to us their position. The wind was
uncertain, now coming in fitful puffs, and then blowing steadily for a
quarter of an hour, when it would again die away and sweep in squalls
across the waste of waters. Scud clouds began to fly across the face of
the heavens, obscuring the few stars, and giving a wild and ominous
appearance to the firmament. Down to the west the seaboard was covered
by a dense bank of clouds, out of which occasionally a flash of
lightning would zig-zag, followed by a low hoarse growl of distant
thunder. It was evident that a tempest was raging, far down in that
quarter. On the opposite horizon, however, the sky was nearly free from
clouds, only a few fleecy vapors being discernible in that quarter,
through which the bright stars twinkled clear and lustrous. The English
fleet lay between these two opposite quarters of the horizon—the right
wing of the convoy stretching down almost into the utter darkness in
that direction, and the left wing skirting along the horizon to the
eastward. Along the whole expanse of seaboard, more than fifty lights
were now glittering, like so many fire-flies winging through the gloom
along the edge of a forest, on a summer eve. The scene was one of
surpassing novelty, and drew forth the admiration even of our veteran
tars. Now and then the vapors in the east would clear entirely away,
leaving the firmament in that direction, sparkling with thousands of
stars; and then again the murky shroud would enclose them in nearly
total darkness. Occasionally, as if in contrast to this, a brighter
flash of lightning would gleam, or a louder burst of thunder roll up
from the dark bank of clouds enclosing the tempest to the westward.
The night had scarcely settled down before the ship’s course was altered
and we bore down upon the fleet—taking the precaution, however, to put
out all the lights on board except the one at the binnacle. Meantime the
men were called to quarters, the tompions of the guns removed, the
ammunition served out, pikes, cutlasses and fire arms distributed among
the crew, and every preparation made for action. As we drew nearer to
the convoy the darkness of the night increased, until, at length, we
could see but a few fathoms ahead into the gloom. The eastern firmament
now became wholly obscured. Not a star shone on high to guide us on our
way. Had it not been for the long line of lights sparkling along the
seaboard, betraying the positions occupied by the various vessels in the
convoy, we should have possessed no guide to our prey,—and nothing but
the confidence felt by the enemy in his superior force could have
induced him to continue his lights aboard, when otherwise he might have
run a chance of dropping us in the darkness. But he never dreamed of the
bold swoop which we projected, into the very midst of his flock. He
would as soon have thought of our blockading the Thames, or burning the
English fleet at Portsmouth.
The plan of Captain Smythe was indeed a bold one. Bearing right onwards
into the very centre of the fleet, he intended to cut off one of the
wings from the main body, and then board and take possession of as many
of the merchantmen as he could carry in the obscurity. We judged that
the men-of-war were in the van, with the exception of a frigate which we
had seen before nightfall hovering in the rear of the fleet to cover the
lagging merchantmen. This frigate, however, we supposed to be on the
extreme right of the enemy. We therefore bore down for the opposite
extremity of the fleet.
For more than an hour, while, with every rag of canvass abroad, we were
hastening to overtake the enemy, scarcely a word was spoken by the
crew,—but each man remained at his station eagerly watching the gradual
diminution of the distance betwixt us and the convoy. Indeed silence
was, in some measure, necessary to the success of our plot. Even the
orders of the officers therefore were given and executed with as little
bustle as possible. As the darkness increased we noticed that the lights
ahead began to diminish in number, and it was not long before we became
satisfied that the foe had at length awoke to the probability of our
being in the vicinity. At length scarcely more than half a dozen lights
could be seen. These we judged to belong to the men-of-war, being kept
aloft for the convoy to steer by.
The difficulty of our enterprise was now redoubled, for, if the darkness
should increase, there would be great danger of a collision with one or
another of the fleet. This peril, however, we shared in common with the
merchantmen composing the convoy. Our only precaution consisted in
doubling our look-outs.
Another hour passed, during which we steered by the lights of the
men-of-war. By the end of that period we had run, according to our
calculation, into the very heart of the fleet, leaving a man-of-war
broad on our larboard beam, a mile or two distant. This latter vessel we
fancied to be the frigate which had been hovering towards nightfall in
the rear of the fleet. Our anxiety now increased. We were surrounded, on
every side, by the vessels of the convoy, and the obscurity was so
profound that we could not see a pistol shot on any hand. Our progress,
meantime, was continued in utter silence. The only sound we heard was
the singing of the wind through the rigging, the occasional cheeping of
a block, or the rushing of the water along our sides. Suddenly, however,
I thought I heard a sound as of the bracing of a yard right over our
starboard bow.
“Hist!” I said to the boatswain, who happened that moment to be passing,
“hist! do you hear that?”
The old fellow stopped, listened a moment, and then shaking his head,
said,
“I hear nothing. What did _you_ hear?”
“Hark! there it goes again,” I said, as the sound of a sail flapping
against a mast came distinctly out of the gloom.
“By St. George, you are right,” exclaimed the old water-rat, “ay! ay!
young ears are arter-all the sharpest!”
He had scarcely spoken before the tall masts of a ship, like a spectre
rising through the night, lifted themselves up out of the obscurity in
the direction whence the sound had proceeded, and instantaneously we
heard the tramping of many feet on the decks of the stranger, the rapid
orders of the officers, the running of ropes, the creaking of yards, and
the dull flapping of sails in the wind. At the same time a voice hailed,
“Luff up or you’ll be into us,” and then the same voice spoke as if
addressing the helmsman on board the stranger, “up with your
helm—around, around with her—my God! we’ll be afoul.”
The consternation of the British skipper was not without cause. No
sooner had Capt. Smythe discovered our proximity to the stranger, than
he formed the determination of running her aboard, taking her by a sally
of our brave fellows, and then, after throwing into her a party
sufficiently strong to maintain possession of her, keeping on his way.
During the minute therefore that elapsed betwixt the discovery of the
merchantman, and the hail of her affrighted skipper, the boarders had
been called away and the quartermaster ordered to run us bows on to the
quarter of the stranger. Instead of luffing, therefore, we kept straight
on in our course, and as a score of lanterns were instantly shown on
board both ships, sufficient light was thrown over the scene to guide us
in our manœuvre. As the English ship wore around, bringing the wind on
her starboard quarter, our helm was jammed to port, and swinging around
almost on our heel we shot upon the foe, striking her in the stern
galley, which we crushed as we would have crushed an egg-shell. The
English ship was heavily loaded, and in consequence our bowsprit ran
high above her decks, affording a bridge on which our brave tars might
easily pass on board. At the moment we struck, the captain dashed
forward, and summoning the boarders to follow him, had leaped, sword in
hand, into the centre of the enemy’s crew, before her skipper had ceased
giving orders to the perplexed seamen, who were running to and fro on
her decks, in the vain hope of preventing any damage resulting to them
from this collision, with, as they thought, a sister vessel. The
consternation of the master may well be conceived when he found his ship
in possession of an enemy. For some minutes he imagined it to be a jest,
for he could not conceive how any foe would have the audacity to cut him
out from the very heart of the fleet. His rueful countenance when he
discovered his error, I shall never forget, nor the bad grace with which
he consented to be transferred with a portion of his men to the Aurora.
In less than five minutes, however, this necessary precaution had been
carried into effect, and a prize-crew left in possession of the
merchantman. The officer in command was ordered to haul out of the
fleet, and gain a position as speedily as possible to windward. Then the
two ships were parted, and we stood away as before on the larboard tack,
while the prize braced sharp up, hauled her bowlines, and went off close
into the wind’s eye.
“By Jove,” said a reefer, elated with the part he had acted among the
boarders, for he had been one of the first to step on the decks of the
merchantman, “by Jupiter, but that was neatly done—eh! don’t you think
so, Hinton, my old boy?”
“Shut your dead-lights, you young jackanapes,” growled the old
boatswain, by no means pleased with such a salutation, “and keep your
tongue for cheering against the enemy: you’ll have enough of it to do
yet before you turn in. Avast! there! I say,” he continued, perceiving
that the youngster was about to interrupt him, “go to your post, or I’ll
report you, you young whelp. None of your blarney, as your thick-tongued
Irish messmate would say—away with you.”
When Hinton’s ire was up the safest plan was to retreat, for he would
brook no retort unless from the captain or lieutenant. Over the young
reefers, especially those who were in disfavor with him, he domineered
with a rod of iron. The youngster who had forgotten for a moment, in the
elation of his first victory, the awe in which he held the boatswain,
was recalled by these words to a sense of the authority of the old tar,
and he shrunk accordingly away, disdaining to reply.
“Ay! go, you varmint,” chuckled Hinton, as the reefer walked to his
post, “and give none of your long shore palaver to a man who had learned
before you were born to hold his tongue before an enemy as his first
duty. Isn’t it so, Mr. Cavendish?”
I was a great favorite of the old fellow, and always made a point of
humoring him, so I nodded an assent to his remark, although I was
tempted to ask him how long since he had forgotten this important duty
of silence. I restrained, however, my question, and the smile which
would fain have preceded it: and listened for several minutes in return
for this complaisance to a long philippic on the part of the old fellow,
against what he chose to call the almost universal presumption of
midshipmen. From this tirade, however, the boatswain condescended to
exempt me. How long he would have dilated upon this favorite subject, I
know not; but, at this moment, a hail came out of the gloom ahead, and
every eye was instantly attracted in the direction from which the voice
proceeded.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted a herculean voice, “what craft is that?”
The tone of the speaker betrayed a latent suspicion that all was not
right with us. Indeed he must have been so close to us in our late
encounter with the merchantman, that he necessarily heard many things to
awaken his doubts. As he spoke, too, the tall figure of a heavy craft
loomed out from the obscurity, and while we were yet speculating as to
the answer the captain would make, a dozen lanterns flashing through as
many open port-holes, revealed that our neighbor was a man-of-war.
“What ship is that?” thundered the voice again, “answer, or I’ll fire
into you!”
Our dauntless captain waved his hand for the batteries to be unmasked,
and springing into the mizzen rigging, while a neighboring
battle-lantern now disclosed to the night, flung its light full upon his
form, he shouted in an equally stentorian voice—
“This is the Aurora—commissioned by the good commonwealth of——”
“Give it to the canting rebel,” roared the British officer, breaking in
on this reply, “fire—for God and St. George—FIRE!”
“Ay! fire my brave boys,” thundered our leader, “one and all, for the
old thirteen—FIRE!”
From the moment when the enemy had disclosed his lighted ports, our
gallant tars had been waiting, like hounds in the leash, for the signal
which was to let them loose upon the foe. The silent gesture of the
captain, when he sprung into the mizzen rigging, had been intuitively
understood by the crew, and the orders of the proper officers were
scarcely waited for, before the ports were opened, the battle lanterns
unmasked, the guns run out, and the whole deck changed, as if by magic,
from a scene of almost Egyptian darkness to one of comparative light.
Nor were the men less ready to discover the moment when to open their
fire. The first word of the British officer’s haughty interruption had
scarcely been spoken, when the gunners began to pat their pieces and
squint knowingly along them, so that, when the command to fire was
given, our whole broadside went off at once, like a volcano, and with
deadly effect. Every gun had been accurately aimed, every shot was sent
crashing into the foe. Not so the enemy. Although the British captain
had certainly viewed us with suspicion, his crew had apparently thought
us deserving of little caution; and the reply of our leader, and the
order of their own to fire, took them, after all, with surprise. Nearly
a minute accordingly elapsed before they delivered their broadside, and
then it was done hurriedly and with little certainty of aim. The first
fire is always more effective than the ensuing six; and the advantage of
the surprise was decided; for while we could hear the crashing of
timbers, and the shrieks of the wounded, following our discharge, the
shot of the enemy passed mostly over our heads, and, in my vicinity, not
a man of our crew was killed. One poor fellow, however, fell wounded at
the gun next to mine.
“Huzza!” roared Hinton, leaping like a lion to fill the place of the
injured man, “they’ve got their grog already. Have at ’em, my brave
fellows, again, and revenge your messmate. Never mind, Jack,” he said,
turning to the bleeding man, “every one must have a kick sometime in his
life, and the sooner its over, my hearty, the better. Bouse her out,
shipmates! Huzza for old Nantucket—the varmints have it again on full
allowance!”
For ten minutes the fight was maintained on our side without cessation.
The enemy, at first, rallied and attempted to return our broadsides
promptly, but the injuries she had suffered from our first discharge had
disheartened her men, and, when they found the spirit with which we
maintained our fire, they soon gave up the contest and deserted their
arms. Still, however, the enemy did not strike. One or two of her
forward guns were occasionally and suddenly discharged at us, but all
systematic resistance had ceased in less than five minutes.
By this time, however, the whole fleet was in an uproar. Lights were
dashing in every quarter of the horizon, and, as the darkness had been
clearing away since our brush with the merchantman, our lookout aloft
could see through the faint, misty distance, more than one vessel
bearing down toward us. The majority, however, of the fleet, seemed to
be struck with a complete panic, and, like a flock of startled
partridges, were hurrying from us in every direction. It soon became
apparent that the ships, bearing down upon us, were armed; and before we
had been engaged ten minutes with our antagonist, no less than three
men-of-war, from as many quarters of the horizon, had opened a
concentric fire on us, regardless of the damage they would do their
consort. Still, however, unwilling to leave his antagonist without
compelling her to strike, our leader maintained his position and poured
in a series of rapid broadsides which cut the foe up fearfully. Yet she
would not strike. On the other hand, reanimated by the approach of her
consorts, her men rallied to her guns and began again to reply to our
broadsides. Meanwhile the hostile frigates were coming up to us, hand
over hand, increasing the rapidity of their cannonade as the distance
betwixt us lessened. Our situation was becoming momentarily more
critical. Yet even amid our peril my eye was attracted by the sublimity
of the scene.