A few days after the adventure detailed in our last chapter, the
American party, consisting of Major and Miss Montgomerie, and the
daughters of the Governor, with their attendants, embarked in the
schooner, to the command of which Gerald had been promoted. The
destination of the whole was the American port of Buffalo, situate at
the further extremity of the lake, nearly opposite to the fort of Erie;
and thither our hero, perfectly recovered from the effects of his
accident, received instructions to repair without loss of time, land his
charge, and immediately rejoin the flotilla at Amherstburg.
However pleasing the first, the latter part of the order was by no means
so strictly in consonance with the views and feelings of the new
commander, as might have been expected from a young and enterprising
spirit; but he justified his absence of zeal to himself, in the fact
that there was no positive service to perform; no duty in which he could
have an opportunity of signalizing himself, or rendering a benefit to
his country.
If, however, the limited period allotted for the execution of his duty
was a source of much disappointment to Gerald, such was not the effect
produced by it on his brother, to whom it gave promise of a speedy
termination of an attachment which he had all along regarded with
disapprobation, and a concern amounting almost to dread. We have seen
that Henry Grantham, on the occasion of his brother's disaster at the
pic-nic, had been wound up into an enthusiasm of gratitude, which had
nearly weaned him from his original aversion; but this feeling had not
outlived the day on which the occurrence took place. Nay, on the very
next morning, he had had a long private conversation with Gerald in
regard to Miss Montgomerie, which, ending as it did, in a partial
coolness, had tended to make him dislike the person who had caused it
still more. It was, therefore, not without secret delight that he
overheard the order for the instant return of the schooner, which,
although conveyed by the Commodore in the mildest manner, was yet so
firm and decided as to admit neither of doubt nor dispute. While the
dangerous American continued a resident at Detroit, there was every
reason to fear that the attachment of his infatuated brother, fed by
opportunity, would lead him to the commission of some irrevocable act of
imprudence; whereas, on the contrary, when she had departed, there was
every probability that continued absence, added to the stirring
incidents of war which might be expected shortly to ensue, would prove
effectual in restoring the tone of Gerald's mind. There was,
consequently, much to please him in the order for departure. Miss
Montgomerie once landed within the American lines, and his brother
returned to his duty, the anxious soldier had no doubt that the feelings
of the latter would resume their wonted channel and that, in his desire
to render himself worthy of glory, to whom he had been originally
devoted, he would forget, at least after a season, all that was
connected with love.
It was a beautiful autumnal morning when the schooner weighed anchor
from Detroit. Several of the officers of the garrison had accompanied
the ladies on board, and having made fast their sailing boat to the
stern, loitered on deck with the intention of descending the river a few
miles, and then beating up against the current. The whole party were
thus assembled, conversing together and watching the movements of the
sailors, when a boat, in which were several armed men encircling a huge,
raw-boned individual, habited in the fashion of an American
backwoodsman, approached the vessel. This was no other than the traitor
Desborough, who, it will be recollected, was detained and confined in
prison at the surrender of Detroit. He had been put upon his trial for
the murder of Major Grantham, but had been acquitted through want of
evidence to convict, his own original admission being negatived by a
subsequent declaration that he had only made it through a spirit of
bravado and revenge. Still, as the charges of desertion and treason had
been substantiated against him, he was, by order of the commandant of
Amherstburgh, destined for Fort Erie, in the schooner conveying the
American party to Buffalo, with a view to his being sent on to the Lower
Province, there to be disposed of as the General Commanding in Chief
should deem fit.
The mien of the settler, as he now stepped over the vessel's side,
partook of the mingled cunning and ferocity by which he had formerly
been distinguished. While preparations were being made for his reception
and security below deck, he bent his sinister yet bold glance on each of
the little group in succession, as if he would have read in their
countenances the probable fate that awaited himself. The last who fell
under his scrutiny was Miss Montgomerie, on whom his eye had scarcely
rested when the insolent indifference of his manner seemed to give place
at once to a new feeling. There was intelligence enough in the glance of
both to show that an insensible interest had been created, and yet
neither gave the slightest indication by word of what was passing in the
mind.
"Well, Mister Jeremiah Desborough," said Middlemore, first breaking the
silence, and in the taunting mode of address he usually adopted towards
the settler, "I reckon as how you'll shoot no wild ducks this season, on
the Sandusky river--not likely to be much troubled with your small bores
now."
The ruffian gazed at him a moment in silence, evidently ransacking his
brain for something sufficiently insolent to offer in return. At length
he drew his hat slouchingly over one side of his head, folded his arms
across his chest, and squirting a torrent of tobacco juice from his
capacious jaws, exclaimed in his drawling voice:
"I guess, Mister Officer, as how you're mighty cute upon a fallen
man--but tarnation seize me if I don't expect you'll find some one cuter
still afore long. The sogers all say," he continued, with a low cunning
laugh, "as how you're a bit of a wit, and fond of a play upon words
like. If so, I'll jist try you a little at your own game, and tell you
that I had a thousand to one rather be troubled with my small bores,
than with such a confounded great bore as you are; and now, you may pit
that down as something good in your pun book when you please, and ax me
no more questions."
Long and fitful was the laughter which burst from Villiers and Molineux
at this bitter retort upon their companion, which they vowed should be
repeated at the mess-table of either garrison, whenever he again
attempted one of his execrables.
Desborough took courage at the license conveyed by this pleasantry, and
pursued, winking familiarly to Captain Molineux, while he, at the same
time, nodded to Middlemore.
"Mighty little time, I calculate, had he to think of aggravatin', when I
gripped him down at Hartley's pint that day. If it hadn't been for that
old heathen scoundrel, Girtie, my poor boy Phil, as the Injuns killed,
and me, I reckon, would have sent him and young Grantham to crack their
puns upon the fishes of the lake. How scared they were, sure_ly_."
"Silence, fellow!" thundered Gerald Grantham, who now came up from the
hold, whither he had been to examine the fastenings prepared for his
prisoner. "How dare you open your lips here?"--then pointing towards the
steps he had just quitted--"descend, sir!"
Never did human countenance exhibit marks of greater rage than
Desborough's at that moment. His eyes seemed about to start from their
sockets--the large veins of his neck and brow swelled almost to
bursting, and while his lips were compressed with violence, his nervous
fingers played, as with convulsive anxiety to clutch themselves around
the throat of the officer--every thing, in short, marked the effort it
cost him to restrain himself within such bounds as his natural cunning
and prudence dictated. Still, he neither spoke nor moved.
"Descend, sir, instantly!" repeated Gerald, "or, by Heaven, I will have
you thrown in without further ceremony--descend this moment!"
The settler advanced, placed one foot upon the ladder, then turned his
eye steadfastly upon the officer. Every one present shuddered to behold
its expression--it was that of fierce, inextinguishable hatred.
"By hell, you will pay me one day or t'other for this, I reckon," he
uttered in a hoarse and fearful whisper--"every dog has his day--it will
be Jeremiah Desborough's turn next."
"What! do you presume to threaten, villain?" vociferated Gerald, now
excited beyond all bounds: "here, men, gag me this fellow--tie him neck
and heels, and throw him into the hold, as you would a bag of ballast."
Several men, with Sambo at their head, advanced for the purpose of
executing the command of their officer, when the eldest daughter of the
Governor, who had witnessed the whole scene, suddenly approached the
latter, and interceded warmly for a repeal of the punishment. Miss
Montgomerie also, who had been a silent observer, glanced significantly
towards the settler. What her look implied no one was quick enough to
detect; but its effect on the culprit was evident--for, without uttering
another syllable, or waiting to be again directed, he moved slowly and
sullenly down the steps that led to his place of confinement.
Whatever the impressions produced upon the minds of the several
spectators by this incident, they were not expressed. No comment was
made, nor was further allusion made to the settler. Other topics of
conversation were introduced, and it was not until the officers, having
bid them a final and cordial adieu, had again taken to their boats on
their way back to Detroit, that the ladies quitted the deck for the
cabin which had been prepared for them.
The short voyage down the lake was performed without incident. From the
moment of the departure of the officers, an air of dulness and
abstraction, originating in a great degree in the unpleasantness of
separation--anticipated and past--pervaded the little party. Sensitive
and amiable as were the daughters of the American Governor, it was not
to be supposed that they parted without regret from men in whose society
they had recently passed so many agreeable hours, and for two of whom
they had insensibly formed preferences. Not however that that parting
was to be considered final, for both Molineux and Villiers had promised
to avail themselves of the first days of peace, to procure leave of
absence, and revisit them in their native country. The feeling of
disappointment acknowledged by the sisters, was much more perceptible in
Gerald Grantham and Miss Montgomerie, both of whom became more
thoughtful and abstracted as the period of separation drew nearer.
It was about ten o'clock on the evening immediately preceding that on
which they expected to gain their destination, that, as Gerald leaned
ruminating over the side of the schooner, then going at the slow rate of
two knots an hour, he fancied he heard voices, in a subdued tone,
ascending apparently from the quarter of the vessel in which Desborough
was confined. He listened attentively for a few moments, but even the
slight gurgling of the water, as it was thrown from the prow, prevented
further recognition. Deeming it possible that the sounds might not
proceed from the place of confinement of the settler, but from the
cabin, which it adjoined, and with which it communicated, he was for a
time undecided whether or not he should disturb the party already
retired to rest by descending and passing into the room occupied by his
prisoner. Anxiety to satisfy himself that the latter was secure,
determined him, and he had already planted a foot on the
companion-ladder, when his further descent was arrested by Miss
Montgomerie, who appeared emerging from the opening, bonneted and
cloaked, as with a view of continuing on deck.
"What! you, dearest Matilda?" he asked, delightedly, "I thought you had
long since retired to rest."
"To rest, Gerald!--can you, then, imagine mine is a soul to slumber,
when I know that to-morrow we part--perhaps for ever?"
"No, by Heaven, not for ever!" energetically returned the sailor,
seizing and carrying the white hand that pressed his own to his
lips--"be but faithful to me, my own Matilda--love me but with one half
the ardor with which my soul glows for you, and the moment duty can be
sacrificed to affection, you may expect again to see me."
"Duty!" repeated the American, with something like reproach in her tone,
"must the happiness of her you profess so ardently to love, be
sacrificed to a mere cold sense of duty? But you are right--you have
_your_ duty to perform, and I have _mine_. To-morrow we separate, and
for ever!"
"No, Matilda--not for ever, unless, indeed, such be your determination.
_You_ may find the task to forget an easy one--_I_ never can.
Hope--heart--life--happiness---all are centered in you. Were it not that
honor demands my service to my country, I would fly with you to-morrow,
delighted to encounter every difficulty fortune might oppose, if, by
successfully combating these, I should establish a deeper claim on your
affection. Oh, Matilda!" continued the impassioned youth, "never did I
feel more than at this moment, how devotedly I could be your slave for
ever."
At the commencement of this conversation, Miss Montgomerie had gently
led her lover towards the outer gangway of the vessel, over which they
both now leaned. As Gerald made the last passionate avowal of his
tenderness, a ray of triumphant expression, clearly visible in the light
of the setting moon, passed over the features of the American.
"Gerald," she implored earnestly, "oh, repeat me that avowal! Again tell
me that you will be the devoted of your Matilda in _all_ things--Gerald,
swear most solemnly that you will--my every hope of happiness depends
upon it."
How could he refuse, to such a pleader, the repetition of his
spontaneous vow? Already were his lips opened to swear, before High
Heaven, that, in all things earthly he would obey her will, when he was
interrupted by a well-known voice hastily exclaiming:
"Who a debbel dat dare?"
Scarcely had these words been uttered, when they were followed
apparently by a blow, then a bound, and then the falling of a human body
upon the deck. Gently disengaging his companion, who had clung to him
with an air of alarm, Gerald turned to discover the cause of the
interruption. To his surprise, he beheld Sambo, whose post of duty was
at the helm, lying extended on the deck, while at the same moment a
sudden plunge was heard, as of a heavy body falling overboard. The first
impulse of the officer was to seize the helm, with a view to right the
vessel, already swerving from her course, the second, to awaken the
crew, who were buried in sleep on the forecastle. These, with the
habitual promptitude of their nature, speedily obeyed his call, and a
light being brought, Gerald, confiding the helm to one of his best men,
proceeded to examine the condition of Sambo.
It was evident that the aged negro had been stunned, but whether
seriously injured it was impossible to decide. No external wound was
visible, and yet his breathing was that of one who had received some
severe bodily harm. In a few minutes, however, he recovered his
recollection, and the first words he uttered, as he gazed wildly around,
and addressed his master, were sufficient to explain the whole affair:
"Damn him debbel, Massa Geral, he get safe off, him billain."
"Ha, Desborough! it is then so? Quick, put the helm about--two of the
lightest and most active into my canoe, and follow in pursuit. The
fellow is making for the shore, no doubt. Now then, my lads," as two of
the crew sprang into the canoe that had been instantly lowered, "fifty
dollars between you, recollect, if you bring him back."
Although there needed no greater spur to exertion, than a desire both to
please their officer and to acquit themselves of a duty, the sum offered
was not without its due weight. In an instant the canoe was seen
scudding along the surface of the water towards the shore, and at
intervals, as the anxious Gerald listened, he fancied he could
distinguish the exertions of the fugitive swimmer from those made by the
paddles of his pursuers. For a time all was silent, when, at length, a
deriding laugh came over the surface of the lake, that too plainly told
the settler had reached the shore, and was beyond all chance of capture.
In the bitterness of his disappointment, and heedless of the pleasure
his change of purpose had procured him, Gerald could not help cursing
his folly, in having suffered himself to be diverted from his original
intention of descending to the prisoner's place of confinement. Had this
been done, all might have been well. He had now no doubt that the voices
had proceeded from thence, and he was resolved, as soon as the absent
men came on board, to institute a strict inquiry into the affair.
No sooner, therefore, had the canoe returned, than all hands were
summoned and questioned, under a threat of severe punishment to whoever
should be found prevaricating as to the manner of the prisoner's escape.
Each positively denied having in any way violated the order which
enjoined that no communication should take place between the prisoner
and the crew, to whom indeed all access was denied, with the exception
of Sambo, entrusted with the duty of carrying the former his meals. The
denial of the men was so straight-forward and clear, that Gerald knew
not what to believe; and yet it was evident that the sounds he had heard
proceeded from human voices. Determined to satisfy himself, his first
care was to descend between the decks, preceded by his boatswain, with a
lantern. At the sternmost extremity of the little vessel there was a
small room used for stores, but which, empty on this trip, had been
converted into a cell for Desborough. This was usually entered from the
cabin; but in order to avoid inconvenience to the ladies, a door had
been effected in the bulk-heads, the key of which was kept by Sambo. On
inspection, this door was found hermetically closed, so that it became
evident, if the key had not been purloined from its keeper, the escape
of Desborough must have been accomplished through the cabin. Moreover,
there was no opening of any description to be found, through which a
knife might be passed to enable him to sever the bonds which confined
his feet. Close to the partition were swung the hammocks of two men, who
had been somewhat dilatory in obeying the summons on deck, and between
whom it was not impossible the conversation, which Gerald had detected,
had been carried on. On re-ascending, he again questioned these men; but
they most solemnly assured him they had not spoken either together or to
others within the last two hours, having fallen fast asleep on being
relieved from their watch. Search was now made in the pockets of Sambo,
whose injury had been found to be a violent blow given on the back of
the head, and whose recovery from stupefaction was yet imperfect. The
key being found, all suspicion of participation was removed from the
crew, who could have only communicated from their own quarter of the
vessel, and they were accordingly dismissed; one half, comprising the
first watch, to their hammocks--the remainder to their original station
on the forecastle.
The next care of the young Commander was to inspect the cabin, and
institute a strict scrutiny as to the manner in which the escape had
been effected. The door that opened into the prison, stood between the
companion ladder and the recess occupied by the daughters of the
Governor. To his surprise, Gerald found it locked, and the key that
usually remained in a niche near the door, removed. On turning to search
for it, he also noticed, for the first time, that the lamp, suspended
from a beam in the centre of the cabin, had been extinguished. Struck by
these remarkable circumstances, a suspicion, which he would have given
much not to have entertained, forced itself upon his mind. As a first
measure, and that there might be no doubt whatever on the subject, he
broke open the door. Of course it was untenanted. Upon a small table lay
the remains of the settler's last meal, but neither knife nor fork,
both which articles had been interdicted, were to be found. At the foot
of the chair on which he had evidently been seated for the purpose of
freeing himself, lay the heavy cords that had bound his ankles. These
had been severed in two places, and, as was discovered on close
examination, by the application of some sharp and delicate cutting
instrument. Nowhere, however, was this visible. It was evident to Gerald
that assistance had been afforded from some one within the cabin, and
who that some one was, he scarcely doubted. With this impression, fully
formed, he re-entered from the prison, and standing near the curtained
berth occupied by the daughters of the Governor, questioned as to
whether they were aware that his prisoner Desborough had escaped. Both
expressed surprise in so natural a manner, that Gerald knew not what to
think; but when they added that they had not heard the slightest
noise--nor had spoken themselves, nor heard others speak, professing
moreover ignorance that the lamp even had been extinguished, he felt
suspicion converted into certainty.
It was impossible, he conceived, that a door which stood only two paces
from the bed could be locked and unlocked without their hearing
it--neither was it probable that Desborough would have thought of thus
needlessly securing the place of his late detention. Such an idea might
occur to the aider, but not to the fugitive himself, to whom every
moment must be of the highest importance. Who then could have assisted
him? Not Major Montgomerie, for he slept in the after part of the
cabin--not Miss Montgomerie, for she was upon deck--moreover, had not
one of these, he had so much reason to suspect, interceded for the
fellow only on the preceding day.
Such was the reasoning of Gerald, as he passed rapidly in review the
several probabilities--but, although annoyed beyond measure at the
escape of the villain, and incapable of believing other than that the
daughters of the Governor had connived at it, his was too gallant by
nature to make such a charge, even by implication, against them.
Although extremely angry, he made no comment whatever on the subject,
but contenting himself with wishing his charge a less than usually
cordial good night, left them to their repose, and once more quitted the
cabin.
During the whole of this examination, Miss Montgomerie had continued on
deck. Gerald found her leaning over the gangway at which he had left
her, gazing intently on the water, through which the schooner was now
gliding at an increased rate. From the moment of his being compelled to
quit her side to inquire into the cause of Sambo's exclamation and
rapidly succeeding fall, he had not had an opportunity of again
approaching her. Feeling that some apology was due, he hastened to make
one; but, vexed and irritated as he was at the escape of the settler,
his disappointment imparted to his manner a degree of restraint, and
there was less of ardor in his address than he had latterly been in the
habit of exhibiting. Miss Montgomerie remarked it, and sighed.
"I have been reflecting," she said, "on the little dependence that is to
be placed upon the most flattering illusions of human existence--and
here are you come to afford me a painful and veritable illustration of
my theory."
"How, dearest Matilda! what mean you?" asked the officer, again warmed
into tenderness by the presence of the fascinating being.
"Can you ask, Gerald?" and her voice assumed a tone of melancholy
reproach--"recall but your manner--your language--your devotedness of
soul not an hour since--compare these with your present coolness, and
then wonder that I should have reason for regret."
"Now, Matilda, that coldness arose not from any change in my feelings
towards yourself--I was piqued, disappointed, even angry, at the
extraordinary escape of my prisoner, and could not sufficiently play the
hypocrite to disguise my annoyance."
"Yet, what had I to do with the man's escape that his offence should be
visited upon me?" she demanded quickly.
"Can you not find some excuse for my vexation, knowing, as you do, that
the wretch was a vile assassin--a man whose hands have been imbrued in
the blood of my own father?"
"Was he not acquitted of the charge?"
"He was--but only from lack of evidence to convict; yet, although
acquitted by the law, not surer is fate than that he is an assassin."
"You hold assassins in great horror," remarked the American
thoughtfully, "you are right--it is but natural."
"In horror, said you?--aye, in such loathing that language can supply no
term to express it."
"And yet you once attempted an assassination yourself. Nay do not start,
and look the image of astonishment. Have you not told me that you fired
into the hut, on the night of your mysterious adventure? What right had
you, if we argue the question on its real merit, to attempt the life of
a being who had never injured you?"
"What right, Matilda?--every right, human and divine. I sought but to
save a victim from the hands of a midnight murderer."
"And, to effect this, scrupled not to become a midnight murderer
yourself?"
"And is it thus you interpret my conduct, Matilda?"--the voice of Gerald
spoke bitter reproach--"can you compare the act of that man with mine,
and hold me no more blameless than him?"
"Nay, I did not say I blamed you," she returned, gaily, "but the fact
is, you had left me so long to ruminate here alone, that I have fallen
into a mood argumentative, or philosophical--whichsoever you may be
pleased to term it--and I am willing to maintain my proposition, that
you might by possibility have been more guilty than the culprit at whom
you aimed, had your shot destroyed him."
The light tone in which Matilda spoke dispelled the seriousness which
had begun to shadow the brow of the young commander. "And pray how do
you make this good?" he asked.
"Suppose, for instance, the slumberer you preserved had been a being of
crime, through whom the hopes, the happiness, the peace of mind, and
above all, the fair fame of the other, had been cruelly and irrevocably
blasted. Let us imagine that he had destroyed some dear friend or
relative of him with whose vengeance you beheld him threatened."
"Could that be----"
"Or," interrupted the American in the same careless tone, "that he had
betrayed a wife."
"Such a man----"
"Or, what is worse, infinitely worse, sought to put the finishing stroke
to his villainy, by affixing to the name and conduct of his victim
every ignominy and disgrace which can attach to insulted humanity."
"Matilda," eagerly exclaimed the youth, advancing close to her, and
gazing into her dark eyes, "you are drawing a picture."
"No, Gerald," she replied calmly, "I am merely supposing a case. Could
you find no excuse for a man acting under a sense of so much
injury?--would you still call him an assassin, if, with such
provocation, he sought to destroy the hated life of one who had thus
injured him?"
Gerald paused, apparently bewildered.
"Tell me, dearest Gerald," and her fair and beautiful hand caught and
pressed his--"would you still bestow upon one so injured the degrading
epithet of assassin?"
"Assassin? most undoubtedly I would. But why this question, Matilda?"
The features of the American assumed a changed expression; she dropped
the hand she had taken the instant before, and said, disappointedly:
"I find, then, my philosophy is totally at fault."
"Wherein, Matilda?" anxiously asked Gerald.
"In this, that I have not been able to make you a convert to my
opinions."
"And these are--?" again questioned Gerald, his every pulse throbbing
with intense emotion.
"Not to pronounce too harshly on the conduct of others, seeing that we
ourselves may stand in much need of lenity of judgment. There might have
existed motives for the action of him whom you designate as an assassin,
quite as powerful as those which led to _your_ interference, and quite
as easily justified to himself."
"But, dearest Matilda-----"
"Nay. I have done--I close at once my argument and my philosophy. The
humor is past, and I shall no longer attempt to make the worse appear
the better cause. I dare say you thought me in earnest," she added, with
slight sarcasm, "but a philosophical disquisition between two lovers on
the eve of parting for ever, was too novel and piquant a seduction to be
resisted."
That "parting for ever" was sufficient to drive all philosophy utterly
away from our hero.
"For ever, did you say, Matilda?--no, not for ever; yet, how coldly do
you allude to a separation which, although I trust it will be only
temporary, is to me a source of the deepest vexation. You did not
manifest this indifference in the early part of our conversation this
evening."
"And if there be a change," emphatically yet tenderly returned the
beautiful American, "am _I_ the only one changed? Is your manner _now_
what it was _then_? Do you already forget at _what_ a moment that
conversation was interrupted?"
Gerald did not forget; and again, as they leaned over the vessel's side,
his arm was passed around the waist of his companion.
The hour, the scene, the very rippling of the water--all contributed
to lend a character of excitement to the feelings of the youth. Filled
with tenderness and admiration for the fascinating being who reposed
thus confidingly on his shoulder, he scarcely dared to move, lest in so
doing he should destroy the fabric of his happiness.
"First watch there, hilloa! rouse up, and be d----d to you, it's two
o'clock."
Both Gerald and Matilda, although long and silently watching the
progress of the vessel, had forgotten there was any such being as a
steersman to direct her.
"Good Heaven! can it be so late?" whispered the American, gliding from
her lover; "if my uncle be awake, he will certainly chide me for my
imprudence. Good night, dear Gerald," and drawing her cloak more closely
around her shoulders, she quickly crossed the deck, and descended to the
cabin.
"What the devil's this?" said the relieving steersman, as, rubbing his
heavy eyes with one hand, he stooped and raised with the other something
from the deck, against which he had kicked in his advance to take the
helm--"why, I'm blest if it arn't the apron off old Sally here. Have you
been fingering Sally's apron, Bill?"
"Not I, faith!" growled the party addressed. "I've enough to do to steer
the craft, without thinking o' meddling with Sall's apron at this time
o' night."
"I should like to know who it is that has hexposed the old gal to the
night hair in this here manner," still muttered the other, holding up
the object in question to his closer scrutiny; "it was only this morning
I gave her a pair of bran new apron strings, and helped to dress her
myself. If she doesn't hang fire after this, I'm a Dutchman--that's
all."
"What signifies jawing, Tom Fluke? I suppose she got unkivered in the
scurry after the Yankee; but bear a hand, and kiver her, unless you wish
a fellow to stay here all night."
Old Sal, our hearers must know, was no other than the long twenty-four
pounder formerly belonging to Gerald's gun-boat, which, now removed to
his new command, lay amid-ships, and mounted on a pivot, constituted the
whole battery of the schooner. The apron was the leaden covering
protecting the touch-hole, which, having unaccountably fallen off, had
encountered the heavy foot of Tom Fluke, in his advance along the deck.
The apron was at length replaced. Tom Fluke took the helm, and his
companion departed, as he said, to have a comfortable snooze.
Gerald, who had been an amused listener of the preceding dialogue, soon
followed, first inquiring into the condition of his faithful Sambo, who,
on examination, was found to have been stunned by the violence of the
blow he had received. This, Gerald doubted not, had been given with the
view of better facilitating Desborough's escape, by throwing the
schooner out of her course, and occasioning a consequent confusion among
the crew, which might have the effect of distracting their attention for
a time from himself.