DICK RODNEY;
OR,
THE ADVENTURES OF AN ETON BOY.
BY
JAMES GRANT.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. THE ETON BOY
II. CAPTAIN ZEERVOGEL
III. THE THREE WARNINGS
IV. HOW I GOT ADRIFT
V. USELESS REGRETS
VI. THE EUGENIE
VII. THE SCOTCH MATE'S YARN
VIII. VOYAGE CONTINUED
IX. A HURRICANE DRIVES US TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES
X. I GO ASHORE
XI. HOW TOM WAS TATTOOED
XII. DANGEROUS COMPANY
XIII. THE VENTANA
XIV. SEQUEL TO OUR ADVENTURE
XV. THE ANCHOR A-PEAK
XVI. AN INCIDENT
XVII. ANTONIO EL CUBANO
XVIII. THE WATER-SPOUT
XIX. CUBA
XX. AN EVIL SPIRIT
XXI. WE CROSS THE LINE
XXII. THE CUBANO UNMASKED
XXIII. CONFERENCE OF THE CREW
XXIV. I CONFRONT THE CUBANO
XXV. I RESCUE THE MATE
XXVI. THE REQUITAL
XXVII. THE THUNDERBOLT
XXVIII. CAST AWAY
XXIX. DISCOVER LAND
XXX. THE ISLAND OF ALPHONSO
XXXI. WE BUILD A HUT
XXXII. A WILD BOAR
XXXIII. A NEW PERPLEXITY
XXXIV. THE MYSTERY INCREASES
XXXV. THE MYSTERY SOLVED
XXXVI. A TERRIBLE INTERVIEW
XXXVII. THE FATA MORGANA
XXXVIII. MAROONED
XXXIX. A NEW DANGER
XL. THE REVOLVER AGAIN
XLI. A WATERLOGGED VESSEL
XLII. THE OLD SPANISH BOOK
XLIII. SANGRE POR SANGRE
XLIV. THE SAN ILDEFONSO
XLV. WE SAIL FOR EUROPE
XLVI. THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE
XLVII. A MUTINY
XLVIII. SEQUEL TO THE MUTINY
XLIX. THE COAST OF AFRICA
L. SANTA CRUZ
LI. THE OLD DRAGON TREE OF CAORA
LII. VALLEY OF THE DIAMOND
LIII. THE LAST OF ANTONIO EL CUBANO
LIV. CONCLUSION
DICK RODNEY;
OR,
THE ADVENTURES OF AN ETON BOY.
CHAPTER I.
THE ETON BOY.
In the relation of the following adventures I do not mean to
illustrate the principle maintained by some writers, that by an
inevitable course of events in life, _that_ becomes fate, which at
first was merely _choice_; but rather to show how, by a remarkable
combination of circumstances (to a great extent beyond my own
control), I was involved in a series of perils and perigrinations,
such as rarely fall to the lot even of those who have the most
restless of dispositions.
That my temperament was, and is still, something of this nature, I
must confess; and the reading of my leisure hours--books of wild
adventure by field and flood (I have devoured them all from the
volumes of dear old Daniel Defoe, to those of the _Railway Library_),
filled my mind with vague longings and airy fancies, for greater
achievements than our periodical regatta, or the ranks of our Eton
Rifle Volunteer Corps were likely to afford, although I deemed myself
by no means an undistinguished member of the latter.
I had been for the usual time an "oppidan" at Eton; but, though
standing high in favor of the Reverend M. A. with whom I was boarded,
of the Vice Provost, and other functionaries, I had, unfortunately
and unwisely, spent too much of my time with the boxing gloves and
fencing foils; at cricket in the playing fields; in rowing on the
river--that old traditional amusement of our Etonians; in training
for the great 4th of June, the College Regatta day; and in erratic
excursions to Windsor and elsewhere--to hope for transference to
Cambridge.
This had long been the dearest wish of my father, poor man! but in
his letters to me the names of Walpole, Canning, Fox, Wellington,
Hallam, and other _alumni_ of our great seminary, were rehearsed
again and again without effect; and he never failed to remind me, in
the words of old Lembarde, that it is always to Cambridge "the scole
of Eton sendeth her ripe fruite."
I had earned the unpleasant reputation of being an idler, though by
no means one; and this was oddly enough confirmed, when one day I
narrowly escaped drowning in the same pool, if not among the same
weeds, where George, Earl Waldegrave, an Eton boy in his tenth year,
perished so long ago as 1794, when bathing in the Thames, near a
field called the Brocas.
"Existence," says a certain writer, "appears to me scarcely
existence, without its struggles and its successes. I should ever
like to have some great end before me, for the striving to attain
amid a crowd of competitors, would make me feel all the glory of
life."
With such vague ideas floating before me, I returned from Eton _last
year_, and found myself at my father's house, the old and secluded
Rectory of Erlesmere, in a very undecided frame of mind as to the
future, and the profession I should adopt.
My father, as before, urged King's College as a proper preparation
for any profession.
My mother hinted that our name had shone in the navy, and cast a
glance at a large portrait which hung in the dining-room. It
represented George Lord Rodney, the castigator of the Spaniards, in a
full bob-wig and white satin breeches, boarding the leading ship of
the Caracca fleet, amid a whirlwind of torn rigging, smoke, and
cannon-balls, forming a background by no means hilarious.
But my father pooh-poohed this. I was already far too old for the
time at which the navy is entered--to wit, the mature years of
thirteen.
Then my aunt Etty, who still curled her hair in the fashion of thirty
years ago, recommended the army with a pensive air; for she had been
engaged to a young sub, who was killed at--I must not say _where_,
for it was a great many years ago, and Aunt Etty is unmarried still;
but her views, though warmly seconded by sisters Dot and Sybil (who
saw military balls and pic-nics in perspective), did not accord with
mine, for I had spent two years or more in our Eton rifle corps, and
the monotony of the drill--especially that boring _curriculum_ of
Hythe position (I went through the musketry class), worried me, as I
wilfully deemed myself able to sight my weapon and bring down either
a Frenchman or a pheasant without it.
At Aunt Etty's suggestion, my father would shake his white head, and
say, quoting the author of Ecclesiasticus,--
"'There are two things which grieve my heart to see: a man of war
that suffereth from poverty, and men of understanding that are not
set by.' The sword, Etty, is but a poor inheritance; better send
Dick to the counting-house of his uncle, Rodney and Co., in London."
But I trembled at this suggestion, as it did not accord with my own
brilliant views in any way and so months passed idly away.
I missed the manly amusements of Eton, and the hilarity of my
class-fellows; and though loving well my home and family, when the
novelty of my return and of perfect freedom passed away, I longed for
a change of scene--a stirring occupation--an active employment.
Is destiny stronger than intention?
I should hope not; yet for a time I was almost inclined to think so,
after the terrible episode by which I was suddenly torn from my home,
and cast upon that world which, hitherto, I had viewed through the
sunny medium of my day-dreams and romances alone.
Our Rectory is situated a mile distant from the sea, of which an
ample view can be had from the upper windows. Behind the house grows
a coppice of mighty oaks, the gnarled arms of which bear loads of
rustling foliage that form long leafy dells, through which the sun
can scarcely penetrate in summer,--trees so old that the mind becomes
lost in attempting to conceive what was there before they grew, or
_who_ planted them, and of all that has passed in the changing world,
of all that have been born, have lived long lives, died, and been
laid in their silent graves, since these old oaks were acorns, twigs,
and saplings!
The Rectory of Erlesmere is an antique mansion, with projecting oriel
windows, the mullions of which are almost hidden by ivy, woodbine,
and honeysuckle. One portion terminates in a steep dove-cot gable,
the other in a kind of tower, wherein, says tradition, an old rector
of former times defended himself against the puritans, and valiantly
blazed away with a matchlock through some narrow slits, in which the
martins now built their nests in peace, and over which the China
roses grew undisturbed; while against the strong old wall my sisters
Sybil and Dot had their fernery, to them an object of great
solicitude and interest, as they were very learned in the science of
all manner of leaves, blades, and twigs, and knew their mysterious
names.
Close by is our old Rectory church, with its brass-mounted tombs of
the Middle Ages, and its black oak pews of the Puritan times, where
every Sunday and holiday the rays of light fell through the painted
windows on the bowed heads of the country people while my father
preached.
Beyond the house and church stretches a fair green English lawn,
whereon a herd of deer are grazing, with the summer sunshine falling
on their smooth dapple coats as they toss their antlers; and, when
scared by the whistle of the distant railway train, they glide away
to the oak coppice, that is older than the days of the Tudors or
Stuarts.
That coppice and the sea-shore, but especially the latter, were my
favorite resorts. Daily I wandered by the beach, listening to the
surge that chafed upon the layers of pebbles, shells, and seaweed,
thinking of Danish Canute and his servile courtiers, or filled by
those vague, solemn, and pleasing thoughts, which the sight of an
object so mighty and mysterious as the boundless ocean creates within
us.
The monotonous sound of wave after wave, as they broke on the flat
beach, made me think of lands and shores, of people, cities, and
adventures far, far away from our quiet old ivy-clad Rectory and its
daily routine. Thus, every piece of drift wood, every strange
fishbone and mouldered piece of timber which the ocean cast at my
feet, became a source of interest for the mind to ruminate upon.
I remember the masts of a sunken vessel being discovered one morning,
about two miles from the shore, and they were long a source of
speculation to me. A mystery hovered about these rotting spars,
these slimy ropes that waved in the sea breeze, and the hull that lay
amid the rocks and weeds so far down below.
What was her story, what the fate of her crew, none could guess, as
no bodies ever came ashore with the tide.
When a ship appeared at the horizon, my eye followed her until her
sails melted into the distant haze, and then it seemed as if spirit
and fancy pursued her together upon the world of waters.
Generally we saw only coasters creeping along, or colliers bound for
the Thames, with their dingy canvas, their black sides, and
encumbered decks; but more than once we were favored by seeing a
British line-of-battle ship in all her glory--one of the channel
squadron, no doubt--with her squared yards, her flush decks, her
snow-white hummocks in the nettings--the ports triced up, and the
triple tier of sixty-eights or thirty-twos peering through them; the
scarlet ensign floating at her gaff peak; the officers lounging on
the poop, the red-coated marines at their posts; and high over all,
the long whip-like pennant streaming on the air, from the mainmast
head.
Such a sight, under a splendid sunshine, when the summer sea was only
rippled by a gentle breeze, to catch which every inch of canvas was
spread to the yard-heads, might make the coldest heart quicken; and
it certainly made me think of my mother's wishes, and of old Rodney
in his bob-wig and ruffles, scrambling at the head of his boarders,
sword in hand, up the carved and gilded side of the Spanish
galleon--of Boscawen and Benbow, Captain Cook, and Robinson Crusoe;
for the real and the ideal were all blended together in my wayward
mind.