weighed her anchor and steamed seawards, and soon afterwards the coast
was out of sight, and the vessel was steaming placidly homewards through
a calm sea with no vessels in sight.
* * * * *
Nothing more remains to be said, except that in due course the ship
arrived in London, where the captain drew the money due to him for the
successful enterprise. Each member of the crew received a substantial
bonus, and Jim, to his surprise, was included in the award.
“Here you are, my boy,” said the skipper, as he handed him the money.
“You’ve been a good lad, and you deserve it. I’m chucking the sea now,
but if you are ever stranded, come to me.”
“Thank you, sir!” answered Jim, with tears of gratitude in his eyes; and
after saying good-bye to the mate and steward, he left the ship for
good. He could not help feeling a pang of regret, for in the short time
he had been on board he had grown fond of the ship and her officers; but
shouldering the bag containing his scanty belongings, he trudged
citywards.
The money he had received so unexpectedly enabled him to buy a
third-class passage to Australia, where in due time he joined his uncle.
He is now employed on a sheep farm, and is in a fair way to doing well
for himself, but he will never forget his one and only experience of
gun-running in the Mediterranean.
VIII
THE ESCAPE OF THE _SPEEDWELL_
“Gude marnin’ to ye, John Marsh,” croaked old Thomas Wiles, looking over
the side of the little wooden quay and watching the fisherman in the
boat busy with his lines.
“Marnin’, feyther!” replied Marsh cheerily, looking up at the old man
with a pleasant smile. “What d’ye make o’ th’ weather?”
“Middlin’ fine, me son,” answered the ancient, taking the pipe out of
his mouth and looking up at the sky. “Middlin’ fine. Sou’-westerly
breeze’ll hold. We’ll have a drap o’ rain, maybe, but nothin’ much, I’m
thinkin’.”
Wiles, aged eighty, was the oldest man in the village of Bembridge, in
the Isle of Wight, and being an old man-of-war’s man was generally
regarded as the local know-all on all matters nautical. The fishermen of
the place used to flock to the Barleycorn tavern to hear the words of
wisdom which fell from the old seaman’s lips, and though they did
sometimes laugh at him behind his back, and call him an old croaker, it
must be admitted that his prognostications regarding the weather usually
turned out to be correct, and that, more often than not, they took his
advice. He had served in the Navy “way back in th’ ’sixties,” as he
himself called it, and though it was now 1805, and he was firmly
convinced that “th’ Sarvice was gwine to th’ dawgs; nothin’ like ’twas
when I was in th’ ole _Andromeeda_,” he never tired of watching the
frigates and line-of-battle ships when they sometimes came to an anchor
in St. Helen’s Roads.
He watched Marsh for some minutes without speaking.
“Be ye gwine out this marnin’?” he inquired at length.
“Yes, feyther,” answered the fisherman with a nod. “Me an’ Tom here,” he
pointed to his fourteen-year-old son, who was hard at work baiting some
lines. “Me an’ Tom has our livin’ t’earn.”
The old wiseacre on the jetty shook his head in disapproval.
“Bean’t ye afeerd o’ bein’ copped by them Frenchies?” he asked. “Them
privateers wot got ole Tom Martin t’other day?”
“Afeerd, feyther,” laughed Marsh. “No, I bean’t afeerd, I reckon, but I
doan’t want to see th’ inside o’ one o’ them prisons. Lor’ bless me,
though, when I wus in the Sarvice along o’ Lard Nelson, we allus said
each man was wuth three on ’em froggies!” He spat over the side to show
his contempt.
Marsh himself had served in the Navy, but had retired some years before
to eke out a scanty livelihood by fishing, and though his profits were
not large, they had sufficed to keep his wife and two children. Tom, his
eldest son, had been used to his father’s boat for the last four years,
and always accompanied him on his expeditions to his favourite fishing
ground near the Owers shoal off Selsey Bill, and as the boy had made up
his mind to enter the Navy when he was old enough, there was no doubt
that his knowledge of boat work and his general acquaintance with the
sea would help him to become a prime seaman in His Majesty’s Fleet when
his turn came.
“Well, me son,” resumed Wiles after a lengthy silence. “Maybe ye ain’t
afeerd on ’em, but mark me words, ye’ll sing a diff’rent tune if they
cops ye an’ claps ye an’ Tom in one o’ them prisons. The grub’s crool
bad!” The old man shook his head knowingly, and stumped off up the jetty
on his way back to the Barleycorn.
There was no doubt about it that Marsh was running a grave risk, for it
was 1805, and war time, and the Channel swarmed with the enemy’s
privateers. The latter, as a general rule, were luggers varying in size
between fifty and seventy tons, and were used, in time of peace, as
fishing craft. Now, however, as war had taken away their legitimate
vocation, the owners of these _chasse-marées_ had converted them into
privateers by fitting them with small guns and manning them with large
crews armed to the teeth. They were extraordinarily fast, and would
swoop down on any defenceless vessels they came across, and carry them
off from under the very noses of the British frigates and sloops-of-war
stationed in the Channel. Even the merchant ships in the home-coming
convoys, protected though they were by men-of-war, were not safe from
capture, while the hostile luggers would often approach the English
coast in broad daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a
mile or two of the shore. The crews would be captured, the prizes
looted and burnt, and then the _chasse-marées_ would clap on all sail
and make off, trusting to their superior speed to escape. They generally
succeeded in doing so, in spite of the vigilance of the men-of-war, and
the consequence was many English fishermen found themselves in French
prisons, while many more, unwilling to face the risk of losing all they
possessed, were thrown out of employment and stayed ashore with
starvation staring them in the face. Marsh, however, had had good luck
up to date, and had never so much as sighted a privateer, and although
he fully realised the risk he was running in continuing his fishing, he
was not to be put off, in spite of old Wiles and his dismal warnings.
“Needs must where the devil drives,” and his occupation was the only
thing he could rely upon to keep his family and himself from absolute
penury.
Soon afterwards, therefore, the _Speedwell_ had slipped her moorings and
was sailing seawards with the fair south-westerly breeze. She was a
handy little cutter-rigged craft of about five tons, and carried a large
spread of canvas which gave her a good turn of speed in anything like a
wind, and by noon she had reached her destination. The sails were
furled, and the anchor dropped, and after the midday meal father and son
were soon busy fishing with lines.
The fish were biting well, and by the latter part of the afternoon the
little wooden tank amidships was all but filled with pollack, ling,
whiting, and many other varieties of fish.
“Are ye thinkin’ o’ goin’ back home this a’ternoon, Dad?” asked Tom,
rebaiting a hook and throwing it overboard.
“No, son, don’t think so,” answered the fisherman. “Fush is bitin’ so
well that I think we’d best put the lines out at sundown, an’ stay out
all night. We’ll up anchor an’ go back home to-morrow marnin’.”
Tom was not at all averse to the idea, for he had often undergone a
similar experience, and really, in spite of their narrowness, the
lockers in the cabin of the cutter were quite comfortable to sleep upon.
He rather liked the idea of cooking his own supper, too, and he was so
accustomed to the sea that the gentle rolling of the little ship did not
disturb him in the slightest.
The wind had been lulling all through the afternoon, and towards sunset
it died away completely. Soon afterwards the sun sank to rest in a blaze
of yellow and orange which predicted a breezy day for the morrow, while
the sea presented a glassy shining surface only disturbed by a gentle
swell rolling in from the south-westward. Overhead, in the darkening
blue of the sky, scattered bunches of mares’ tails hung motionless in
the still air, and sitting in the stern sucking at his pipe,
instinctively swaying his body in rhythm to the gentle movement of the
boat, Marsh looked up at them.
“There’s a fair capful o’ wind about yet,” he remarked pensively. “That
yaller on the ’orizon an’ them mares’ tails shows this calm won’t last.”
“Will it blow harder than it did to-day, Dad?” asked the boy.
“No,” returned the fisherman, shaking his head. “’Bout the same, I
reckon. Son,” he added, “ye’d best get th’ night lines laid now, afore
it’s dark. They’re ready in th’ tub forrard.”
The boy clambered into the dinghy made fast astern, and sculled off to
do the job. Twenty minutes saw the lines laid, and when Tom returned he
found his father had prepared their supper. After finishing the meal
they hoisted the light on the forestay, and then, as darkness had
fallen, retired to the cabin and were soon stretched out on the lockers
in the little den. No sounds broke the stillness of the night except the
gentle lapping of the water against the side. The cutter rolled a little
on the swell, but the movement did not disturb the slumber of her weary
inmates, and ten minutes later, tired out after their day’s work, they
were both fast asleep.
There was no such thing as a clock or watch on board the
_Speedwell_--timepieces in those days were expensive luxuries; but
Marsh, like most seamen, could wake himself at any hour he wanted to,
and at four o’clock the next morning he was on deck. The first gleams of
daylight were just appearing through a heavy mist which overhung the
surface of the water, but true to his prophecy of the night before the
breeze had again risen, and was gaining strength every minute.
“Rouse out, Tom!” he shouted, going to the hatch leading to the cabin
where the boy was still fast asleep. “Come up and give us a hand to get
th’ mains’l on her. When we’ve done that we’ll get th’ lines in, an’
start off home!”
“Coming, Dad!” answered the sleepy Tom, rolling off his narrow locker
and feeling about for his sea-boots, the only portion of his attire he
had discarded on turning in. Within a couple of minutes he had joined
his father above, and after some trouble, for it was still very dark,
they had hoisted the mainsail, which flapped in the ever-freshening
breeze.
“Come on, son,” said Marsh, when this operation was finished. “We’d best
weigh th’ lines now.”
He went aft to haul in the dinghy, but hardly had he taken a couple of
paces when Tom stopped dead. “Ssh!” he whispered, pointing out in the
mist on the port quarter.
“What ails ’e, son?” asked his father in a low undertone.
“Ssh!” hissed the lad, cocking his ear. “I heered somethin’ over there.”
“What wus it?” asked Marsh.
The answer was not long in coming, for hardly were the words out of his
mouth when the unmistakable creaking of blocks and the sound of
conversation broke the stillness of the morning.
They looked intently in the direction from which the noises came, but so
far nothing could be seen, but every instant the light was getting
stronger, and the mist was gradually dispersing as the breeze freshened.
The voices came nearer and nearer, and then the fisherman suddenly felt
his heart leap into his mouth.
“Tom, they’re Frenchies!” he gasped. “Hark to their chatterin’! They’ll
have heard this mains’l o’ our’n slattin’ in th’ wind!”
“What ’ud we best do, Dad?” queried the boy nervously, for he had never
seen an enemy at close quarters, and did not exactly relish the idea of
meeting one.
“Go down to th’ cabin, son,” ordered the father, “an’ get th’ axe. We’ll
have to cut the cable!”
“What about th’ lines?”
“Let ’em go,” said the man in an undertone, gazing anxiously through the
murk. “Go below an’ fetch th’ axe. Doan’t ’e make any noise, now!”
The boy did as he was told, and creeping down the ladder soon reappeared
with the weapon, which he handed to his father.
“Look ’e here, lad,” whispered Marsh. “Take th’ helm. I’m going forrard
to cut th’ cable. We’ll get th’ fores’l up after.”
Louder and louder became the sounds, and then a dark blurred shape began
to slide out of the mist. It was approaching fast, whatever it was, and
creeping forward the fisherman stood ready in the bows with his axe
poised.
Tom jammed the tiller over, and as the _Speedwell’s_ bows began to pay
off, his father brought the broad-bladed weapon down on the taut cable
with a crunch which completely severed it.
But it was too late, for they had been seen, and before the little craft
had gathered way the blurred outline of the mast astern had resolved
itself into the shape of one of the dreaded luggers, and at the same
instant a loud shout rang out from her direction. Marsh, having freed
the cutter, jumped to the fore halliards and hoisted the foresail, and
then clambered aft into the stern.
“She must ha’ seen us!” he remarked breathlessly, noticing that the
lugger had altered her course slightly.
“Must have,” replied Tom, feeling very anxious. “How fur off is she?”
“Not more’n a hundred yards,” said his father. “I doan’t think she’s
comin’ up, though,” he added.
The _Speedwell_, with her mainsail and foresail set, was apparently
holding her own, for the shadow behind her did not become more distinct.
Presently she was dashing along with her lee gunwale perilously near the
water’s edge, but the lugger did not seem to be gaining, and for a
moment Marsh thought he still had a chance of escaping.
Presently they ran out of the fog bank into clear daylight, for the sun
had now risen, but looking astern they soon saw the bowsprit and then
the black hull and three tanned lugsails of the _chasse-marée_ following
dead in their wake.
“I’m afeerd we’re collared this time, Tom!” exclaimed Marsh, as he
watched the lugger dashing along with the spray smoking over her weather
gunwale. “Yon’s a faster craft than our’n!”
He was right, for now the stranger was undoubtedly closing, and a few
seconds later a ruffianly-looking individual, clad in a blue jersey and
a long red cap, clambered forward on board the lugger and shouted
something in his own language. His words could not be heard on account
of the wind, but there was no mistaking his gestures. He was telling the
_Speedwell_ to heave to, or to take the consequences.
“Heave to be jiggered!” exclaimed Marsh indignantly, shaking his fist at
his pursuer. “I’m not a-goin’ to pipe down to a set o’ pirates like
that! Look e’ here, son, we must get th’ tops’l on her, it’ll give us a
bit more speed. Lord knows we’ll want it,” he added, with an
apprehensive glance astern.
No sooner said than done, and after a certain amount of difficulty, for
the breeze was fresh, they succeeded in getting the gaff topsail above
the mainsail. Feeling the extra canvas the cutter leapt through the
water faster than before, but they had lost ground during the manœuvre,
and the Frenchman was now barely fifty yards astern.
It could now be seen that she carried four small guns each side, while
crowded on her decks were over thirty armed men. Several of them were
clustered in the bows, and the morning sun could be seen glinting on the
barrels of muskets, and before long another man rose to his feet and
hailed, in broken English this time, for the _Speedwell_ to heave to and
surrender.
Marsh shook his fist in reply, but hardly had he done so when a ragged
volley of musketry broke out from the lugger. Some of the bullets came
perilously close, while one scored a long weal in the wood of the
bulwark close to which Tom was standing. He ducked involuntarily, a
thing which many a brave man has done the first time he has been under
fire.
“Lie down flat on th’ deck, me son,” said his father, with a smile on
his weather-beaten face. “There ain’t no call for ye to get exposin’
yerself.”
“All right, Dad,” said the boy. “But can’t we do anythin’ to go a bit
faster? She’s gainin’ on us!”
“I dunno,” answered Marsh. “P’raps if we cut away th’ boat astern it’ll
help us along a bit. Get th’ axe an’ cut her adrift!”
Tom cut the dinghy free, and as she was floating astern another volley
rang out from the lugger. This time the muskets had been better aimed,
for the bullets hummed through the air closer to the cutter’s deck, but
still no damage was done.
“I wish we had a musket or two to fire on th’ swabs!” growled Marsh.
But his wish was useless, for beyond the axe the cutter had no weapons
of any kind on board, and all the time the _chasse-marée_ drew closer
and closer. It was lucky she could not use her guns, for a discharge
from them would have blown the Englishman out of the water; but even as
it was, affairs were bad enough, for the lugger’s crew had opened up an
independent fire, and the range was so short that the flying missiles
were coming closer and closer every second.
They lay flat on the deck, where they were protected to some extent by
the low bulwarks; but though pursuer and pursued were both travelling
fast, the lugger was coming up hand over fist. Presently she was no more
than twenty yards astern, and as a sudden gust heeled the _Speedwell_
over Marsh rose to his knees to get a better purchase on the tiller. The
moment he did so more shots came from the lugger, and to Tom’s horror he
suddenly saw his father relinquish his hold on the helm and clap a hand
to his left shoulder.
“Dad! Dad!” he cried. “Have they hit ye?”
“Yes, th’ frog-eatin’ pirates!” groaned the fisherman, with the blood
trickling down his arm. “Lucky ’tis only through th’ shoulder. Take th’
tiller, son,” he added, grinding his teeth in pain.
Tom, crouching low, steered the boat as best he could while sheltering
himself from the flying bullets. He could do nothing to help his father,
who had sunk to the deck more or less unconscious from the pain of his
wound, for he had his work cut out in keeping the cutter on a steady
course. But all the time the _chasse-marée_ was drawing closer, and at
last, glancing astern, the boy saw her short bowsprit barely ten yards
off the _Speedwell’s_ quarter.
For a moment his heart failed him, for the lugger was sailing close to
the wind and evidently intended to run up on the cutter’s weather
quarter and then board, for several red-capped ruffians, armed with
cutlasses and pistols, were standing by her foremast, ready to jump the
moment the vessels touched.
Tom glanced at his father, undecided what to do, but then he was
suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, and putting all his weight on the
tiller jammed it hard down. The _Speedwell’s_ head flew round into the
wind with a rattling of ropes and a slapping of canvas, but though the
wrench when the heavy boom came over nearly carried away the mast, the
rigging held, and leaving the boat to steer herself for a minute, the
boy jumped forward to secure the fore sheet. Muskets and pistols were
fired at him, but he accomplished it in safety, and clambering aft again
took his place at the helm.
Putting about a cutter-rigged craft like the _Speedwell_ was an easy
manœuvre enough, but with the lugger, who had to lower and dip her three
lugsails every time she tacked it was by no means so simple. The
Frenchmen, moreover, were not expecting Tom’s jibe, and dashed on, with
her crew yelling with mad excitement.
Though the _Speedwell_ was now heading out to sea with her stern
pointing at the lugger’s broadside, the guns of the latter were not
fired. Probably they were not loaded, and lucky it was that they were
not.
Soon the boy heard the shouts and the slatting of canvas as the
_chasse-marée_ went about, but by the time she was in pursuit again the
handy little cutter had gained at least two hundred yards. Tom’s course,
however, was now carrying him out into the English Channel, while the
Isle of Wight, still shrouded in a pall of mist, was somewhere away on
his port quarter. He determined, nevertheless, to wait until his pursuer
should be close before attempting to go about again.
Presently the fisherman, noticing a change in the movement, opened his
eyes and looked up.
“What have ye done, lad?” he asked feebly.
Tom explained.
“Good lad!” exclaimed his father. “If ye keep on goin’ about every time
she comes alongside o’ us, p’raps we’ll weather her arter all. How fur
astarn is she now?”
“’Bout two hundred yards,” said the boy, with a glance over his
shoulder.
The lugger, however, was still gaining, and within twenty minutes was
close astern again. As before, she approached on the cutter’s weather
quarter, her men standing by ready to board, while occasional musket
shots whistled over Tom’s head.
Nearer and nearer she came, until Marsh, thinking his son was waiting
too long, raised himself on his uninjured arm.
“Now’s yer time, son!” he shouted, seeing the _chasse-marée’s_ bowsprit
getting nearer and nearer. “I’ll take the tiller, jump forrard an’ stan’
by th’ fore sheet.”
He reached out his uninjured hand and jammed the helm hard down, and
once more the _Speedwell_ came up head to wind with her canvas flapping
in the breeze. The lugger’s bowsprit was perilously close, almost
overlapping the cutter’s quarter, but Tom, who was just about to dash
forward to readjust the fore sheet, was suddenly seized with a brilliant
inspiration. He seized the axe and made a wild slash at the lashing
securing the lugger’s jib to the end of her bowsprit, now within easy
reach. It was done on the spur of the moment, but his eye was sure, and
the keen edge of his weapon bit through the tough rope.
The Frenchmen were instantly thrown into utter confusion. The jib, no
longer stayed forward, flew aft in a cloud of canvas and precipitated
two red-capped Frenchmen into the water, while the man at the helm,
seeing his companions struggling in the sea, relinquished his hold on
the wheel, and endeavoured to save them. The lugger promptly came up
into the wind with her sails thrashing against her masts; the air became
blue with “Sacrés!” and wild shouts of rage, and in spite of his danger
Tom could not help chuckling. It was fully ten minutes before order was
restored on board the foreigner, and by the time she had repaired her
damage, picked up her men, and was once more in chase of her nimble
quarry, the latter was over a mile ahead.
About half a mile beyond the _Speedwell_ was a bank of low-lying fog,
and Tom was looking at it and wondering whether or not it would hide him
from his pursuer, when he heard the sullen boom of a gun from the
southward. At first he could see nothing to account for it, but
presently
[Illustration: “He seized the axe and made a wild slash.”
_To face page 142_
]
he noticed the dim shape of a large ship emerging out of a pall of mist
about two miles away to port.
The lugger had seen the stranger, for she had altered her course and was
flying off to seaward. The big ship gradually sailed into view, and once
in the sunlight the boy saw from her towering canvas and black and
yellow chequered sides that she was a man-of-war.
“We’re saved!” he yelled excitedly, as a puff of smoke left the ship’s
side, and a round shot splashed into the water midway between her and
the _chasse-marée_.
“What’s that, son?” queried Marsh, sitting up. “What did yer sing out?”
“There’s a big ship firing at the Frenchie!” repeated the boy
delightedly.
The fisherman looked over the gunwale.
“Snakes!” he exclaimed an instant later. “Yon’s th’ _Amazon_. See the
White Ensun at her peak!”
The frigate fired again, but once more the shot pitched short, and from
the way the lugger was winging seaward it seemed that she was travelling
faster than the man-of-war, and that she would make good her escape
after all.
“Set yer royals! Set yer royals!” muttered Marsh, seeing that the
frigate was under top-gallant sails. “You won’t catch her else! Ah!” he
exclaimed an instant later, when, as if in answer to his suggestion,
three clouds of canvas descended simultaneously on the man-of-war’s
masts. “That’s better, capten!”
The light sails were sheeted home and hoisted, but even with their
assistance the frigate was no match for her nimble quarry.
“There she goes again!” sang out Tom, as another tongue of red flame and
a cloud of white smoke leapt out from the man-of-war’s side. “Hurrah!”
he yelled, waving his hat in his excitement. “That’s done it!”