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 effect 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 stem, 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
Amherstburg, 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 Ms 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 Yankee 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
Gattrie, 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
Yankee 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
had 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 be 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 short 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 tomorrow 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. Tomorrow 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 honour demands my
service to my country, I would fly with you tomorrow,
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
to me that you will--my every hope of happiness depends
upon it."
How could he refuse, to such 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 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. No where, 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 those,
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 a nature to make
such a charge, even by implication, against them. He was
aware of the strong spirit of nationality existing every
where among citizens of the United States, and he had no
doubt, that in liberating their countryman, they had
acted under an erroneous impression of duty. 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
dependance 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--"recal but your manner--your language
--your devotedness of soul, not an hour since--compare
these with your present coldness, and then wonder that
I should have reason for regret."
"Nay, 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 position, 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 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 bad 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 humour 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 Sall'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 readers 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 a
mid 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.