I.

All day long the _Indiana_, Tom de Wolfs island trading brig, had tried

to make Tucopia Island, an isolated spot between Vanikoro and the New

Hebrides, but the strong westerly current was too much for her with such

a failing breeze; and Packenham, the skipper, had agreed with Denison,

his supercargo, to let Tucopia “slide” till the brig was coming south

again from the Marshalls.

“Poor old Oxley won't like seeing us keep away,” said Denison. “I

promised him that we would be sure to give him a call this time on our

way up. Poor old chap! I wish we could send him a case of grog ashore to

cheer him up. But a thirty miles' pull dead to windward and against

such a current is rather too much of a job even for a boat's crew of

natives.”

But about midnight the breeze freshened from the eastward, and by

daylight the smooth, shapely cone of the green little island stood

up clear and sharply defined from its surrounding narrow belt of

palm-covered shore in a sunlit sea of sparkling blue, and Denison told

the captain to get the boat ready.

“Ten miles or so isn't much--we can sail there and back in the boat.”

Tucopia was a long way out of the _Indiana's_, usual cruising ground;

but a year or so before a French barque had gone ashore there, and

Denison had bought the wreck from her captain on behalf of Mr. Tom De

Wolf. And as he had no white man on board to spare, he had handed his

purchase over to the care of Oxley, the one European on the island.

“Strip her, Jack, and then set a light to her hull--there's a lot of

good metal bolts in it. You shall have half of whatever we get out of

the sale of her gear.”

And so old Jack Oxley, who had settled on Tucopia because forty-five

years before he had married a Tucopian girl, when he was a wandering

boat-steerer in the colonial whaling fleet, and was now too shaky to go

to sea, shook Denison's hand gratefully, and was well satisfied at the

prospect of making a few hundred pounds so easily.

A quiet, blue-eyed, white-haired, stooping old man with a soft voice and

pleasant smile, he had bade Denison goodbye and said with his tremulous

laugh, “Don't be surprised if when you come back you find my old hull

has broken up before that of the wreck. Eighty-seven is a good age, Mr.

Denison. However, I'll take things easy. I'll let some of my boys” (his

“boys” were sons of over forty years of age) “do all the bullocking{*}

part of the work.”

* A colonial expression denoting heavy labour--i.e., to work

like bullocks in a team.

*****

When Denison reached the landing-place he was met by a number of the old

whaler's whitey-brown descendants, who told him that Jack was dead--had

died three months ago, they said. And there was a letter for the

supercargo and captain, they added, which the old man had written when

he knew he was dying. Denison took the letter and read it at once.

“Dear Mr. Denison,--Tom and Sam will give you all

particulars about the gear and metal from the wreck.... You

asked me one day if I would write you something about the

privateer I sailed in, and some of the fights in which I was

engaged. You and Captain Packenham might like to read it

some day when time hangs heavy. Sam will give you the

yarn.... Goodbye. I fear we shall not meet again.--Yours

very truly, John Oxley.”

A few days later, as the _Indiana_ was sailing northward from Tucopia,

Denison took out old Oxley's yarn. It was written in a round schoolboy

hand on the blank pages of a venerable account-book.

*****

“Old as I am now I have never forgotten the exultant feeling that filled

my bosom one dull gray morning in February, 1805, when I, John Oxley,

put my weak hands to the capstan bars to help weigh anchor on board the

_Port-au-Prince_ at Gravesend, and the strange, wild thrill that tingled

my boyish blood at the rough, merry chorus of the seamen while the

anchor came underfoot and the hands sprang aloft to make sail. For I

was country-born and country-bred, and though even in our little town of

Aylesbury, where my father was a farmer, we were used to hearing tales

of the sea and to the sight of those who had fought the king's battles

by land and sea, I had never until that morning caught sight of the

ocean.

“Two weeks before I, foolish lad that I was, had been enticed by two

village comrades into a poaching venture, and although I took no actual

part therein--being only stationed as a watch on the outskirts of

Colstone Wood--I was seized by two of Sir John Latham's keepers and

taken away to the county gaol. I will not here attempt to describe the

days of misery and shame that followed, and the grief and anguish of my

parents; for although Sir John and the other county magistrates before

whom I was brought believed my tale when I weepingly told them that I

had no intention of poaching (and, indeed, I did not actually know that

my two companions were bent upon so dangerous an enterprise) and my

punishment was but light, yet the disgrace was too much for me to bear.

So ere the sting of the whipping I received had died away I had made up

my mind to run away to London and get some honest employment, and trust

to time for my father's forgiveness. My sister Judith--Heaven bless her

loving heart--to whom alone I made known my purpose, sought with tender

words and endearing caresses to overcome my resolution; but, finding her

pleading was of no avail, she made heart to dry her tears, and, giving

me half a guinea, which a month before had been given to her by Lady

Latham, she folded me in her arms, and, kissing me a last goodbye, as I

stood with her at midnight behind my father's barn, bade me God speed.

“'Goodbye, John,' she whispered, ''twill surely break mother's heart, I

fear, when she knows you have gone.'

“So, whispering back a promise that I would find some one in London

to write to her for me and tell her how I fared, I gently took poor

Judith's loving arms from around my neck, and ran as hard as I could

across the field into the high road; for every moment my courage was

failing me, and when I reached a hedge and lay down to rest awhile, my

mother's face rose before me, and I thought I heard her tender voice

crying, 'My boy, my boy! Has he gone without a last kiss from me?' Twice

did I rise up with tears running down my cheeks and resolve to go back

and at least receive her farewell kiss and blessing, but my boyish pride

came to my aid, and with a choking sob I lay down again and waited for

the morning.

“It took me some days to reach London, for it is a long journey from

Aylesbury, and then for nearly a week I endured much hardship and

misery, for my starved and dejected appearance was such that no

one would give me employment of any sort, and my half-guinea became

exhausted in buying food. But weak and wretched as I was, my courage to

go on in the course I had taken was still unshaken; and, although it

was a bitter winter, and I all but perished with the cold, I managed to

always obtain some sort of shelter at night-time.

“I do not know, even now, in what part of London those my first

wanderings led me; but at last, one morning, weak, footsore, and faint

from hunger I came in sight of the shipping on the Thames, and for the

moment forgot my woes in the strangeness of the sight. Seating myself

on a great log of mahogany that some strange-looking, black-whiskered

seaman had just rolled up from a ship lying in the dock, I remained

gazing in a sort of dulled amazement at the bustle and, to my mind,

confusion that seemed to prevail around me.

“For nearly half an hour I remained thus watching the hurrying to and

fro of those about me; for there was an Indiaman just about to leave the

dock, and many hundreds of people had come down to bid farewell to those

on board, among whom were about a hundred or so of soldiers. Hungry and

weary as I felt, the sight of these soldiers, and the inspiriting sounds

of drum and fife music played upon the quarter-deck of the Indiaman,

made me stand upon the log so that I might obtain a better view. Just

then I heard a voice beside me exclaim--

“'Well, my lad, I suppose you would like to be one of them, with a red

coat on your back and a musket on your shoulder, eh?'

“The suddenness of the address nearly caused me to fall off the log,

and the speaker put out his hand to save me. He was an old, white-haired

gentleman of between sixty and seventy, and kindness and benevolence

seemed to irradiate his countenance.

“'Indeed, sir, I should,' I answered as I slipped down off the log and

made him a bow, as was my duty to such a gentleman, and trying to speak

bravely, 'I should like to be a soldier, sir.'

“He looked at me for a moment, and then put his hand on my shoulder.

“'Who are you, my lad, and how came you-down among the docks? You are

a country lad, I can see. Have you been dishonest, or done anything

wrong?'

“There was so much kindliness in his tones as he asked me this that I

could not tell him naught but the whole truth, and although his face was

very grave at the finish, his kind manner did not change, as putting

his hand in his pocket he pulled out his purse and gave me a guinea and

urged me to return to my parents.

“'Nay, sir,' I said, and I began to cry as I spoke, 'I cannot return

home, and with your pardon, sir, neither can I take this money,' and

then my courage returning somewhat, I added; 'but I would like to get

honest work, sir.'

“'Come with me, then,' said he, 'and I will see what can be done. But

first you must have some food.'

“With that he bade me follow him, and in a few minutes we were opposite

a coffee-house frequented by people engaged at the docks. Pushing me in

front of him, he told the landlord of the place to give me all the food

I could eat, and said he would return for me in the evening.

“'Certainly, Mr. Bent,' said the landlord, who, by the way he bowed and

scraped, seemed to be much impressed by the condescension of the old

gentleman in entering such a humble place, and then, bowing my kind

friend out, he took me to a table and bade a young woman attendant give

me a good meal.

“'You are in luck, my lad,' he said to me, 'for that is Mr. Robert Bent,

one of the richest gentlemen in London, and a great shipowner.'

“I remained at the coffee-house all day, and in the evening a hackney

coach drove up, and the old gentleman, accompanied by a younger man

of very commanding presence, came into the room where I was seated

anxiously awaiting him.

“'Well, my lad,' said he, 'here you are. Now, I must tell you that I

know Sir John Latham well, and, indeed, have just left him, for he is

now in London. He has confirmed your story to me, and says that your

father is a good, honest man, who, although he loves you very much,

would rather that you did not return to Aylesbury with the memory of

your disgrace still fresh in his mind. So this is what I now offer you.

This gentleman here is Captain Duck, the master of a ship of mine which

is leaving Gravesend in a day or two for the South Seas. He is willing

to take you with him and try to make a man and a seaman of you. What do

you say to it?'

“What else could I say but thank him warmly for his kindness, and

promise I would try hard to do my duty and win my father's forgiveness?

“'Very good,' said he; 'and now I will leave you in the care of Captain

Duck. He will buy you all that is necessary for the voyage, and I

shall write to your father by Sir John Latham and tell him you are well

bestowed with my good friend here. So goodbye, my lad, and do your duty

like a man.'

“Then he shook my hand, and turning to his companion said--

“'Goodbye, Duck. Remember that whales as well as prizes must be sought

after you double Cape Horn, and that I rely upon your good judgment

not to engage an enemy's ship if you think she is better armed than the

_Port-au-Prince_. But if you meet my other ship, the _Lucy_, and with

her can take away some rich prizes from the Spaniards--why, well and

good. I should be very pleased if you send me a prize home before you go

into the Pacific.'

“So away he went in the coach, and in half an hour more, with my heart

bounding with excitement, I set out with Captain Duck to join the

_Port-au-Prince_, lying at Gravesend.”