When the Spanish cavalier had entered the boat, Hildebrand seated
him beside him, and then, in a low tone, directed the rowers to
give way, and make for the ship.
Though a fresh breeze was abroad, the water, sheltered by the
high land around, was calm and placid, and laved over the muffled
oars in soothing silence. The boat glided over the quiet waves
like an arrow, yet, in the stillness and darkness that prevailed,
seemingly without propulsion, and as though it moved by its own
unaided will through the rolling element.
After a brief interval, they came in sight of the ship, and
shortly hove alongside of her. The look-out man, who was
standing in the gangway of the ship, then threw them a rope, and,
with cautious and noiseless steps, they severally mounted to the
deck.
On gaining the deck, Hildebrand’s first proceeding, in resuming
the command of his ship, was to ascend to the forecastle, and,
by a glance around, ascertain the ship’s exact position. He
distinguished the low hull of the gun-boat, which Halyard had
described to be lying alongside, somewhat ahead, at about a
gun-shot distance. He could not discern any one on her deck, and
he thought that, if the darkness continued, he might be able,
with a little management, to pass her unobserved. If he succeeded
so far, he had no fear but he would pass the puntals, or forts,
which guarded the mouth of the harbour, with the same result.
Once at sea, he might bid pursuit defiance.
He formed his plan in a moment. Descending to the quarter-deck,
he called for Halyard, and explained to that person, for the
guidance of himself and the crew, what he contemplated.
“We must first slip our cable,” he said. “Let the men unbend the
sails, and make the yards square; and when we once get headway,
the breeze, I doubt not, will carry us on. Meantime, have the
guns charged, and the deck cleared for action; for the gun-boat,
if they observe our purpose, will give us some trouble.”
“Ay, ay, Sir,” answered Halyard.
“I will just see my young friend safe below,” pursued Hildebrand,
“when I will rejoin you. Have everything done in silence.”
“Ay, ay, Sir,” repeated Halyard.
Hildebrand, leaving him to carry his injunctions into effect,
here turned away, and passed forward to the young Spaniard.
Taking that person by the arm, he led him aft, where a hatchway,
opening on a close ladder, allowed them to descend to the cabin.
A lighted lamp, which was fastened with a screw to a stout
oak table, on one side of the cabin, enabled the Spaniard
to survey this apartment, and its snug aspect seemed to take
him by surprise. Though not more than ten feet square, it was
arranged with so much compactness, and such excellent taste,
that it looked quite roomy. There were no settles or stools,
but a locker, or projecting box, ran round the sides; and the
top of this, which abutted about a foot from the main wainscot,
served for seats. Both the locker and wainscot, which lined the
cabin throughout, were of fine-grained oak, polished very high,
and capped by a moulding of the same material. The wainscot
opened on either side, about halfway up, with a panelled slide,
and exhibited, within, a small recess, or, to borrow a nautical
phrase, berth, which a mattress and blankets intimated to be a
sleeping-place. In the quarter that faced the door, or entrance,
which opened towards the fore part of the ship, an attempt had
been made, by a not untasteful hand, to lend the sombre hue of
the wainscot some degree of decoration; and on a panel at either
end, four pistols had been ranged in a circle, with their barrels
turned towards each other, which had a very pleasing effect. On
the opposite side of the cabin, shooting up from the hold, a part
of the ship’s mainmast was visible; and in front of this, fitting
to its abutting round, was the cabin-table, which, like the
wainscot, was of oak, and exhibited a fine and brilliant polish.
While the young Spaniard was noting these several particulars,
Hildebrand drew forth from his vest, with a somewhat tremulous
hand, the note he had brought him from Inez. Inclining his head
towards the light, he tore it open, and read therein these
words:--
“The bearer hereof, my fair cousin, Don Rafaele, being now here
in peril of his life, must needs accompany thee to England. Thou
canst not see me now; but as thou bearest thyself towards him,
whom I give over to thy protection, so shalt thou hereafter be
regarded by
“INEZ.”
Hastily raising his eyes, Hildebrand saw that, while he was
reading the letter, Don Rafaele had been watching him, but that
he had averted his gaze directly he raised his head. Concerned at
his discomposure, he hastened to give him such a welcome as, in
the hurry of the moment, he thought might re-assure him.
“Fair Sir, be of better heart;” he said, cordially clasping his
hand. “Thine own good parts would make me glad to be thy friend;
but for her sake who wrote this note, and whom we may never see
more, I will hold thee dearer than mine own self.”
“I thank you,” faltered the cavalier, without raising his eyes.
“Thou art very, very young,” continued Hildebrand, as he observed
his bosom swell with his emotion. “But fear not! The world is not
so perilous as we are apt to suppose.”
“No more,” returned Don Rafaele, in a firmer tone. “I doubt thee
not, and have no fear. But I am sad--very sad.”
“That gives me more grief that I must leave thee,” said
Hildebrand. “We may have some fighting above, and I, of course,
as captain, must brave it awhile. Do thou promise me thou wilt
stay here.”
“I will,” answered Don Rafaele.
“Then, I will leave thee awhile,” rejoined Hildebrand.
So speaking, he dropped the cavalier’s hand, and turned away. The
next moment he had mounted to the deck.
As he set his foot on the deck, the ship, which hitherto had been
pretty steady, began to move, and he saw that his injunction to
cut the cable had been fulfilled. Casting a glance around, he
perceived that the sails, according to his instructions, had been
all unbent and squared, and the men assembled at their several
quarters. He was still looking round, when he was joined by
Halyard.
“All’s ready, Sir!” said that person.
“Who is at the helm?” asked Hildebrand.
“Tom Tarpaulin.”
“Then, I will post myself beside him,” resumed Hildebrand. “Do
thou look out for’ard.”
Without further discourse, he ascended to the poop, or stern
of the vessel, and stationed himself beside the helmsman.
Tarpaulin--for the helmsman was no other--was steering straight
before the wind’s eye, in a slanting direction, under the stern
of the gun-boat, which was about two ships’ lengths ahead. From
their superior elevation, they were able to view the deck of the
gun-boat; but whether from the darkness, or that the deck was
really unoccupied, they could not distinguish any of the crew.
Gradually they drew closer and closer to the gun-boat’s stern.
They scarcely ventured to breathe at this critical juncture; and
the silence of so many men, all prompt for action, and within
view of each other, augmented its terrible interest. The creaking
of the tall masts, bowing before the breeze, and the hoarse
murmur of the waves, as they turned aside before the ship’s
bows, only made the silence more apparent, and the ear returned
no echo to their inanimate noise.
A brief interval brought them right athwart the gun-boat’s stern.
There was no alarm. They still passed on, as at first, without
interruption, though now in a more direct course. The turn of
the helm, by which their course had been changed, brought them
abreast of their enemy, at about twenty feet distance. The
death-like silence still prevailed: every ear still thrilled with
excitement; when the full, deep voice of Hildebrand, raised to
its highest pitch, rang through the vessel.
“Master Halyard!” he cried, “put out all our canvas, man the
after guns, and prepare for boarders!”
The silence was now at an end. The naked feet of the sailors,
obedient to the orders of Halyard, were heard rushing in various
directions over the deck; the hauling of ropes, the flapping of
canvas, the creaking of spars, bending under the weight of sail,
rendered a response to the whistling breeze; and, above all, the
voices of some half-dozen men, as they set the mainsail, were
heard merrily singing--
“Hoy, hoy, hoy!
Mainsail, lads, hoy!
Mainsail, mainsail, hoy!”
The crew of the gun-boat were equally alive. Men were seen
scrambling over her deck fore and aft; several lights flamed
on her forecastle; and it was evident that, though not yet in
motion, she was actively preparing to give them chase.
They had scarcely begun to make good way through the water, when
Hildebrand discerned the gun-boat following. Propelled by a
score of oars, she gained upon them quickly, and it was clear,
on regarding her progress, that a conflict would be unavoidable.
Though the Englishman sailed gallantly on, she drew nearer and
nearer every moment. At last, she fired a gun, and the charge,
which the report seemed to indicate as a twenty-four-pounder,
struck the fugitive’s stern, just above the water.
Still the latter vessel held on her course. The gun-boat, whether
doubtful of the effect of her shot, or more desirous to push the
pursuit, did not fire again for several minutes. By that time,
having thrown her whole force into the chase, she had come nearly
abreast of the fugitive, at a distance of about a dozen yards.
The Englishman was well prepared to receive her. His lower-deck
guns, embracing six long twenty-fours, were all manned, and, as
he was much higher in the water than she was, sunk to her level.
To avert observation, however, the lower deck was left without
a light, and, consequently, his readiness for action was not
discernible. Being unable to distinguish the open port-holes, the
Spaniard, under the guidance of his rowers, approached without
suspicion. While he was yet scarcely abreast of the fugitive,
he fired two guns, of the same calibre as his first, right into
her bulwarks. The lower deck of the fugitive was lighted up in
a moment; before the smoke, which issued like a fog from the
two discharged guns, had cleared away, her gunners had raised
their portfire, and she swept the Spaniard’s deck with her whole
broadside.
The report of the guns was still booming over the water, when
a heartrending shriek, even more startling than the roar of
the artillery, rose from the deck of the gun-boat. At the same
moment, the smoke, which now rendered the darkness almost
tangible, was broken with bright red flames, shooting up from her
deck like waving rockets, and her hull was circled with volumes
of fire.
The breeze that insured her destruction served to shoot the
Englishman ahead. Though thus pushing forward, however, the crew
of the latter vessel, now released from action, still heard
the cries of her doomed company. They were audible for several
minutes, when, all at once, they became perfectly hushed. The
next moment, the gun-boat blew up, and shot into the air in a
thousand fragments.
A buzz of horror arose from the crew of the “Eliza” at this
consummation of the catastrophe. The shock was so great, that,
though now a good distance from its locality, their own ship was
shaken by it, and bumped on the waves as if they were a rock.
After the unanimous buzz specified, however, no one ventured to
speak, and they pursued their course in solemn silence.
Hildebrand was the first to collect himself. Like his men, he
had turned, almost mechanically, to view the explosion, and was
wheeling round again to the binnacle, or box before the helm
(which, it may be explained, contained the compass), when a small
and trembling hand was laid on his arm. Labouring under intense
excitement, this slight incident made him start; but his face,
though it remained pale, betrayed no anger as his glance fell on
Don Rafaele.
“In the name of God, what hath happened?” asked that person, with
terrible calmness.
“We are safe yet, Senhor,” answered Hildebrand. “Be of good
heart, and go below again.”
“I had rather die here,” rejoined Don Rafaele.
“An’ thou wilt not go below, sit thee down on the deck,” said
Hildebrand. “A short space more will discover our fate.”
The Spaniard, without a word more--for he saw that Hildebrand
was not inclined for further discourse--disposed himself in the
manner recommended, on the further side of the binnacle. As he
did so, the ship entered the narrow channel of the harbour, and
the crisis which Hildebrand had mentioned approached.
On one side of the channel stood the principal puntal, or fort,
called St. Lorenzo, which guarded the harbour’s mouth, and the
garrison of which had evidently been alarmed by the explosion of
the gun-boat, and were now on the alert. The other side was the
mainland, and presented a lee shore, lined with breakers, which
the sea, in its progress to the strand, covered with boiling
surf, whiter than snow. In order to avoid the cannon of the
fort, Hildebrand was obliged to steer straight for the breakers,
and (to use a nautical phrase) “hug” a shore that threatened
destruction. After a hasty survey of his position, he resolved
on this course without a moment’s hesitation. The breeze,
though fresh, was not violent, and he thought that, if the ship
were tacked on the instant he directed, they might weather the
breakers successfully. In this belief, he ordered every man to
his post, and directed that all things should be arranged, as
they progressed onward, to tack with promptitude.
All eyes were turned towards the fort as the ship entered the
narrow channel. The moon was now up, and the tall masts of the
cruizer, with every stitch of canvas expanded, and puffed out
with the wind, seemed to offer a good mark to the puntal’s guns.
The crew were not left long to conjecture whether those guns
would be brought to bear upon them. Directly they got fairly
into the channel, a bright flash, like a tongue of fire, shot
out from the nearest battery, and the ear shook under the boom
of cannon. The shot fell short of the ship, on its larboard bow;
but on the starboard, the lee shore, at less than a gun-shot
distance, seemed to menace her with instant destruction. Though
cannon after cannon was now discharged from the fort, every eye
turned involuntarily to the opposite shore, where the roar of the
breakers, and the thundering din of the surf, which shot into
the air in a thousand fountains, almost silenced the report of
the artillery. The stoutest heart quailed as the milky foam drew
nearer and nearer: lips that had never uttered the name of God,
from their childhood upward, except to profane it, convulsively
gasped to Him in prayer: eyes that had often looked down steadily
from the trembling topmast, through the rage and conflict of a
tempest, turned giddy before the prospect; and the most stubborn
bosoms were sensible of a thrill of dismay. They approached
closer and closer to the shore: it seemed impossible, when one
ventured to glance to leeward, that they could ever weather it,
even if they did not strike immediately. The stillness of death
was over the crew, when, just as destruction appeared inevitable,
the voice of Hildebrand rang through the ship.
“All hands, jibe ship!” he cried.
The wind thundered through the canvas; the “hoy, hoy” of the
sailors, pulling the halyards, pierced the ear like a fife; the
tall masts groaned again; and the rush of feet over the deck, the
hauling of ropes, the shrill whistle of the pulleys, the boom
of the cannon, and the hoarse roar of the breakers, all mingled
together, constituted a din too terrible to dwell upon.
For a brief space the fate of the anxious crew was uncertain. It
was an awful interval, though so brief, and the most resolute
hearts felt a thousand fears. The sails, right through the ship,
fore and aft, had been veered instantaneously; but for a moment
they backed to the wind. In this fearful juncture, all eyes were
turned towards the ship’s stern. The tall figure of Hildebrand,
towering over that of Tarpaulin, who was standing before him,
was there distinguished at the helm, and the hopes of the crew
revived as they saw their destiny in the hands of their commander.
The gallant ship answered her helm. After a short pause, the
canvas caught the breeze, and gradually bellied out. The ship
bore away from the breakers, and, in less than a quarter of an
hour, gained the clear water.
The change in her position brought her in front of the mainland
puntal, called Metagorda, which opened fire upon her directly.
Having passed the narrow channel, however, she was far out of its
range, and the shot fell harmlessly into the water. In a short
time she reached the mouth of the harbour, and a loud “hurrah”
from the crew, rising unbidden from every lip, announced all
danger to be past.