CHAPTER XII.

Transcriber’s Note

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THE SAILOR HERO;

OR,

THE FRIGATE AND THE LUGGER

THE SAILOR HERO,

OR,

THE FRIGATE AND THE LUGGER.

BY

CAPTAIN F. C. ARMSTRONG,

AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE DARING,” “THE TWO MIDSHIPMEN,”

“THE MEDORA,” “THE YOUNG COMMANDER,” ETC.

[Illustration: Decoration]

LONDON:

WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER,

WARWICK HOUSE PATERNOSTER ROW.

LONDON:

B. C. BARRETT, ROUPELL STREET, BLACKFRIARS.

THE SAILOR HERO;

OR,

THE FRIGATE AND THE LUGGER.

CHAPTER I.

The war with France had just commenced. Vice-Admiral Lord Hood hoisted

his flag on board the Victory, of one hundred guns; and, with the

English fleet under his command, sailed from Spithead.

Amongst the many midshipmen on board the Victory, were two youths,

who will occupy prominent places in our story;—one, William Thornton,

our intended hero, was at this period between sixteen and seventeen

years of age, and was known on board the Victory as the Admiral’s

_protégé_. He was a high-spirited and generous youth, and had, thus

early in life, distinguished himself on several occasions, and was a

general favourite; but all that was known of his parentage was, that

his supposed father had been formerly Lord Hood’s favourite coxswain,

and that the Admiral had taken him on board the Victory as one of his

midshipmen. Henry Howard Etherton, the other, the younger son of a

wealthy baronet, was nearly two years older than William Thornton, but

unlike him in every respect, except, perhaps, in personal appearance.

He was well-looking, tall, and of gentlemanly manners; he had served

two years in another ship, had been four years the schoolfellow

of William Thornton; and when he left the school, which he did

before William, it was with a feeling of bitter hatred against his

schoolfellow, and for no better reason than that he excelled him in

mental acquirements, and bodily exercises.

The meeting of the two youths on board the Victory was a surprise to

both.

William Thornton was, as we have said, a general favourite, but

especially with a fine young fellow, named Saunders, a top-man, whose

life he had saved under very trying circumstances.

Howard Etherton took especial care to circulate all he knew of young

Thornton’s antecedents. He stated that he passed at school as the son

of Lord Hood’s coxswain; but it was doubtful whose son he was; some one

had paid his schooling and other expenses munificently, but that it

was too bad to have as a comrade in the midshipmen’s berth one of so

doubtful, or at all events, of so low an origin.

Only some of Howard’s cronies and toadies listened to these spiteful

stories; the officers, perhaps, heard, but gave no heed to them, for

the young midshipman was a noble-looking boy, singularly powerful and

tall for his age.

One day nearly all the midshipmen happened to be assembled together in

their berth, when one of their number, a stout youth of eighteen, who

was noted for his envious disposition, took up a large book, like an

account book, saying—

“Gentlemen, I wish to ask your attention for a moment.”

Then, turning to William Thornton, he continued, with a serious

countenance:—

“In this book, Master Thornton, we enter the names of our fathers and

mothers, as well as of our sisters, provided we have any. Now, ours

are all down; pray oblige me with your father’s name, and also your

mother’s maiden name, if you remember such a personage.”

William Thornton fixed his dark, expressive eyes upon the speaker

with a most unmitigated expression of contempt; but with perfect

self-control, said,—

“You cannot suppose, Master Joshua Dykes, that I am quite so green as

to listen seriously to your nonsense. You have been put up to this

intended insult by Howard Etherton, who knows remarkably well that I

have the misfortune not to know who my parents were; therefore you are

weak and silly enough to get this trash up for the express purpose of

provoking me; but——”

“Oh, by St. Peter’s toe! and that’s a brass one,” exclaimed a loud,

manly voice, the speaker at the moment entering the midshipmen’s berth,

“give us your hand, William; I’ll be your father and mother, and,

faith, your grand-mother too, if you’re in want of one; you’re a broth

of a boy, and have shown us what pluck and heart can do. Now, if any of

these sky-larking lubbers bother you again with their balderdash, by

the powers of Moll Kelly, I’ll tache them better manners. Hark ye, my

lads! my name, as you all know, is Patrick O’Loughlin, and, as far as I

know, I never had a father or mother; but look at this (and clenching

his hand, he tucked up his sleeve, and stretched out an arm capable of

felling an ox); there, this has been my father and mother, and, faith,

a whole host of relations beside; it has made me third lieutenant of

the Victory; and that’s what I call being a father and mother. Now if

any of you want to be better acquainted with William Thornton’s father

and mother, he can show you just such another fist and arm, and is

quite willing to give you a taste of it, to establish his parentage;

and now, William, come with me; I want to have half-an-hour’s chat with

you.”

Most of the mids burst into a hearty laugh, taking the Lieutenant’s

words good-humouredly, for he was greatly loved by all the officers and

crew of the ship. Howard Etherton and two others, his special cronies,

sneered, though they evidently did not admire Lieutenant O’Loughlin’s

father and mother.

William Thornton and Lieutenant O’Loughlin sat down in the latter’s

berth, with a bottle of light wine and some biscuits before them.

“Now tell me, William,” said the kind-hearted Lieutenant, “all you

know about yourself. You promised to tell me. We have an idle hour

now—to-morrow may see us in action.”

“Most willingly, dear friend,” replied our hero. “I have no desire

to conceal any part of my history, and least of all from you; so now

listen to a very short yarn, and then you will know as much as I do

myself.

“I was reared in a cottage at Deal, by one of the kindest and most

generous of men, and whom I honour and love as a fond father. He was

once coxswain to Lord Hood, but, having lost a leg and an arm in the

service, now lives upon a pension. Shortly after his retirement, he was

left a comfortable annuity, and persuaded a sister of his—a widow in

poor circumstances—to live with him, purchased a pretty cottage on the

sea-coast near Walmer, where I grew up till I was eight years old.

“I was then sent to one of the best seminaries in the county, where I

first met Howard Etherton. I remained at school till I was fourteen

years old, when I returned to my supposed father’s cottage. He told me

I was going to serve His Majesty as a midshipman. I was delighted. One

evening the old tar, who was never so happy as when relating sea-yarns,

said, ‘Bill, my lad, I’ll spin you a yarn; mix my grog—there, you’re

bountiful with the water—sit quiet and listen, for it consarns you.

“‘I was aboard the Quebec, 36-gun frigate,’ began the old tar,

‘commanded by as brave a fellow as ever trod a deck. We were cruising

off Ushant, with the Rambler cutter in company. It was the month of

October, in the year 177—, we fell in with a large frigate to the

sou-west of Ushant, and she had a smart cutter cruising in company.

Well, we were soon hammering away at it, and kept it up for three

mortal hours. Our decks were slippery with blood, our masts all gone,

and our sails, lying over the guns, caught fire, and soon after we

blew up, with our colours flying, and—the Lord be merciful to us!—our

captain, and most of our crew were hurled into the air.

“‘I can’t say how I got out of her; all I remember is that I found

myself struggling in the water amid a mass of rigging and spars. I was

finally picked up and carried on board the French frigate Surveillante,

where I found several of my shipmates. We were treated with the

greatest kindness, by order of the dying commander, who also desired

that we should be put aboard the first neutral vessel they came across,

for we had fought gallantly and nobly, and it was not our fault that

the ship blew up.

“‘The French frigate had suffered awfully; her masts, sails, and

rigging were cut to pieces, and her crew half killed and wounded. We

were permitted to walk about the deck. I could speak a little of their

lingo, and some of them spoke ours.

“‘One morning I saw a little boy, not much more than two years old,

toddling about the ship’s deck, and, to my surprise, I heard him speak

some words in English to one of the men.

“‘“You may parley-vous to that little chap in your own language,”

said one of the sailors, seeing me caress the child—for I was always

soft-hearted, and the child took to me at once. “How did he come here?”

asked I.

“‘“Why,’ said the Frenchman, “about ten days before we fought your

frigate, in a heavy gale we ran down a ship in the night; we put out

our boats, though it did blow a treble-reefed-topsail breeze, but all

we could see was the long boat, and all that we found inside of it was

that child, wrapped up in a heap of blankets. The poor little thing was

half dead with wet and cold.” That’s all I could learn, but the man

said, and I could see it, “that the child was sure to be a gentleman’s

son, his little garments were so costly and handsome.”

“Well, after a time jury-masts were rigged and we made way; but a

gale drove the frigate ashore on Gros Point, to the lee of Isle Dieu.

A scene of terrible confusion ensued, in the midst of which, I, with

eight comrades, got off in one of the boats. I took the child with me,

for I loved it, and it was English. The next day we were picked up by

the ——, 74, commanded by Rear-Admiral Hood, who was proceeding to join

the fleet under Admiral Rodney. We were all glad, of course, to join

that ship, and be under so gallant and brave a seaman.

“‘The child became the pet of the ship, he throve like a young bantam,

and crowed like one whenever he heard a gun fired.

“‘The admiral called me to the quarter-deck, and desired me to say how

I came by the child, and I did so. Before I left the ship I became his

coxswain, and, to finish my yarn,’ said Bill Thornton, finishing his

grog, ‘I now tell you you are the child so strangely found on board the

Surveillante.’

“You may imagine my emotion, O’Loughlin, when I heard this, and how I

blessed and caressed the dear old man for the love he had bestowed upon

me.

“Now this is all I have to tell you, dear friend; I went to sea shortly

after in the —— frigate as midshipman, and in the course of two years

was appointed to this ship through the interest Bill Thornton had

with his old commander. The admiral knows I am the same child that

used to toddle about the quarter-deck of the —— 74, when he commanded

her, and thus probably feels an interest for me from the peculiarity

of my introduction on board his ship, and his esteem for his old and

favourite coxswain.”

“Here’s your health, my lad,” said the Lieutenant, tossing down a

full glass, “and here’s my hand; I’ll be a second father to you. I’m

five-and-twenty, and upon my conscience it appears to me I have lived

fifty years, or I was in some other person’s skin before I got sewed up

in this, I’ve been so knocked about in this world. We are in a glorious

service, and if we have luck, why, by St. Patrick, we may advance to be

admirals by the time we get to seventy!”

CHAPTER II.

In the month of August the British fleet, under Lord Hood, arrived

before the port of Toulon. Two commissioners from the Royalist party

came on board the Victory, to treat for the surrender of the port and

shipping to the British. William Thornton’s favorite companion amongst

the mids was a youth named Charles Pole, a fine spirited lad of his own

age. They were leaning over the bulwarks, gazing at the boats rowing

aboard with the two commissioners, and then a look was cast at the bold

high land of Cape Cesi, and the entrance to the noble gulf of Toulon.

“I wish they would commence hammering away at those grim looking forts

on the heights,” said Charles Pole to his comrade, “I’m tired of doing

nothing.”

“_Il dolce far niente_,” said William Thornton, “the Italian’s supreme

delight, that and serenading his lady love by the light of a bright

moon.”

“Oh! wait a bit, my beauties,” said O’Loughlin, joining them, “you

won’t talk of the _dolce far niente_ in a day or two, for it’s all

up with negotiations. We shall have those grim forts talking to us

shortly, and faith, I’m longing myself to have a bout with those

republican bloodhounds.”

O’Loughlin was right in his conjectures. Lord Hood, in great perplexity

as to the intentions of the royalist party, resolved upon the hazardous

experiment of sending an officer into the town to ascertain how matters

stood, being aware that Rear-Admiral St. Julian with the bulk of the

French fleet sided with the Republicans.

This perilous expedition was confided to the judgment and courage of

Lieutenant Edward Cooke, who was to select a midshipman to accompany

him.

“Take Thornton, Cooke,” said O’Loughlin, “that’s the lad for the work;

as courageous as a lion and as cool as a lettuce. Do you remember how

he behaved in the affair off Cadiz? If you come back safe, which I

predict you will, it will be a feather in his cap.”

“The very one I would have selected,” said Lieutenant Cooke; “but he’s

too young to run the gauntlet through the French fleet; it’s almost a

pity.”

To the great delight of Thornton he was selected.

“I think,” said Howard Etherton, with a malicious grin, and giving his

chum Dykes a poke in the ribs, “I think we shall be one less in our

mess by this time to-morrow. I suppose he will leave his kit to you,

Pole?”

“I hope he will live to break your head yet,” said Charles Pole, with a

look of contempt as he walked on.

“Thank you, Master Pole; we shall not forget that,” bawled out Howard

Etherton.

A remarkably fast gig was selected to take the Lieutenant and his young

companion, and eight picked men, Saunders, the top-man, being one of

them. It was ten o’clock at night when the gig left the side of the

ship. It was blowing very fresh, and, considering the time of year,

extremely dark. Our hero was steering.

“Now, William,” said the Lieutenant, “keep her away for the high land,

yonder; and when we come abreast of the ships, steer boldly right into

the midst of them.”

After entering the harbour, our hero could see the light on the

dockyard pier plain enough; and he knew from drafts and maps every inch

of the outward and inner harbour, whilst the Committee-General were

aware of the intended attempt to communicate with them.

The boat flew through the water, under the strokes of eight

vigorous oarsmen, and passed close under the stern of a huge

hundred-and-twenty-gun ship, which they knew was the Commerce de

Marseilles. There were eighteen or more ships moored in two lines,

with a considerable space between, through which the light boat was

impelled rapidly, and without even a challenge from any of the ships.

It was evidently taken for one of their own boats. William Thornton

steered steadily for the jetty, which was known to be in the hands of

the royalist party. In a few minutes they were alongside the pier,

which was crowded with persons of all grades and denominations, the

soldiers on duty finding it almost impossible to keep them back. A

naval officer came to the side of the boat, and addressed Lieutenant

Cooke, saying—

“You have done a daring feat, monsieur; and, fortunately, you have

succeeded. I am desired to let you know that until to-morrow morning

you cannot land. It would be dangerous.”

“Very good,” said Lieutenant Cooke. “We can pass the rest of the night

in our boat-cloaks.”

“Wine and refreshments,” continued the officer, “shall be sent to you

for yourself and men; and I pray you, monsieur, not to feel aggrieved

at this delay; it is unavoidable.”

Ere half-an-hour had elapsed a large hamper was handed on board the

boat, and then they were told to pull off from the jetty, and make fast

to one of the buoys, which they did.

“Come my lads,” said Lieutenant Cooke, “rip up the hamper, and let us

feel the contents if we can’t see them; we shall not require light to

appease our hunger.”

William Thornton was delighted with the excitement of the affair.

They could hear the various sounds from the interior of the town;

loud shouts and cries, and all the noises attending the assembly of a

number of people in the street; but all was perfectly quiet within the

dockyard and basin. Not a boat passed in or out, and the crowd, a while

back standing on the jetty, were all put outside the gates, and only

the sentries remained, walking backwards and forwards on their watch.

The hamper contained a dozen of wine, a couple of fowls, and a ham,

with abundance of bread.

“Well, by Jove, William, this is not bad; I suppose you expected a mess

of frogs, or some other outlandish dish, eh?”

“I prefer the half of a fowl, I confess,” returned our hero, pulling

out his knife to commence operations; “though frogs may not be such a

bad dish as we may imagine.”

“Oh, confound their frogs!” said the Lieutenant, drawing a cork out of

one of the bottles. “By Jupiter! there’s neither cup nor glass of any

kind.”

“Here’s a horn, your honour,” said one of the men; “I brought it,

thinking it might serve a turn somehow if we got anything better than

water.”

“You’re a thoughtful man, Saunders,” said the Lieutenant; “hand it

here,” and giving it a rinse first with water and then with wine, he

filled himself a bumper and tossed it off. “Good Bordeaux, by Jove!

and no mistake. Come, these fellows know what’s good.”

“There’s a row in the town, Mr. Cooke,” said the midshipman; “you can

hear them rioting very distinctly.”

“Those cursed, bloodthirsty Republicans trying to cut the throats of

the Royalists, I suppose,” returned the Lieutenant; “and that’s the

reason they would not let us land during the tumult. We shall have to

remain here till to-morrow night, as we cannot attempt to pass the

ships in the broad daylight.”

Telling the men to help themselves to the remains of the fowl and ham,

and letting them have a couple of bottles of wine between them, a

regular watch having been set, the Lieutenant and midshipman wrapped

themselves up in their boat-cloaks, and reclined on the thwarts,

conversing together till they dropped off into a short slumber.

William Thornton slept an hour or two, and then, waking, sat up; the

Lieutenant was fast asleep, and so were the men, excepting the two

that kept watch. The night was still extremely dark, but as our hero

sat gazing over the dark water, looking at the huge dismasted hulls of

some unfinished war vessels, he thought he heard at a little distance a

splashing in the water, like a person swimming.

“Do you see anything in the water, right ahead, Saunders?” asked the

midshipman to one of the watch, stooping down low as he spoke, and

looking along the surface of the water.

“I thought as how I heard a noise, sir,” said the man; “and I think I

see a dark object moving towards us.”

“So do I now,” returned William Thornton; “it is a man swimming. Hush!

do not make a noise, one man cannot hurt us.”

Bill Saunders put down the boat-stretcher he had taken up with the

laudable intention of hitting the swimmer over the head, and the next

moment a man swam up alongside, stripped all to his drawers, holding up

his hand and requesting them to make no noise. He seized the gunnel of

the boat, and Saunders and the other men being roused helped him in.

The heeling over of the boat rolled Lieutenant Cooke off the thwart,

who immediately sprang up, saying—

“Hollo, William! what’s in the wind now?”

Our hero told him that a man had swum alongside with a letter in his

cap for the English officer, and that they had taken him on board.

Fortunately, both Lieutenant Cooke and Thornton spoke French fluently.

“Well, monsieur,” said the Lieutenant, looking at the Frenchman in the

dim light, and taking the letter, “I cannot read this till daylight;

tell me, if you please, what it is about, and what has induced you to

incur so great a risk.”

“I have undertaken this adventure, monsieur,” returned the stranger,

“to serve a most persecuted lady, a countrywoman of yours, and of high

rank in this country. She is even now concealed in the vaults of a

house in the Rue Province. She escaped from the fearful massacres of

Lyons in a miraculous manner, even when brought out with her young

daughter to be shot, by order of that infernal monster Collet de

Herbois.”

Lieutenant Cooke and the midshipman listened to the stranger’s account

with considerable interest, and no little surprise. Our hero had lent

the stranger his boat-cloak, and given him a small quantity of brandy,

and Lieutenant Cooke then said—

“May I ask, monsieur, who you are, that have so generously perilled

your life to serve this lady?”

“I was, monsieur, the intendant of the husband of Madame la Duchesse,

her second husband, who alas! perished with many other loyal noblemen

in defending his unfortunate king. Her first husband was an English

gentleman of the name of Arden, perhaps you may know the name, the

Duchess’s daughter is by her first husband.”

“The Ardens are an old and wealthy family,” said Lieutenant Cooke; “but

I do not know them. I should be delighted to serve this unfortunate

lady and her daughter, but you see, I am now employed upon a most

important mission, and dare not depart from my instructions, or take

part in any private affair. Nevertheless, some effort must be made to

rescue this lady; but could she not trust herself to the Royalist party

in Toulon; they are strong, are they not?”

“No, in truth, monsieur, they are not, as I fear the result will

show. Madame la Duchesse is, I am satisfied, closely sought after.

She trusted herself to the Royalists of Lyons, and would, but for my

assistance, have perished. Once known to in be Toulon, she would be

sacrificed long before she could be got on board the British fleet.”

Lieutenant Cooke thought for a moment and then said—

“To-morrow morning I am to meet the Committee-General, respecting the

surrender of the town and ships. If the town is given up, madame and

her daughter will be instantly placed in safety. But as this may not

happen, could not you, monsieur, conduct this young gentleman,” putting

his hand on the midshipman’s shoulder, “to-morrow morning to where

madame is concealed? He may be able, by conversing with her, to plan

some method of getting her and her daughter to the sea-shore of the

outer harbour by to-morrow night, for we cannot leave in the day-time,

and thus, as we pass out, we may be enabled to take them on board.”

“That is a very good idea of yours, monsieur,” said the Frenchman;

“therefore, if this young gentleman comes on shore to-morrow morning,

I will secretly watch for his landing, and as you all proceed through

the streets to the Committee-General’s, I will contrive to attract

his attention; then if he will follow me at a short distance, I will

introduce him to madame.”

“Very good,” said William Thornton, “I will keep a sharp look-out for

you, and if you hold up your hand it will be sufficient.”

“How far have you to swim?” questioned Lieutenant Cooke.

“Not very far, monsieur,” said the stranger; “there is no boom across

the basin, and once outside, I land where I left my garments.”

The Frenchman thanked the Lieutenant for his courtesy, slipped over

the side, and noiselessly made his way through the still waters of the

basin, and was soon lost to sight.

CHAPTER III.

After the departure of the Frenchman, Lieutenant Cooke and William

Thornton commented upon what they had just heard.

“I forgot to ask the stranger,” remarked the Lieutenant, “the lady’s

present title; he called her Madame la Duchesse. Her former name, at

all events, was Arden.”

“I dare say,” said the midshipman, “the note he presented will explain,

and perhaps give some further particulars of her situation.”

“True, I forgot the note; there will be daylight in another hour, its

getting grey to the eastward. A terrible scene this poor lady and her

child must have witnessed in Lyons,” continued the lieutenant; “the

atrocities committed there by that fiend, Collet de Herbois, exceeds

all human belief. The wretch found the guillotine too slow for his

bloodthirsty soul; he had the unfortunate people of Lyons actually shot

down by cannon, loaded with grape shot, hundreds at a time. He even

undermined the streets, and blew up the houses with gunpowder,[1] tied

his victims to trees, and shot them down like wild beasts. In five

months this detestable monster slaughtered six thousand persons.”

“What extraordinary infatuation!” exclaimed our hero. “I can scarcely

understand human beings becoming so suddenly seized with such a thirst

for blood.”

Lieutenant Cooke, finding the daylight rapidly increasing, became

curious to examine his letter. It was addressed in a female handwriting—

“TO THE ENGLISH OFFICER IN COMMAND OF THE VICTORY’S

BOAT.”

Opening the letter, he read its contents in a low voice to William

Thornton.

“Sir,—Hearing that a boat from the British Admiral’s ship was lying in

the dock basin, inspired me with the hope of being rescued from the

perilous situation in which, with my daughter, I am placed. I am native

of England, and the widow of the late Duke de Coulancourt. My first

husband, the father of my little girl, was the Honourable James Somers

Arden. My anxious desire is, if possible, to get on board one of the

British ships, hoping thus to be able to reach England. If, therefore,

any assistance can be rendered me, I shall for ever pray for the

welfare of those to whom my gratitude will be due. You may implicitly

trust Monsieur Jean Plessis, the bearer of this; he can give you every

information.

“ANNE COULANCOURT, _née_ DE BRACY.”

“Well, William, you must do your best, and try and see this poor lady

and her little girl,” said Lieutenant Cooke. “If they could manage to

get on the beach to the eastward of the shipping, along which we pass

to get clear of the harbour, we might readily pick them up. I do not

know the locality myself, but Monsieur Plessis, I dare say, knows how

to get them there. Now let us pull in for the quay, I see a number of

persons assembled; and there goes a signal for us. Be very cautious,

William, how you act. Get back to the boat as soon as you can; Saunders

will keep a good look out for you, and haul off from the quay till he

sees either you or me. Now, my lads,” added the Lieutenant, “pull in

for the pier.”

On reaching the pier, they found the Commissioners and several other

naval officers in full uniform, waiting to receive them. As Lieutenant

Cooke leaped on shore, followed by our hero, two of the Commissioners

advanced and offered many apologies for leaving them in their boat all

night. The tumultuous assemblies in the town was the cause. Breakfast

was prepared for them in a mansion near the dock gates, after partaking

of which they would conduct Lieutenant Cooke before the constituted

authorities to hear his proposals. Accordingly, they all went through

the dock gates, a vast concourse of people of the very lowest grade

was assembled outside, and various cries and violent vociferations

saluted their ears. There were royalists and republicans, Jacobins and

Girondists, all furious and excited; nevertheless, they proceeded

unmolested to the house where breakfast was prepared for them; after

which, accompanied by more than twenty gentlemen and officers,

Lieutenant Cooke arrived at the chamber where the Commissioners sat

awaiting them.

“Be cautious, and take care of yourself, William,” whispered the

Lieutenant, as the midshipman dropped into the rear without being

particularly noticed, for the crowd rushed eagerly after Lieutenant

Cooke, and his escort, Thornton, walked quietly on, attired in a plain

jacket and trousers, without any marks of a naval uniform on them; his

dirk he left in the boat purposely, but he carried a brace of small

pistols in his pockets.

As the crowd rushed on, William Thornton found himself proceeding up a

narrow street, when he suddenly felt a hand laid upon his arm. The man

who had touched him passed on, but turning round, looked him in the

face with a peculiar expression on his features.

“That is our friend of last night,” thought the midshipman, and he

followed him at a little distance. The man presently turned down a

deserted side street, for almost the entire population of the town were

assembled before the hall where the Committee-General sat; an intense

state of excitement existing, for it was then known that General

Castenau, the fierce Republican General, was before Marseilles, and

this created a fearful panic amongst the royalists, and a source of

fiend-like rejoicing with the bloodthirsty Republicans. Following the

stranger through several bye-streets, he suddenly dived beneath an

arch, making a sign to our hero to be quick after him. William Thornton

did not delay, and passing under the arch he found himself in a very

small court, with his guide standing before the door of an apparently

deserted house.

“This is fortunate, monsieur,” said the man, “the streets, you see, are

totally deserted; no one, I think, saw us enter this court.”

Unlocking the door, they traversed a dark, damp passage. Pushing open

a side door, they entered a small room, totally unfurnished, the light

being admitted through a half-open shutter.

“Please to stay here a few minutes, monsieur,” said Jean Plessis; “I

will get madame up from the vaults into another room, where she usually

stays when I am in the house to watch. When I am absent, she and her

daughter keep below; their place of concealment would not be easily

discovered.”

“Poor lady!” said William Thornton; “what a state for one of her rank

to live in. But are there not many Royalist families in the town not

forced to live in such a state of concealment?”

“Yes,” said Jean Plessis, “but there is only one Duchesse of

Coulancourt. Collet de Herbois would give ten thousand francs for her

head. There are many of his spies here, who will soon track me. There

will be more blood spilt here than even in Lyons.”

He then departed.

“That is very odd,” thought the midshipman. “With a magnificent British

and Spanish fleet before the town, surely, if the Admiral pleases,

he could take the town and fort at any time, and drive these horrid

Republicans into the sea.”

William Thornton was a young reasoner; he did not know that there were

wheels within wheels in politics; that, with the finest fleet in the

world, it was sometimes the policy of ministers to do nothing with

it. As it turned out, however, the fleet did get possession of the

fort and the town, but only to abandon it and its wretched inhabitants

afterwards, to one of the most fearful massacres on record.

Our hero remained waiting for the return of Jean Plessis, wondering in

his heart how the unfortunate Duchesse de Coulancourt and her daughter

could dwell in so desolate and unwholesome a place.

In less than half-an-hour the Frenchman returned, saying:—

“I am sorry to have kept you, young gentleman, in so dismal a chamber;

but madame is now ready to receive you. Please to follow me.”

Our hero followed Jean Plessis through two or three dismal corridors

and chambers, till, opening a door, he ushered him into a room partly

furnished. There were two windows to the apartment, but only the top

part of the shutters was kept open. As he entered the chamber—a little

bashful, perhaps, for he was but seventeen, and but little accustomed

to female society—he perceived a lady in deep mourning rise from a

chair and advance to meet him; but he was more surprised when, instead

of a fair young girl, as he expected to see, he observed a slight,

fragile boy, with a pale and very thin face, but with eyes dark, large,

and lustrous. He appeared about twelve years of age, and stood leaning

against the high-backed chair of his mother.

The Duchess slightly started as she gazed up into the handsome,

expressive features of the midshipman. For a moment she appeared to be

reflecting, as if some past transaction was recalled by his presence.

“Ah!” said the lady, in French, speaking in a low voice, “he is young,

very young;” but then, looking up, with a sweet smile on her pale but

very beautiful features, she said, in English:—

“Pardon me, young gentleman, instead of wondering at your youth, I

ought to have expressed my gratitude at seeing one so young willing to

incur so much risk in his desire to befriend a perfect stranger.”

“But nevertheless, madame,” said the young sailor, “a countrywoman.

Lieutenant Cooke, my superior officer, would most willingly have

come in my place, but that he was forced to attend a most important

meeting with the Royalist committee. He, however, bade me say that any

assistance he can offer you, will be a pleasure, and that perhaps you,

madame, would be able to point out to me how that assistance can be

rendered.”

The Duchesse de Coulancourt seemed to reflect for a few moments, during

which time our young midshipman had an opportunity of regarding her

features and person, and also that of the young boy, looking so earnest

and pensive beside her. The Duchess was tall, graceful in figure,

and, though exceedingly pale and thin, her features were beautifully

formed. Like the boy, her eyes were black, large, and expressive; with

luxuriant black hair; and in years, as well as he could judge, not more

than five or six-and-thirty. The boy was of a slight figure, dressed in

the tunic and vest then worn by boys of his age; he had the same fine

features as the mother, but his excessive thinness and pallor gave him

a consumptive appearance, which was only relieved by the singularly

expressive look about the eyes, and the beautifully marked eyebrows.

“I have been thinking all the morning,” said the Duchess, rousing

herself from her thoughts, “how to act in the painful and trying

situation in which I am placed; for no human power could save me were

I recognised, or known to be living in this town. Not even to the

Royalist party would I venture to show myself, unless, indeed, the

British Admiral ultimately gains possession of the town. My chief

desire is to secure the safety of my beloved daughter. Come hither,

Mabel. I have disguised her, as you see, like a boy. Poor child! she is

so attenuated by fretting, confinement, and various other privations,

that she appears a mere shadow.”

Madame Coulancourt turned, and took her disguised daughter by the

hand, the child’s pale face slightly flushed as she saw that William

Thornton’s dark eyes were fixed upon her, with an expression of deep

interest and surprise. The midshipman thought her plain, even with her

large speaking eyes.

The Duchess sighed, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she kissed her

daughter’s forehead, and then taking her hand, she said:—

“Mabel, this young gentleman will be a brother to you. Pray what is

your name?” she added, as our hero took the little hand in his, and

stooped and kissed her forehead, with the dark hair cut close all

round, like a boy’s. “I know not how it is, but I feel a strange spirit

of prophecy creeping over me, that tells me you will serve this poor

child, who is, as it were, alone in the world. You have a strong

likeness, young sir, to some one I dearly loved; but memory is almost

dead within me. You will protect my child, I know you will!”

“On my soul, madame,” returned William Thornton, with his eyes kindling

with all the fire and romance of his enthusiastic disposition—“on my

soul, madame, I will do all I can; willingly peril life if necessary to

be of service to you or this dear little girl.”

The child pressed his hand to her lips, and her eyes full of tears were

lifted to his, as she said:—

“And Mabel will always be a sister to you, and love you with all her

heart.” Prophetic words to her, which were never forgotten. “I had

a brother once,” she added; and shuddering she said in a low broken

voice, “but they killed him.”

Madame Coulancourt drew her daughter towards her; she was weeping, but,

checking her feelings and her painful remembrances of terrible moments,

now passed, she looked up, saying;—

“It is wrong thus to waste valuable time, by giving way to

recollections of events that cannot be recalled. This morning I made

up my mind how to act, after consulting with Monsieur Jean Plessis.

This faithful friend of my unfortunate husband saved my life and my

child’s life, risking not only his own existence, but the safety of

a wife and child dear to him. He was Monsieur le Duke’s intendant

and then mine; but he is a man of good family, and at one time had

considerable property; but, like many alas! in this land, stripped of

all—of everything—save his noble devotion to me and mine. He procured

these garments for my little girl, and agreed with me in my intention

of confiding her to the care of the English officer, who was expected

from the Admiral’s ship. Dressed thus, she may more easily pass through

the town with you and thus gain the boat, and to-night Monsieur Plessis

says he is pretty certain he will be able to get me disguised to the

beach of the outer harbour, where there is a ruined quay that juts

out into the sea; and where, as you row along the shore in your boat,

you may be able to take me in without attracting observation. Still I

prefer my little girl going with you, because I am sure it will ensure

her escape from this land of misery. Whereas a few hours hence—nay,

the very result of the meeting now taking place—may rouse a furious

bloodthirsty mob into sedition and outrage, for there are a hundred

of the followers and spies of the atrocious Collet de Herbois in the

town at this moment, leading the easily excited lower order into

revolutionary excesses.”

“Your daughter will be quite safe in the boat, madame,” said the

midshipman earnestly, “and I know that every protection will be

afforded her when we reach the Victory. Perhaps, madame, if you make

the attempt you will succeed in getting safely to the boat now, whilst

the mass of the people surround the council chamber.”

“No! no!” said the Duchess sadly, “the risk of being recognised in

broad daylight by some of the spies of De Herbois would be too great.

Ah! young sir, if you only knew a hundredth part of the horrors and

sufferings this dear child and I went through whilst in the power

of those monsters who rule this once fair land, you would, like us,

shudder at the very idea of again falling into their hands. Attired

as my child is, she will escape notice walking by your side, whereas

should an agent of De Herbois recognise me, we should be both lost.”

Madame Coulancourt then rose and took from a table a casket, closing

the lid as she placed it beside our hero, and locking it with a very

peculiar key. It was a work of foreign manufacture, and beautifully

clasped with silver, chased.

“I wish you, also, Master Thornton,” continued Madame Coulancourt, “to

take charge of this casket; for should it be the will of Heaven that I

should be unable to rejoin my child—”

“Ah, mamma!” passionately interrupted the young girl, throwing her arms

round her mother’s neck, and weeping violently, “what words are those?

No! no! I will not leave you; whatever peril you incur, your own Mabel

will share it with you, and you shall not hear me murmur.”

“But, my beloved child,” said the mother soothingly, “even Jean Plessis

himself says he would not be able to take us both to-night to the

beach. You could not surmount the difficulties of the way. Besides,

your presence would render us remarkable going through the gates; he

has only a pass for two.”

Thus the mother soothed her little girl, showing her how necessary it

was for the salvation of both that she should put herself under the

care of the young midshipman. After a time Mabel Arden allowed herself

to be persuaded.

William Thornton also talked to and soothed the child; and she looked

so confidingly on him, and appeared to feel his kindness to her so

much, that he vowed in his heart to suffer death sooner than Mabel

should be injured whilst under his care.

“I was saying,” said the Duchess, rewarding our hero with a sweet

affectionate smile, “that I wish to confide this casket to your charge

till we meet again. In it there are important letters and papers

respecting my daughter and her relatives in England, who will at once

acknowledge and receive her. There are also a few jewels of value, and

money; but I trust in God we shall be able to join you to-night in the

boats. At what hour do you suppose you will leave the dock basin?”

“Perhaps, after ten o’clock, madame. It was very dark last night, when

we passed through the shipping; and, as there is no moon, it will be

nearly as dark to-night; or at all events, it will be only star-light.

You ought, madame, to be provided with a dark lantern to show a light

when your hear the noise of our oars, as we row along shore.”

“No doubt Jean Plessis will provide one,” said Madame de Coulancourt;

“but you will remember the ruined quay; he says you cannot mistake the

spot, as it is the only erection of the kind on that line of beach. I

trust I am not detaining you too long,” said the Duchess; “I have now

said all I have to say; so come, my beloved child, embrace me once

more, and then I will confide you to the care of your young protector,

whom may God prosper and preserve!”

Mabel threw herself into her mother’s arms; again and again she kissed

her passionately, whilst the tears streamed down both mother’s and

daughter’s cheeks.

William Thornton was considerably affected at witnessing the suffering

the separation caused Mabel and the Duchess. He spoke some kind and

assuring words to the little girl, and what he said appeared to abate

her grief. Madame de Coulancourt then put a boy’s cloak over her

shoulders, and a cap on her head, and then summoned Jean Plessis, who

kept watch without. This faithful friend of the Duchess de Coulancourt

was a tall and highly respectable-looking man, in years, scarcely

forty, with a fine and expressive countenance. For several moments he

conversed with our hero, respecting the place at which they were to

meet that night; he described the inner and outward harbour accurately,

and the best way for Lieutenant Cooke to steer on leaving the basin

that night, and then covering the casket with a cloth cover, William

Thornton took it under his care, remarking to himself that it was, for

its size, uncommonly heavy.

“I shall go on before you, monsieur,” said Jean Plessis, “till I bring

you in sight of the dock gates. Should you by chance be questioned as

to who the boy is with you, say your superior officer ordered you to

take him with you, and that he is an English lad; they will not attempt

to stop you.”

Madame de Coulancourt was greatly agitated on parting. She embraced

William Thornton as she would had he been her son, and, drawing a ring

from her finger, begged him to keep it in remembrance of her. Our hero

was greatly impressed; he was beginning very early, indeed, to be a

protector to a young girl, scarcely three years his junior; but he felt

proud of the confidence placed in him, and interested beyond measure.

Taking the weeping and trembling Mabel by the hand, they passed out

from the house, Jean Plessis going first to see that all was clear;

then making a sign to William Thornton, they all three proceeded down

the street.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Fact.

CHAPTER IV.

It became very apparent to our hero, after traversing one or two

streets, that there was some great commotion going on in other parts of

the town, for the shouts and outcries from the distance were deafening.

As yet they had passed but few persons, and those seemed all to be

hurrying in one direction.

Toulon at this period contained nearly five thousand inhabitants

within its walls; three parts of this population were Republicans,

and so were the bulk of the fleet. Jean Plessis led the way some

distance ahead, when suddenly, in turning the corner of a street, they

encountered a mob, swearing and shouting furiously; and to the great

astonishment of William Thornton, he perceived that a large body of

the people surrounded Lieutenant Cooke and a few of the Committee, and

were evidently bent upon obstructing their path to the dock gates,

which were now in sight. In a moment the young man and his terrified

charge were pushed out of the road, and the next instant became mingled

with the riotous mob they had so unfortunately stumbled upon. Still

holding Mabel by the hand, the midshipman, a resolute and strong youth

for his age, sturdily strove to gain the side of Lieutenant Cooke[2]

and the Commissioners, who were arguing with the mob; but just then

a ferocious-looking man, with his neck and throat bare, no coat on

his back, but with an apron and a butcher’s knife tied round his

waist, suddenly clutched our hero by the collar, in a terrible grip,

spluttering out:

“Ah, cursed aristocrat Anglais, what are you doing with this boy?”

Without a moment’s hesitation William Thornton drew a pistol from his

pocket, cocked it, and putting it close to the man’s head, said—

“Let go, ruffian, or you are a dead man!”

The surly villain let go his hold with a horrid oath, and the

midshipman, catching his young and terrified companion round the waist,

burst through the startled group surrounding him, and the next instant

was by Lieutenant Cooke’s side, just as a large body of the Committee

and a Royalist guard of marines came up to protect the British envoy.

“Is that you, William?” said the Lieutenant, astonished. “Put up your

pistol; do not let them see you armed. What boy is this?”

“I will tell you, sir, when we get to the boat; but push on for the

dock gates, they are getting furious. See that tall ruffian—I should

like to shoot him—is exciting the mob.”

“How bloodthirsty you are, William,” said the Lieutenant, and then

turning to some of the Commissioners, he urged their getting within the

dock gates as soon as possible. The marines cleared the way, and in a

few minutes they were safe within the gates, but not before the huge

butcher, struggling through the crowd, had aimed a large brick with

violence at our hero, shouting out—

“Take that, cursed aristocrat! I will have your head one of these days!”

The missile missed its intended mark, but knocked down one of the

Commissioners in front. William Thornton would have shot the fellow

instantly, but Lieutenant Cooke pushed him inside the gate with his

little charge, saying—

“By Jove, you _are_ a hot-headed boy; your impetuosity must be

restrained!”

The great gates of the dock basin being closed, kept out the mob, and

the party proceeded quietly along the jetty.

“I fear, Mabel,” said the midshipman, stooping and looking into the

little pale face of his charge, “all this has frightened you very much.”

“Yes,” said the child, in her quiet, sweet voice; “but I am more

frightened about mamma; and, awhile ago, I thought more of you, when

that horrid man seized you, than of myself.”

“Well, please God, Mabel, your mamma will join us to-night. At all

events, all danger to you is over; there is our boat yonder pulling in

for the jetty.”

Lieutenant Cooke, taking our hero by the arm, said, in a low voice—

“Well, how did you get on? and who is that delicate-looking boy?”

“This is the Duchesse De Coulancourt’s little girl,” returned William

Thornton. “We shall take the Duchess up on the beach to-night as we go

by; but I will tell you all when I get on board. What occurred at the

meeting?”

“A precious row, my lad; I thought at one time we should all have

had our throats cut. However, in the end, they signed a declaration,

agreeing to our Admiral’s proposal, so all we have to do is to

get back to our ship, and I suppose in a day or so we shall be in

possession of the town or port.”

On board one of the dismasted craft in the basin, provisions and all

kinds of drinkables were prepared for the English officers and the crew

of the gig, and thither they all proceeded, with several naval officers

of the Royalist party. No one seemed to notice the child; whether they

thought he came in the boat with them or not, William Thornton could

not say; but, leaving the Lieutenant to entertain the French officers,

the midshipman and his _protégée_ sat down in one of the private cabins

of the frigate, and Bill Saunders brought them a share of the repast

from the main cabin.

Mabel recovered her spirits a little when our hero told her that the

Royalists would hold possession of the town, and that the British fleet

would sail into the port in a day or two, so that there would be no

fear of her mamma, even if she was not able to join them that night.

“Ah!” said the little girl; “but what will become of me, in this horrid

dress, if she does not? Are there any females on board your ship?”

“No, Mabel, there are not (luckily,” he added to himself, “or adieu

to discipline); but if by any chance your mamma should be prevented

joining us, I will take you on board the Thetis; Captain Timmins’s wife

and daughter are there. They are going in a day or two to Genoa; they

will, I am sure, take great care of you for a night or two.”

“Oh! dear William,” said the child, anxiously clasping his hand in

hers, “do not let me go from you; put me in any corner near you; I

won’t mind wearing this dress for a day or two, but do not send me

amongst strangers. I look upon you as a brother now.”

Our hero promised all he could promise, but he recollected that, after

all, he was but a midshipman, and one without rank or station, and

entirely depending on his own exertions. However, he tried to keep

up the poor girl’s spirits, and, by chatting to her, keep her from

fretting.

“How long, Mabel,” questioned young Thornton, “were you confined in

that dismal house I found you in?”

“Oh, nearly—let me see—yes, fully a month; sometimes in the dismal

vaults. When good Jean Plessis was out getting food we always went

below, and he closed the trap down over us. Oh, how damp and chill it

was; but we were well wrapped up in blankets, and he never stayed away

more than an hour or two at most.”

“I think I heard your mamma say she escaped from Lyons, and that you

suffered much there?”

“Oh, you can’t think what we endured! You must know we were living

in a very grand château, belonging to mamma’s husband, the Duke de

Coulancourt, who, alas! was beheaded in Paris, for fighting for the

poor king. Oh, my poor mamma, when Jean Plessis came from Paris with

the frightful intelligence, lost her senses. My brother—dear brother

Julian—was furious and distracted. He was only fifteen; he wanted to go

to Paris, but Jean Plessis said we must fly or we should perish, for

the order was to arrest all the Duke’s family. But, alas! mamma was not

able to fly; we moved into Lyons, thinking to be safer there, as they

were all Royalists. I am not able to tell you all mamma suffered whilst

there; she will tell you herself, another time. I am now so frightened

and anxious about her that I can scarcely recollect anything.”

Thus the remainder of the day passed, till Lieutenant Cooke’s

entertainers, officers and all, quitted the ship, leaving the English

officer to make his daring passage through the hostile fleet.

“Now, William, tell me all about your adventure,” said Lieutenant Cooke

to his young companion—little Mabel being fast asleep in a berth, worn

out by fatigue and great anxiety, with the casket placed at her feet.

William Thornton made his superior officer fully acquainted with all

that had occurred, and explained the manner in which they were to take

the Duchesse de Coulancourt on board.

“By Jupiter!” returned Lieutenant Cooke, looking surprised, and not a

little puzzled, “you are a young hero, William, for an adventure with

Royalist duchesses and Republican ruffians, and all of a sudden to

become the protector of a young girl and a valuable casket. Faith! it’s

a very curious affair. What shall we do if circumstances prevent us

pulling along the beach where we may expect to find this unfortunate

lady? We may be suspected by some of the nearest men-of-war; and, if

so, the whole bay along that beach is exposed to their fire. Supposing

we fail in rescuing the mother, what in the name of fate is to be done

with this poor little child? A girl, too, on board a ship with above a

thousand sea bears in her!—nice nurses for a delicate child, eh?”

“I was thinking,” said the midshipman, “if, as you say, we miss

the mother, that she might be received by Captain Timmins’s lady

and daughter. They are on board the Thetis frigate, which is going

to Genoa. The Captain’s wife and daughters are to land at Malta, I

understand.”

“Faith! may be Captain Timmins would not be very much obliged to you

for troubling his good lady with the care of such a delicate little

girl as the poor thing asleep there.”

“She is only delicate from suffering and privation,” said William

Thornton; “besides, she belongs to a good English family, who will

receive her most willingly; and who knows what’s in this casket—the

Duchess said there were jewels of value.”

“Well, by Jove! my lad,” said the good-humoured Lieutenant, “you are

standing up stoutly for your young _protégée_. However, there’s no use

imagining disasters that may not occur. Her mother may be rescued;

and, if not, we must do our best for the child, and try to get her

to England. Now I think of it, there are two transports returning to

England at anchor outside, and lots of women on board one of them, so,

at least, I heard. However, let us get ready for a start; it’s nearly

time, so wake up your little charge.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock ere the boat left the basin to return

to the Victory. Mabel Arden, carefully muffled in a boat-cloak, and

keeping as close to her young protector as she dared, was extremely

anxious, and won upon the good-nature of Lieutenant Cooke by her

gentle, affectionate manner, and sweet, interesting face. It was a very

still, fine night, but fortunately much overcast. Having passed out

into the inner harbour, the men pulled steadily, and without speaking a

word, till they cleared the dangerous vicinity of some of the vessels

of war anchored near the dock basin. Without being challenged, they

gained the outward harbour, avoiding the line of heavy ships anchored

in double rows. William Thornton kept the boat away from the shore. As

there is no tide in Toulon harbour, or in the Mediterranean, of more

than a few inches, and that merely caused by peculiar gales of wind,

they were able to row close along the beach. It was scarcely possible

to distinguish objects on the shore, so, for fear those they expected

might miss them, a dark lantern was opened, with its light towards the

beach. They could distinctly distinguish the huge hulls and masts of

the nearest men-of-war, several of them not being more than a couple

of hundred yards from them. As they pulled slowly along, they suddenly

beheld a bright light ashore; it was held up for a moment only, and

then all became dark again, but at the same moment a hail from the

nearest ship came over the still waters.

“Pull in, my men,” said the Lieutenant. “By Jove! we are seen, and

shall have a shot next.”

The next moment the boat’s keel touched the beach, close beside a

ruined quay. A man came forward. The midshipman knew him at once; it

was Jean Plessis. Mabel threw off her cloak, exclaiming eagerly, in

French—

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Where is mamma, Monsieur Jean Plessis?”

The man sprang into the boat, saying, “Make way out of the harbour,

monsieur; we are betrayed. I will explain—ha! there goes a gun.” The

same moment a ball struck the ruined wall some four paces from them,

knocking a heap of rubbish about, and covering them with a cloud of

splinters.

“Push off—by Jove! that’s close shaving!”—said Lieutenant Cooke; “and

give way with a will.”

On flew the light boat, and again a flash, and a prolonged report

pealed over the water, the shot drenching them with spray, as it

actually bounded over them, and tore along the beach afterwards;

but, vigorously urged along by the hardy crew, they turned a long,

projecting point of high rock, that effectually sheltered them from

further danger. The agonised Mabel, bursting into tears, implored Jean

Plessis to say what had become of her mother.

“My poor child,” said the Frenchman, with great feeling in voice and

manner, “don’t be alarmed; there is no fear of the Duchess’s life, but

they have carried her off.”

“Oh, my God! I shall never see mamma again. Why, why did I leave her?

If they have taken her away they would have taken me too.”

“How has this occurred?” said Lieutenant Cooke, while the midshipman

strove to soothe the weeping girl.

“I will tell you, monsieur,” said Jean Plessis, “and then you must put

me on shore, for I will never cease till I trace madame to where her

enemies have taken her. She has not been, I feel certain, carried off

by the revolutionary party, but by private enemies, who have contrived

to track us to Toulon.”

“Why do you think that, Monsieur Plessis?” asked Lieutenant Cooke.

“I will tell you, monsieur,” replied the Frenchman. “We had scarcely

passed the gates, and were making the best of our way to gain

the appointed spot—the ruined quay—when from behind a low hedge

half-a-dozen men sprang out. I was instantly knocked down by a blow

from the butt end of a carbine, and rolled into a ditch. I was quite

sensible, but remained still. They had seized the Duchess; she did not

scream nor attempt to fly. I then heard one of the men say, ‘Bring up

the Berlin;’ the next moment a calèche with two horses came out from

behind the hedge through a gateway. Madame was put inside, and then

the same man said, ‘Parbleu! I forgot; have you finished that fellow

Plessis? Do not leave him to be hunting us out, I pray you; it’s bad

enough to lose the little girl.’ As soon as I heard these words, I

crept along the ditch, and fled as fast as I could, to save those

villains the trouble of knocking me on the head.”

“Have you any idea,” said Lieutenant Cooke, “who these ruffians are?”

“I suspect they are employed by a kinsman of the late Duke and next

heir, who would have inherited the property, had not the Duchess’s

husband, some five years ago, made over the whole of his property to

her, having had the power to will it to whom he pleased. This kinsman’s

name is Ganel-Maria Montaut. He will not bring the Duchess to the

guillotine, because, if she loses her life, the estates will be seized

by the nation. Collet de Herbois would destroy her from motives of

hatred and vengeance, she having scorned his daring proposals, after

her husband’s death.”

“Then what do you think the best to do with this poor child?”

questioned William Thornton, anxiously, as the keel of the boat

grounded on a shingly beach.

“Get her as soon as possible to England, where she has wealthy

relatives,” said Jean Plessis, “and God will reward you. The Ardens are

of good family; besides, there are jewels of great value in that casket

you have. As to me, I will never cease till I trace Madame la Duchesse,

and if I can I will communicate with Mademoiselle Arden hereafter in

England.”

So saying, he took the weeping girl in his arms and kissed her

affectionately, and then, laying his hand on William Thornton’s arm,

said emphatically—

“Never desert this little girl whilst you have life and power to

assist her;” the next moment he sprang on shore, waved his hand, and

disappeared in the obscurity of the night.

Mabel burst into a flood of tears, and putting her little arms round

young Thornton’s neck, exclaimed—

“Oh! my mother! my poor mother; shall I never see her again? But

you—you will not desert poor Mabel?”

William Thornton kissed the cold cheek of the little girl, for whom he

already felt the affection of a brother, saying—

“Do not give way to grief, Mabel; God, who has protected you through

such perils, will protect you now, and restore your dear mother to you.

Call me brother, for I will show you all the affection a brother can.”

“Well, upon my honour,” said the Lieutenant, “if this is not a romance

I know not what is. Give way, my lads, give way, and let us get on

board, and thank our stars that one of those round shot did not stop

our logs.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Bill Saunders, pulling the stroke oar, and making

the tough ash bend to his powerful arm, whilst muttering to himself,

“yes, blow me if I wouldn’t be a father to the little thing myself.”

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Lieutenant Cooke was arrested in the streets of Toulon by the mob,

but was in the end allowed to proceed to his boat.—_James’s Naval

History_.

CHAPTER V.

In less than an hour the boat ranged up alongside of the huge Victory,

towering above them in the dim light like a mighty fortress, her

lofty masts being clearly defined in the clear blue sky. Mabel was in

trembling agitation as to what would be done with her, her little heart

beating with anxiety.

“You cannot take this child away to-night,” said Lieutenant Cooke to

our hero, “you had better place her under the care of the steward; he

is a steady, middle-aged man, and very kind-hearted. He will put her

in his own berth, and to-morrow I will speak to the Admiral about her.

It’s a strange adventure altogether.”

They ascended the side of the ship, Bill Saunders carrying Mabel in his

arms as tenderly as an infant. The next moment the little girl found

herself standing on the deck of the Victory.

The sight of this monstrous ship, her huge masts towering to the sky,

the lights here and there flashing from the battle-lanterns, showed to

the astonished child many incomprehensible things. The groups of hardy

tars hovering round filled the mind of the young girl with awe, and,

trembling and dismayed, she grasped her young protector’s arm, and

gazed up into his face with her large, intelligent eyes, so full of all

her little heart felt, that William Thornton began to feel almost as

much as she did.

Lieutenant Cooke returned with the steward.

“Now, my dear child,” said the officer, “we place you for the night

under the care of the steward, he will show you every attention. He is

a father himself, and will feel for you as for one of his own children

in a like situation.”

“To-morrow,” whispered the midshipman, “you will be placed under the

care of a kind lady and her daughters.”

Poor Mabel, scarcely able to keep from weeping, kissed the midshipman’s

hand, and bade him good-night in a voice that trembled with emotion,

and then Mr. Osborn, the steward, took her under his care.

William Thornton, who never quitted his hold of the casket, proceeded

to his berth, and locked it up carefully in his chest. Several of his

comrades tormented him with inquiries, but hastily swallowing his

supper and a glass of grog, he tumbled into his berth, turning a deaf

ear to all their questions.

Midshipmen always sleep under every variety of disturbance, either of

body or mind; so William Thornton slept in ten minutes as if he had not

had a night’s rest for twelve months.

How long he rested he knew not, but he was awoke by the voice of

Charles Pole shouting in his ear, “You are wanted, William, in the

state room.”

He sprang out of bed, and began dressing as if for a wager.

“Why did you let me sleep so long, Charley, eh?”

“Because Lieutenant Cooke said you wanted a good snooze, as you had

none the night before. Why, Thornton, you are likely to turn out quite

a hero of romance; there’s Saunders been spinning a frightful yarn of

your having shot a lot of Republicans and released two princesses, and

I don’t know how many duchesses, and gained a casket of crown jewels.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Charley. I’m off. I’ll tell you all about it

when I come back. I’ll get Saunders’ grog stopped for spinning such

confounded yarns,” and running up the stairs, he made his way towards

the Admiral’s state room, but O’Loughlin interrupted his course,

shaking him by the hand.

“Faith, you’re a broth of a boy, William, to be galivanting duchesses

and distressed damsels before you are fledged. Go on and prosper, by

the time your beard grows you’ll do. But be off with you, and mind your

P’s and Q’s before the Admiral.”

He next encountered Lieutenant Cooke coming from the Admiral’s cabin.

“Well, Thornton,” said the Lieutenant, good-humouredly, “how do you

feel now? Your little _protégée_ has been making a hundred inquiries

after you; she is sitting at breakfast with his lordship, who, strange

to say, after listening to her account of herself, seems to know a

great deal about her family. But go in, they are waiting for you.”

The young midshipman entered the Admiral’s state room, and at once

perceived little Mabel sitting at the breakfast table with the

kind-hearted old Admiral. On his entrance she sprang from her chair

with an exclamation of joy, and ran to him, taking his hand, saying—

“Oh! dear brother William, how glad I am to see you! if my dear mamma

were here how happy I should feel!” and then with childish innocence,

quite ignorant of the etiquette between an Admiral and a midshipman,

she added, “have you breakfasted? Do come and have some, his lordship

is so kind to me, and knows who I am.”

William Thornton’s face flushed as he looked into the Admiral’s fine

expressive features, and Lord Hood, who was then in his sixty-ninth

year, said with a good-humoured smile—

“Sit down, Master Thornton, sit down; I dare say you have not

breakfasted, and I wish to ask you a few questions.”

William Thornton sat down next Mabel, eyeing a cold turkey and a ham

with a side glance. The steward was in attendance as well as the

Admiral’s own special attendant, and very shortly our hero found

himself doing justice to fare very rarely in those days exposed to the

always voracious appetite of a midshipman.

He then, at the Admiral’s request, gave a distinct account of the

events of the previous night, to which the Admiral listened with a

great deal of interest expressed on his features.

“If I am not very much mistaken,” said Lord Hood, “this young lady is

the daughter of a once very dear friend, though a much younger man than

myself at the time of our intimacy. Do you remember your father, my

dear young lady?” asked the Admiral, looking at Mabel.

“No, monsieur,” said Mabel; “I only remember my second father, the

Duke; he was so good and so kind, and so loved mamma.”

“This young lady,” continued Lord Hood, “is, no doubt, the daughter of

Hugh Granby Arden, whose widow I know married a French duke. I believe

she was induced to do so under very peculiar circumstances. If I am

right, her daughter is a cousin of Master Howard Etherton.”

William Thornton started and looked surprised.

“Ah!” said the Admiral, “I see you are not aware that Howard Etherton’s

father, before he came to the title and estates of the Ethertons, was

called Arden; in fact, he was brother to this young lady’s father.

However, there is no time, neither is this a period for investigating

these circumstances. What we must now do, is to procure a suitable

asylum for Miss Arden till she can be restored to her mother, or taken

to England and placed under the care of her uncle. Therefore, you will

at once take her on board the Thetis frigate, Captain Timmins has his

wife and daughters with him. His good lady will take charge of the

child, and provide her with proper garments; one of his girls is about

the same age. But stay! I will write a few lines to Captain Timmins; he

will remain with the fleet till we take possession of Toulon, which I

expect to do in a few days.”

The young girl got up, and going over to the Admiral, took his hand,

and would have kissed it, but he stooped and pressed her little pale

cheek, saying he felt much interested about her, and would, when he had

an opportunity, cause inquiries to be made after her mother.

An hour afterwards William Thornton, with Mabel by his side, was

steering the Victory’s gig, pulled by four seamen, for the Thetis

frigate.

Captain Timmins was an exceedingly kind man, and a thorough good

sailor. Nevertheless, we must admit, though nominated captain of his

ship, as long as his wife remained on board he was only second in

command. He was a small, spare man, with a mild, patient expression

of countenance. Mrs. Captain Timmins (she always insisted on being

styled captain, firmly believing that if necessary she could command,

and actually work the Thetis) was in person the very opposite of her

spouse, being tall and portly in person; carried her head high, and

always interlarded her conversations with sea terms, not always,

however, made use of in the right places. Notwithstanding a few follies

of this sort, she was in reality a very kind and generous person; she

was not more than five or six-and-thirty, and had a very pleasing

countenance. She was also fond of dress.

It was a fine, lovely morning, though somewhat hot, the quarter-decks

of the various ships were protected by snow-white awnings. A light

westerly breeze played over the bright blue sea, the high land to the

south and east of Toulon looked almost within grasp, so clear and fine

was the atmosphere.

Mrs. Captain Timmins was walking the quarter-deck with her two

daughters, her worthy spouse looking through his glass at the various

ships of war.

“What boat is that pulling for us, Timmins?” asked the Captain’s lady.

“It’s a gig from the Victory, with a mid and a little boy in it,” said

the Captain.

“Bless me!” returned the lady, “what little fellow can that be, the

Victory has no little boys on board?”

“We shall soon know,” replied her spouse, “for here they are alongside.”

The ladder was let down, and, leading Mabel by the hand, William

Thornton advanced along the deck of the Thetis, and touching his cap to

the Captain, presented the Admiral’s note.

In the meantime the mother and daughters were scrutinising the pale and

thin face of poor, sad little Mabel.

“Dear me! Very singular—very; quite romantic. Poor little thing!”

muttered Captain Timmins, quite loud enough for his good lady and

daughters to hear.

“Mary, my dear,” he said aloud, finishing the perusal of the note from

the Admiral, “his lordship has sent this little girl,” looking at

Mabel, “to stay with us for a few days.”

“Bless me!” said the Captain’s wife, “little girl! Do you mean to

say this little thin boy is a girl?—if so, she is badly rigged, not

ship-shape.”

“Exactly, my dear, exactly. The Admiral wishes you to make her

ship-shape, and be kind to her for a few days. She is the daughter

of a duchess, and fled from Toulon for her life, and this young

gentleman—Master Thornton—was mainly instrumental in saving her life.”

“If she were the daughter of a peasant,” said the lady with a grand

air, but a most kind look, as she advanced and took Mabel’s hand,

“being unfortunate, she demands our attention, under the flag of old

England. Beg pardon, my dear; do you speak English?” asked Mrs. Captain

Timmins, afraid that the fine speech she was about to make would be

only for the edification of her husband, the second Lieutenant of the

Thetis, who was standing near, and a solitary mid, who was regarding

Mrs. Captain Timmins at a safe distance, for it must be confessed she

kept the mids in awful subjection.

“Oh, yes, madame,” said Mabel; “my father was English, and so is mamma.”

“Dear me!” said the Captain’s wife, surprised, “an English duchess

amongst those horrid Republicans; but come into my state room, Angelina

and Seraphina are about the same height, and you shall be thoroughly

re-fitted and rigged from their stores.” Then, looking into the

thoughtful, handsome features of William Thornton, whose fine, manly

figure struck her at once, she continued: “And you, young gentleman,

accompany us. I will order the steward to place refreshments on the

table; you will then tell me all about this dear, sensible-looking

child, whom I wish to present to you before you leave, in a trim more

becoming her age and sex.”

Taking Mabel by the hand, the entire party descended into the main

cabin. The two girls then took their young companion into their private

cabin, and the Captain and his lady, having ordered wine to be placed

on the table, requested our hero to satisfy their curiosity respecting

his adventures the preceding night.

Whilst the midshipman was satisfying their curiosity, little Mabel was

undergoing the necessary metamorphosis from a little boy into a very

sweet, interesting little girl. Captain Timmins’s two daughters were

kind and engaging, and they soon succeeded in winning the confidence of

our poor heroine. When introduced into the cabin, all were delighted

with the change. Thornton was surprised, and soon after rose to take

leave of his little _protegée_. The tears were in Mabel’s eyes, but she

bore the parting with fortitude, for the midshipman promised to visit

her whenever he could. It was not without pain that he kissed her cheek

and bade her farewell.

Returning on board the Victory, Thornton’s comrades gathered around

him, fully determined to hear his adventures in full.

“What a racket they all make,” observed Master Etherton, with a sneer,

“about a brat of a girl, because she calls herself the daughter of

a duchess—a French duchess. There are no titles in France now—an

adventuress, most likely.”

“You are very likely to make a very great mistake, Howard Etherton,”

remarked our hero, quietly; “this child is an English girl, and, I am

told, bears the same name as your father did before he took that of

Etherton.”

“What’s that you say, Master Thornton?” exclaimed young Etherton, with

a start, and changing colour. “My father’s name was Arden—as good a

name as any in England; but we knew of no other branch of our family

bearing that name.”

“You are in error, nevertheless, Master Etherton,” returned our hero,

“for this young lady’s mother, the Duchesse de Coulancourt, had

previously been married to a Mr. Granby Arden; the Admiral knew him

intimately, and this little girl we are talking about is his child,

Mabel Arden.”

“A confounded impostor!” passionately exclaimed young Etherton, with a

very pale cheek, and with a vehemence that quite amazed his comrades.

“Mr. Granby Arden was my father’s brother. He was never married, and

died abroad; so that, as I said before, this duchess is an impostor,

and her daughter a nameless brat, thrust upon you, seeing what a soft

head you possessed,” and he laughed mockingly as he said the words.

“I have a great mind to try,” said William Thornton, angrily, “whether

your head possesses the same qualification that I know your heart does;

and if you use such language again in my hearing I will do so, let the

consequences be what they may. I have done it once before, but if I

have to repeat the lesson you will remember it.”

“Be the powers of war! what’s all this squabbling amongst you unruly

youngsters?” exclaimed Lieutenant O’Loughlin, who, unobserved, had

heard the whole dialogue, and who knew very well that if our hero

promised a fellow mid a thrashing, he would faithfully stick to his

word. Now the Admiral was extremely strict with his midshipmen, and

always severely punished both parties who infringed the rules. Fighting

was on no account allowed.

“Well, Mr. O’Loughlin,” said William Thornton, “what would you have me

do? Here is a young lady, protected by the Admiral, who was an intimate

friend of her father’s, and Master Etherton takes it into his head to

call her mother an impostor, and herself a nameless brat.”

“Oh, by the Immortals! he’ll put his foot in it in earnest,” said

the Lieutenant; and, turning to the cowed Howard Etherton, he added,

“Faith, my lad, you must have more pluck than I ever gave you credit

for, thus to give the lie to his lordship.”

“I did not give the lie, Mr. O’Loughlin,” said Howard Etherton, “to

anybody. I spoke to the best of my belief. I ought to know more of my

family than any one here.”

“Bedad, you’re right there, my lad; for the devil a hair any one here

cares for your family. You may be cousin-German to Master Noah, for

all I know; but, if the Admiral knew that a young lady he acknowledges

and protects was called an impostor and a brat, be gor! I wouldn’t be

in your skin for a trifle. But come with me, William; I want to talk

to you a bit;” and, taking the midshipman by the arm, he forced him to

leave his companions.

At the expiration of two or three days, the British fleet became in

a state of intense expectation and excitement, the Admiral having

determined to land troops and take possession of the forts commanding

the ships in the harbour; for intelligence had arrived of the surrender

of Marseilles to General Carteau and his army, whilst Rear-Admiral

St. Julian manned the forts to the left of the harbour to oppose the

entrance of the British fleet.

Captain Elphinstone, of the Robust, was entrusted with the command of

the expedition against the forts, with fifteen hundred soldiers and two

hundred marines and sailors; Lieutenant O’Loughlin and our hero being

permitted by the Admiral to volunteer on that expedition. This was the

third time William Thornton was exposed to the fire of an enemy’s guns.

It was not without a quicker pulsation of the heart, both from the

excitement and the novelty of the affair, that young Thornton leaped

from the boat upon the beach, and gazed up at the heights of Toulon

that they were to storm, which were full six hundred feet high, rugged,

and, to judge from the crumbling of the rocks under their feet,

extremely difficult of ascent.

“Hurrah! by dad!” said Lieutenant O’Loughlin to his young companion,

the midshipman, “this is one foot forward and two backwards. By the

powers! I was near going with that big fellow,” as a huge rock gave

way under his feet, and thundered down with a cloud of dust upon those

following, forcing them to jump nimbly out of the way.

The forts, keeping up an incessant cannonade, killed and wounded many;

but still the hardy sailors pressed onwards with incessant cheering; at

times gaily laughing as a comrade clutched at a rock which gave way,

and he and it rolled down together for several yards.

“You’re a trump, William,” said the Lieutenant, as a ball tore up the

ground within a yard of the daring boy, who, with a bound, sprang over

a deep fissure, and waved his cap to some of the tars of the Victory

to follow, whilst a cloud of dust, stones, and gravel covered the

ascending party. But the forts were gallantly stormed, and, after a

fierce contest, the British remained in possession.

“You are a brave and gallant lad,” said Captain Elphinstone, putting

his hand upon young Thornton’s shoulder, as, besmeared with dust and

clay, without covering to the head, and his jacket cut in several

places by musket balls, he made his appearance before the Captain,

having just returned from bearing a message to the officer commanding

the troops through a fierce fire of musketry—“Go on as you have begun,

and, if God spares you, you will be an honour to your country.”

It was a glorious sight, the following day, standing on the ramparts of

the fort, to behold the entrance of the British fleet into the outward

harbour of Toulon, where they came to an anchor.

CHAPTER VI.

As strict matter of history, we must refrain from recording the

events that followed the taking of Toulon by the British. It will be

sufficient to say as a midshipman William Thornton so distinguished

himself, receiving only one slight wound, that he won the approbation

and elicited the admiration of not only Vice-Admiral Lord Hood, but

several of the other commanders. During the proceedings, Sir Sidney

Smith arrived from Smyrna in a small latine rigged vessel, which he

had purchased and manned with over forty British seamen. In storming

a fort, the gallantry of William Thornton attracted Sir Sidney, and

chancing to render him an important service during the attack, he

afterwards solicited the Admiral’s permission to retain the midshipman

with him; and finally so satisfied was Sir Sidney with his skill and

cool courage, that he entrusted the command of his little craft, the

Swallow, to our hero.

Whilst the British were in possession of Toulon, William Thornton

exerted himself to the utmost in endeavours to trace the unfortunate

Duchesse de Coulancourt and Jean Plessis, but in vain. The frigate

commanded by Captain Timmins had sailed for Genoa and Malta; but little

Mabel had been placed in a cottage without Toulon, under the care of

a Royalist family of distinction, a Madame Volney and daughters, who

were very kind to her. Our hero visited her several times, and the joy

of the little girl was great, indeed, when she beheld him. She wept

incessantly after her mother; but though pale and thin, she appeared to

be improving in health.

At length the British Admiral found it necessary to evacuate Toulon,

and then a scene of indescribable confusion and dismay took place, for

the unfortunate Royalists well knew the fate that awaited them from

the savage Commissioners of the Republic, and that monster, the deputy

Carrier. Madame Volney, her two daughters, and Mabel were received on

board the Robust, whilst nearly four hundred fugitives were taken on

board the Princess Royal, bearing the flag of Rear-Admiral Goodall.

The important service of destroying the ships and magazines was

entrusted to Captain Sir Sidney Smith. Our hero and Charles Pole, who

accompanied him in the Swallow tender, prepared to attend upon Sir

Sidney in his fearfully dangerous expedition. It was now the month

of December, the weather wild and stormy, the wind north-west and

extremely cold.

Sir Sidney, attended by the Swallow, three Spanish and three English

gun-boats—one commanded by Lieutenant O’Loughlin, proceeded to the

arsenal to prepare whatever combustible materials were required for the

work of devastation he was bent upon. By this time the dockyards had

substituted the tricolour for the white cockade.

“By Jove, William,” said Charles Pole, “they have turned loose all

the galley slaves, and they say there are eight hundred of them; they

seem inclined to commence hostilities. Those gentlemen, I suppose, now

consider themselves worthy citizens of regenerated France.”

“We’ll soon show them, Charley, my boy, a sight that will rapidly

develop their ideas of liberty and equality;” and forthwith he placed

the little tender in a position so that her guns could completely

command those on shore. Lieutenant O’Loughlin did the same with his

gun-boat. This proceeding awed the turbulent galley slaves. Whilst

performing this manœuvre, the two boats were exposed to the shots and

shells fired from the fort and the neighbouring hills, which Charles

Pole declared was throwing a light upon the affair. Now and then the

Republicans, posted in the houses, opened fire upon Sir Sidney’s party,

busy at their operations, which induced our hero to try the effect of

one of his guns pointed at the upper storey of a house, the inhabitants

of which had been remarkably civil and liberal with their shots. The

ball went crashing through the wall, knocking the bricks and mortar

in a shower into their faces. This dispersed them in double quick

time; but as the shades of night rapidly concealed the movements of

those on shore, hundreds came down from the hills, and commenced rapid

discharges of musketry.

“Come, my lads,” said the Swallow’s commander, “they are getting ready;

just give them a dose of grape.”

“Ay, ay, sir; we will pepper the rascals’ jackets,” said Bill Saunders,

applying the match to a gun well pointed, which drove the assailants

into the wildest confusion. “Well done, Swallow; go it, my lads!” was

shouted from some of the party at work ashore; and then the cry arose,

“Here’s the Vulcan!”

William Thornton turned round, and sure enough beheld the Vulcan

fire-ship, Captain Stacey, entering the basin, towed by several boats.

The Commander placed the Vulcan, in a masterly manner, right across the

tier of the men of war. About two hours afterwards the Swallow and the

gun-boats were ordered to withdraw. They had scarcely receded a few

hundred yards, when the trains laid to the different magazines were

fired, and the flames ascended in terrific grandeur; but unfortunately

the fire-ship, the Vulcan, from an accident, also ignited, and burst

into a sheet of flame awful to behold.

The effect of this tremendous light cast over the whole adjoining

waters, and lighting up the basin and town near it like noon-day, was

extraordinary.

The Republicans, now distinctly seeing the situation of the British,

set up furious outcries and shouts of vengeance, opening, at the same

time, a terrific fire.

“Well, this is hot work enough, Charley,” said our hero, regarding the

scene before him with wonder and admiration. They were within fifty

yards of the Union gun-boat, Lieutenant O’Loughlin; and astern of her

was another gun-boat. So vivid and brilliant were the flames, that

every feature of the countenances of those on board the boats were

distinctly recognisable. At this moment, as our hero was ordering the

crew to drop the trailed latine sail forward, an awful and astounding

explosion took place. The Swallow reeled under the shock, apparently

lifted from the waters and dashed down again, the crew thrown one

over the other. Regaining his feet, bewildered by the shock, William

Thornton perceived the Union sinking, and the other gun-boat astern

actually in pieces, having been blown into the air.[3]

Immediately, our hero leaped into the boat they were towing, and

reached the side of the sinking gun-boat, picking up Lieutenant

O’Loughlin and the rest of the crew, excepting three that had been

previously killed.

“Am I all together, William?” exclaimed Lieutenant O’Loughlin; “for,

by St. Patrick, I felt as if every limb I had went sporting different

ways. What was it—an earthquake?”

“I can’t say; it shook us nearly to pieces, dismounted our two guns,

and rolled our mainyard out of us.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Sir Sidney Smith, pulling up in an eight-oared

gig, “that so few lives have been sacrificed by that horrible

explosion.”

“What was the cause of the explosion, Sir Sidney?” demanded Lieutenant

O’Loughlin, giving himself a shake to satisfy himself that he was all

right.

“Those accursed Spaniards,” said Captain Smith, “instead of scuttling

the Iris frigate, set fire to her, and she had some thousand barrels of

gunpowder on board. But make way for the basin; we must complete what

those Spaniards have only partly begun.”

The wind had now lulled, but numerous boats took the vessels in tow;

but, on again approaching the basin, they found the boom was thrown

across the narrow entrance; and such an incessant volley of musketry

was kept up, that they were compelled to abandon the enterprise.

As Charles Pole stood beside young Thornton, he received a musket ball

in his left shoulder, that threw him on the deck; and as the midshipman

stooped to raise him, O’Loughlin, who was standing directly behind him,

received a slight wound on the side of the head.

“Bad cess to you,” said the Irishman, as he bound a handkerchief

round his head, and assisted William Thornton to raise Charles Pole,

whom they wanted to take below; but he would not listen to them. So,

stanching the wound as well as they could, he remained on deck.

Having performed all they possibly could, and fired the two

seventy-fours, the Hero and the Themistocles, whose flames added to

the horrors of the scene, though Sir Sidney humanely landed all their

crews, they were now repairing to rejoin the ships outside, when

another terrific explosion took place, by the blowing up of the powder

vessel, the frigate Montreal. The little Swallow and her boats were at

that moment in the midst of a horrible shower of falling timbers, which

caused the water surrounding them to foam and boil as if a volcano

was beneath; yet, singular to relate, they received not the slightest

injury.

The scene at this moment was awfully grand and horrible. The two

seventy-fours in the inner road were in a pyramid of flame, which

lighted up the shores on each side with a vivid distinctness. The

heights were crowded with human beings, and the various forts were

blazing away, though doing very little damage.

In the midst of this terrific scene, the troops were rapidly evacuating

the town, under the able management of Captain Elphinstone. Numbers

of boats were towing out the Courageux, whilst the British ship the

Conflagration was set on fire, it being impossible to get her out.

When the unfortunate Royalist inhabitants found that the British were

evacuating the town, they deserted their houses and every article they

possessed, and a scene commenced which those who witnessed could never

forget—a fearful massacre that stained Republican France with shame

and reproach to future times. On the way to the shore the wretched

fugitives were cut in two by the balls showered after them—mothers,

with infants clinging to their breasts, were cut mercilessly to pieces;

neither sex nor age were spared by those inhuman butchers. To the

honour of our countrymen, let it be remembered that above 5,640 men,

women, and children, were received, and every attention paid them, on

board the British vessels of war.

Amidst all these horrors, the little Swallow, Sir Sidney Smith’s

latine-rigged tender, pursued her way to her anchorage outside, fired

upon as it passed by the two forts, Bolognier and Aiguilette; but the

shot being ill-directed, did her no mischief.

Thus ended the famous expedition against Toulon. We leave the readers

of history to form their own judgment with respect to its utility, and

the good it caused to either England or Royalist France.

The following day William Thornton obtained permission to visit little

Mabel on board the Robust.

The Robust was commanded by Captain Keith Elphinstone, as brave and

kind an officer as any in the fleet. He had noticed the gallantry of

our hero the preceding night, and knew that Sir Sidney Smith had taken

a most especial liking to him. There were over three hundred unhappy

fugitives, deprived of everything but the garments on their backs, on

board the Robust; numbers of them were assembled on the decks, gazing

upon the land they were soon to leave for ever, others for long years.

Madame Volney, her two daughters, and Mabel Arden, had a cabin to

themselves. Madame was the widow of Rear-Admiral Volney, a most

determined Royalist, who perished on the first breaking out of the

Revolution, whilst in Paris, attending upon the King, whom he earnestly

implored to fly and trust himself to the fleet, which, at that time,

was almost entirely in favour of the monarch.

Madame Volney, luckily, was received on board the Robust before the

evacuation of the town, and was able to secure a considerable amount of

property in ready money, many valuables and jewels.

She knew the Duchesse de Coulancourt by name, having heard of her

misfortunes and persecutions in Lyons; she therefore gladly and kindly

received her daughter under her protection. Both her own daughters

were grown up—one was seventeen the other twenty—both amiable and

kind-hearted girls.

It is not very often that midshipmen are noticed by Captains of

seventy-four gun ships, but Captain Elphinstone was an exception.

He was remarkably kind to all his young gentlemen. Prepossessed in

favour of our hero, he received him with great cordiality, spoke of

the proceedings of the previous night, and congratulated him on his

singular escape from the blowing-up of the Iris. Our hero answered

all Captain Elphinstone’s questions modestly, but with a manly, open

manner that greatly pleased him. The Captain was not aware that

the little girl under the protection of Madame Volney was English.

William Thornton, therefore, gave the Captain a brief outline of her

unfortunate story, and the manner in which he had become acquainted

with her.

“Oh! I understand now,” said Captain Elphinstone; “you, then, are the

midshipman that accompanied Lieutenant Cooke into the town, and who

behaved so well on that occasion; I heard that a midshipman from the

Victory did accompany the Lieutenant, but I did not hear the name.”

After some more questions on the subject of little Mabel, he was

permitted to descend to the cabin to see her.

As he had several times visited Madame Volney when residing in her

cottage without the town, he was no stranger.

As usual, the little girl flew to his side, embracing him with the

warmest affection, looking up into his handsome features, with tears in

her eyes, saying—

“Oh, dear brother! how rejoiced I am to see you alive and well. All

last night I could not close my eyes; the terrible noise of the firing,

the frightful glare of the flames, seen from our cabin windows,

terrified us to death; and I guessed you were in the midst of it all,

and I prayed that you might be spared.”

“That is quite true, Mr. Thornton,” said Madame Volney, with a sigh;

“none of us could sleep, or indeed lie down; the thoughts of the

horrors enacting on shore, the misery we knew our poor defenceless

countrymen and women were suffering, made our hearts ache; and then,

when the boats came alongside with the unhappy fugitives, and we heard

their cries and lamentations, our sufferings nearly equalled theirs.”

“This dear child did nothing but think of you,” said Mademoiselle

Agatha Volney, the youngest daughter, a very pretty and engaging girl,

and who looked upon our hero with surprise and admiration, that one so

young and so gentle in manner and appearance could be mixed up amid

such horrible scenes as the preceding night must have witnessed.

“I fear indeed,” observed our hero, “that hundreds of unfortunate

Royalists suffered last night, and most unfortunate it was that we

were forced to evacuate the town; but with the force remaining at the

disposal of the Admiral, it was utterly impossible, I understand, to

hold the place.”

The conversation then turned upon the future proceedings of the British

fleet, and what was to become of the ill-fated fugitives on board the

British ships. Madame Volney declared it was her intention to procure

a passage to London in some merchant vessel, and proposed to our hero

that Mabel should continue with her till she should be claimed by her

relatives in England.

Poor Mabel could scarcely refrain from tears.

“Is there no hope, then,” she anxiously exclaimed, “of hearing some

intelligence of my beloved mamma? Oh! are we never to meet again?”

“Do not grieve, dear Mabel,” soothingly urged William Thornton; “though

we may be baffled here in gaining some trace of her, yet depend on it

Jean Plessis, faithful and devoted as he is, will never rest till he

comes on the track of those who carried her off. She will know you

are safe, and taken to your relatives in England, and, when released

herself, she will no doubt seek to reach England to rejoin you.”

Mabel listened and sighed. It was a bad prospect for the poor girl;

and when William Thornton kissed her, and, with great affection in his

manner and tone, bade her and Madame Volney farewell for a time, she

burst into a passionate flood of tears, and, running into her berth,

hid her face upon her pillow.

“She is a most sensitive child,” said Madame Volney’s daughter; “and

though only twelve years old, has all the thoughts and feelings of a

far maturer age.”

“Well, I trust and hope,” said the midshipman, “that time will do

its usual work, and reduce the violence of her present feelings. She

is very young; and if her relatives receive her kindly, it will tend

greatly to obliterate the memory of the past.”

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Fact. See James’s “Naval History.”

CHAPTER VII.

A day or two after our hero’s visit to Mabel, he received orders to

attend the Admiral, who required his presence in the cabin.

Lord Hood was alone, sitting at a table covered with papers, letters,

and dispatches. His Lordship looked up, pointed with the pen in his

hand to a seat, and then finished the letter he was employed upon when

our hero entered. His secretary, the moment before, had left the cabin.

After a few minutes, Lord Hood looked up, and laying down his pen, said—

“Well, Master Thornton, how is your little _protégée_, Miss Arden?”

“Greatly grieved, my Lord; she continues to bewail the disappearance of

her mother, and takes her lonely situation much to heart.”

“Yes, poor child!” said the Admiral in a kind, thoughtful tone, “she

must feel her orphan state. I am interested in her, for her father did

me a great service at one time—as important a service as one man can

render another; I would, therefore, befriend his child.”

“Pardon me, my Lord,” timidly observed our hero; “but Master Howard

Etherton declares that Mr. Hugh Granby Arden, his uncle, was never

married, and died abroad.”

“Then he states that which is not the fact,” returned Lord Hood,

sternly; “at least, with respect to his not being married. I was aware

he died abroad—he died in France. However, I sent for you to let you

know that I have appointed Lieutenant O’Loughlin to take the command of

the French eighteen-gun corvette Babet, captured in Toulon. He is to

take her to England, and will sail in company with the other captured

ships. This is, of course, only a temporary command, and I will also

place you in her.”

William Thornton’s cheek flushed with delight, as he started from his

seat with surprise.

“The Babet, however,” continued Lord Hood, “has scarcely half her

proper number of guns, for she was fitting out when seized; and her

complement of men must be small, for we cannot spare more. I have

communicated with Admiral Volney’s widow, and she is quite rejoiced

to take her passage in the Babet to England; Miss Arden will thus be

protected and taken care of, and you will have the satisfaction of

personally seeing her restored to her relatives, which I am sure will

gratify you exceedingly.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” put in the midshipman with enthusiasm, “you could

not confer upon me a greater favour, and I trust I shall be worthy of

your Lordship’s generous kindness.”

“You have behaved very well, young man,” said the Admiral, kindly, “and

Sir Sidney Smith is highly pleased with your gallantry and coolness in

that daring enterprise of his; he offers to take you with him, but I

think you will prefer the appointment and trust I now propose to you.”

“For little Mabel Arden’s sake, my Lord, infinitely. Nevertheless, I

feel exceedingly grateful to Captain Sir Sidney Smith for his offers of

service. He said something to me yesterday of this, and, not knowing

your Lordship’s generous intentions, I expressed myself delighted with

the promotion he promised me.”

“Well, your absence will only be for the voyage,” said Lord Hood; “you

will rejoin this ship by the first vessel coming out, as will also

Lieutenant O’Loughlin.”

After a few more observations and directions from the Admiral, William

Thornton retired, greatly delighted, and with permission to proceed to

the Robust, to impart the intelligence he had received to Madame Volney

and Mabel Arden.

Whilst William Thornton was paying his visit on board the Robust,

Master Howard Etherton was extremely busy writing a long letter home

to go along with the Admiral’s dispatches to England. As this letter

reached England some time before the arrival of Mabel Arden, owing to

circumstances that will be hereafter explained, we must request our

readers to follow us to the shores of England, in order that we may

introduce to their notice the family of Master Howard Etherton, as they

will figure in this narrative rather prominently.

Howard Etherton’s father, before he succeeded to the baronetcy and

estates of the Ethertons, was a Captain Arden. He was a younger

brother, his elder brother dying abroad, it was supposed, without

heirs; indeed, it was not generally known that he was ever married.

Godfrey Arden, the younger brother, therefore, as next heir, took

possession of the estates. Etherton Manor was a very fine mansion,

situated in a richly wooded and much-admired part of Hampshire, a few

miles from Hurst Castle, and commanding an extensive view not only over

the estuary of Southampton water, but also over the narrow sea dividing

England from its garden—the Isle of Wight. At this period of our story

Sir Godfrey Etherton was in his fiftieth year; he had two sons and

seven daughters; his lady was some two or three years his junior. She

was the only daughter of a tolerably rich slop-seller in Portsmouth.

When Sir Godfrey married her, he was only a poor lieutenant in the

navy, who was quite willing to overlook his wife’s want of birth in

consideration of five thousand pounds hard cash, which he received with

her.

At that time there was a very remote chance indeed of the poor

lieutenant succeeding to the Etherton estates.

When Mrs. Arden became Lady Etherton she was exceedingly anxious to

forget that her father, at this period gathered to his fathers, was

ever called a slop-seller. All mention of her parents and relatives

was forbidden. In person she was short and robust; she dressed richly

and gaudily, but without the slightest taste, notwithstanding all the

efforts of her well-educated but haughty and imperious daughters.

As Captain Arden, of the Dauntless, the Baronet was a morose and

exacting commander, a man without one particle of feeling. It is quite

sufficient to say he was universally detested by both officers and crew.

After succeeding to the baronetcy and the estates, he retired into

private life, into which he carried all his morose and unamiable

qualities. Always dissatisfied, he declared everything went wrong with

him. His eldest daughter married, for love, a poor subaltern, and was

banished the paternal mansion—no great punishment. His eldest son

remained a gentleman, with nothing to do but to spend in dissipation

and excesses of all kinds five times the amount allowed him yearly by

his father; the consequences were that he became deeply involved in

debt. The youngest son, Howard Etherton, the father’s favourite, was,

as our readers know, a midshipman on board the Victory, expecting,

through his father’s interest and position, rapid promotion, as soon as

his six years’ probation had run out.

Howard Etherton’s disposition and nature were utterly unprincipled; he

was also, for one so young, parsimonious to a degree; though handsomely

allowed by his father, he hoarded all he possibly could spare to suit

his own purposes hereafter. He, as well as the rest of the family,

knew that his father came into the estates, from the fact of his elder

brother having died without heirs; he also knew that there were rumours

of his uncle in his youth having carried off a young lady somewhere

in Italy, her parents opposing their union; but as years passed over,

and no tidings of him reached his family, till an authentic account of

his death became circulated, and afterwards fully proved, the previous

account of his marriage was considered a mere rumour; and as neither

wife nor child made their appearance, Captain Arden’s claims were

undisputed.

When Howard Etherton therefore heard on board the Victory that the

Duchesse de Coulancourt was positively, before she married the Duke,

the widow of Mr. Granby Arden, and that a son and daughter by her

first husband were living, he became, as we have stated, startled and

confounded; for if such was positively the case, and could be proved,

his father had no longer a just claim to either the baronetcy or the

estates. But when he heard that Mabel Arden had declared that her

brother was cruelly murdered at Lyons, he felt singularly relieved.

Still, the knowledge that Mabel would be entitled to a very handsome

fortune out of the estate especially provided by settlements and

deeds appertaining to the Etherton estates, rankled in his heart and

ill-regulated mind.

It was the intelligence, therefore, that he heard on board the Victory,

that he sent in his letter to his father.

He also found vent for his hatred to young Thornton, of whom he spoke

in the bitterest terms, imputing to his officiousness the recovery of

Mabel Arden.

Sir Godfrey Etherton in his own mind always believed that his brother

had eloped with a young lady from some city in Italy, but whether he

married her or not he could not discover; neither, strange to say,

could he find out the name of the young lady. There was a mystery

enveloping the whole transaction that baffled him.

Of all his family, his wife was his only confidant; to her he confided

all his thoughts and conjectures, though she was the very last person,

to judge by appearance and manner, that he would seek, though she was

his wife, to repose confidence in for she was the very reverse of

himself in everything; but the secret was, she was really attached to

him, and he to her: at least he liked her as much as his selfish, cold

nature would permit him to like anything.

Sir Godfrey was no schemer or plotter; he had nothing of the villain

about him; had his brother married and left a child, a boy or a girl,

he would have made no attempt to deprive either of their just rights.

The morning he received his son’s letter he was sitting at breakfast

with his lady and four of their daughters, two of them not out of their

teens; the other two were of the respective ages of seventeen and

nine. On opening the letter to satisfy Lady Etherton’s eager inquiries

concerning her son, Sir Godfrey’s eye caught the name of Arden.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, turning somewhat pale, and, indeed,

no little agitated; “how extraordinary!”

“Nothing has occurred to our Henry, I trust?” said Lady Etherton,

anxiously. “I always said it was a sad thing to expose our boy with his

expectations.”

“His expectations!” repeated Sir Godfrey, sarcastically; and then

added, “No, Jane; nothing has happened to him. I will read you his

letter presently.”

The daughters, though no doubt as curious as their mother, took the

hint, and left the room.

“You look disturbed, Godfrey,” said Lady Etherton. “What can Howard

have written to vex you?”

“Well, the intelligence is not perhaps as bad as I thought,” said

Sir Godfrey, drawing his breath as if relieved, and laying down the

letter, having read it carefully through. “Do you know, Jane, that my

suspicions that my brother Granby had married, are turning out correct?”

“Heavens! What do you mean?” exclaimed Lady Etherton, in her turn

looking agitated. “Has he left any children?”

“He did leave a boy and a girl.”

“Merciful goodness,” interrupted the Baronet’s wife; “this is dreadful!

We shall——”

“Nay,” interrupted Sir Godfrey; “you are frightening yourself without

cause. I was startled myself; but the son, it seems, was beheaded.”

“Thank God!—that is—hem—really, Godfrey, you, you startled me—I do not

mean to thank God that the unfortunate boy has lost his head, which is

very singular; but I mean it would be very terrible for us to lose the

title and estate, and with such a family of daughters.”

“Yes; it would be much better that I never had succeeded to it than

that alternative; for by continuing in the service I should by this

time have been a Rear-Admiral.”

“Thank God it is as it is; but how is it, then, with respect to the

daughter; and where is Granby Arden’s wife?”

“I will read you the letter,” said the Baronet, “and then you will know

as much as I do;” and he did so.

Lady Etherton listened eagerly. When he had concluded, she said, with

some bitterness—

“Who is this youngster, William Thornton, who has made himself so

conspicuous, and who, Howard says, is his bitter enemy?”

“Pooh!” returned the Baronet, contemptuously. “Boys’ enmity—a rival

midshipman. I kept those troublesome urchins in their proper place when

I commanded the Dauntless. But who this William Thornton is, it matters

not; he is a midshipman, and, as Howard says, the natural son of one

of Lord Hood’s coxwains. I saw his name mentioned in the paper as a

very high-spirited boy, and that he was entrusted by Captain Sir Sidney

Smith with the command of a little tender on the night they burned

the French ships in Toulon—a miserable failure that affair. But with

respect to this Mabel Arden, whom we may expect in England shortly, we

must afford her our protection. The worst of it is, she is entitled to

twenty thousand pounds fortune out of the estates when she becomes of

age. Had her brother lived, the blow would have been an awful one, to

lose title and estate, and forced to live upon a captain’s half-pay, or

go to sea again.”

Lady Etherton looked startled.

“I hope—that is—I wonder if the boy really lost his head. Strange

accident, was it not, Godfrey?”

“Accident!” repeated the Baronet, looking at his spouse rather

contemptuously. “Why, Jane, what are you thinking of? You forget they

are taking heads off in France at this moment for mere amusement; the

boy must somehow or other have got mixed up in their bloody orgies,

and they guillotined him. His mother, the Duchess of Coulancourt, it

seems, fell into the hands of the Revolutionists in Toulon, and may at

this moment be no more. There’s a strange mystery about my brother’s

marriage, and his widow afterwards marrying a French duke.”

“How old is this little girl you expect to arrive in England?”

questioned Lady Etherton.

“Howard says about eleven or twelve; a young delicate thing, not likely

to live over the voyage.”

“If she does live,” said Lady Etherton, thoughtfully, “she would make a

right good match for Howard, wouldn’t she?”

“You are early in your matrimonial speculations, Jane,” said the

Baronet; “but you are not far out, from causes which you know. To have

to pay over that twenty thousand pounds, and interest, now, would be

inconvenient. The interest due on it, and her long minority, would make

her a very eligible match for a younger son.”

“Very, indeed!” said Lady Etherton. “Would it not be as well to

withdraw Howard from the navy, and let the young people grow up

together?”

“I would not remove him from his profession at this period on any

account. Charlotte’s marriage with young Lord Coldburgh will cost me

ten thousand pounds; and if I have to pay up this twenty thousand

pounds and interest at once to the trustees, if there are any, of Miss

Arden, it will make a sum of thirty thousand pounds altogether; this

will encumber the property for a time, and five other daughters to be

disposed of. I am willing to make this sacrifice for Charlotte, for

Lord Coldburgh, as to rank and influence, is a first-rate match.”

“Charlotte is a lucky girl,” said the mother, with a pleased look. Now,

whether she herself thought so or not, will appear hereafter.

Having thus given our readers a brief outline of the Etherton family,

of which our heroine, Mabel Arden, was expected to become a member

on her arrival in England, we will return to our hero on board the

Victory, which, still with the British fleet, lay off Toulon.

CHAPTER VIII.

“You are one of fortune’s favourites,” said Charles Pole to William

Thornton, who was taking leave of his comrades on board the Victory,

previous to his departure the following morning, for the Babet corvette

was quite ready for sea. Madame Volney and daughters, and Mabel Arden,

were on board, waiting the signal to weigh.

“I wish in my heart you were coming with us, Charles,” said our hero,

warmly pressing his friend’s hand; “it is the only drawback to the

pleasure I anticipate; but I shall, please the fates, soon rejoin you.”

“Ah,” said several of the mids, with lengthened faces “you will have

such a jolly life of it, with O’Loughlin for a skipper—lots of good

things, and no nip cheese to stint your allowance.”

“Never look down-hearted,” said our hero; “you will all have a turn of

luck by-and-by.”

“To the devil with such luck!” said Howard Etherton, with a sneer.

“I don’t see much to grieve after; a few weeks’ liberty is the most

you can make of it, with a chance of being captured on the way. The

inside of a French prison would be a nice variety;” and not wishing to

exchange a good-bye with his fellow mid, Howard Etherton walked away.

“Well, here’s success to you, William, and a safe passage, lots of fun,

and a quick return to us,” said William Thornton’s friends; and down

went bumpers of purser’s champagne.

An hour afterwards William Thornton was put on board the Babet, where

he found his friend Lieutenant O’Loughlin, the appointed commander of

the corvette, walking the quarter deck, enjoying a glorious sunset and

a pipe.

“Well, my lad, bade them all good bye? There’s Madame below, and her

daughters, quite anxious that you should take your coffee with them;

and your little _protégée_ popping up her head every now and then to

see if you have arrived. Be the piper of Moll Kelly, you’re a broth of

a boy with the fair sex; go on and prosper; faith, I think you might

turn Turk with advantage.”

William Thornton laughed, saying:

“I never knew you to object to the company of a pretty face; but as you

are my commander now, I must be careful what I say.”

“Oh, be gor, if you go to studying manners and touching hats to Patrick

O’Loughlin, be the powers, I’ll shut you up from the women altogether.

But tell me, William, how long will it take you to teach me a few

French sentences, such as—hem—as, ‘I love you,’ and all that kind of

thing; for, confound it, I don’t know a word of their parley-vous, and

that’s a sweet creature below.”

“Oh,” said William Thornton, with a smile, “the admiral’s widow—ah, so

she is; best tempered woman possible.”

“Devil take your impudence; you don’t want to make love to the whole

three, do you; and leave me the mother, eh?”

“Make love,” said the hero, very demurely; “who ever heard of a

midshipman making love? but I suppose it’s Mademoiselle Agatha’s eyes

that have scorched your _tinder_ heart; faith, O’Loughlin, it has

had so many sparks applied to it, that one would imagine it was past

kindling again. I’ll tell you what I will do for you, I’ll set to work

at once to teach Mademoiselle Agatha English; I will engage to make her

decline the verb ‘I love’ before a week’s out.”

“Oh, by St. Peter! the devil doubt ye, my lad; but I’ll try that

myself. Stick to the little thing, with her fine dark eyes like two

diamonds. She’ll make a tidy craft by the time the cat’s done cleaning

your chin, and I’ll lend you a razor then.”

William Thornton laughed, and dived down the companion, and soon found

himself seated at table beside his serious-faced little _protégée_, and

the two lively, pretty daughters of Madame Volney.

“So we sail to-morrow?” said Agatha Volney, fixing her laughing blue

eyes on the midshipman; “you seem quite elated at quitting the Victory

for this little ship.”

“You must remember,” said our hero, “that the Victory has not the

attractions on board that the Babet has. This little voyage will be

quite a charming episode in a poor midshipman’s career. One to be

remembered with delight.”

Agatha’s pretty face coloured a little; she certainly looked pleased.

She was the same age as young Thornton, and he, for his years, looked

exceedingly manly.

Poor little Mabel was still pale and thoughtful; the image of her

fond and beautiful mother was ever before her, and now on the point

of leaving the land that contained her cherished parent pining in

captivity; alas! perhaps dead, the poor child felt her situation

keenly. To William Thornton she turned for consolation; and when near

him, and listening to his kind and soothing words, she appeared to

droop less.

“So we sail with a whole fleet of ships, Master Thornton,” said Madame

Volney.

“Yes, madame,” said our hero; “most of the vessels taken in Toulon

sail in company. We shall have that magnificent ship, the Commerce de

Marseilles, hundred and twenty guns, and the Puissant, seventy-four;

and the Perle and Arethusa frigates, and several smaller craft; there

is not much danger of capture in such company.”

Lieutenant O’Loughlin, or rather Captain O’Loughlin, entered the cabin,

making a low bow to the party, and stammering out a mixture of French

and English, which he intended for “Pray do not disturb yourself;” but

the two girls insisted upon the really handsome and dashing looking

sailor sitting down and joining them.

This he did, desiring the midshipman to say, that he was proud of

having such a freight on board the Babet, and that he hoped they would

have a brush with a French corvette, or even a frigate, just to show

them how devoted he was to the service of the young ladies.

“I must alter the last part of your speech, Captain,” said our hero,

laughing; “you must include the mother.”

“Well,” said Madame Volney, with a smile, for she understood English

tolerably, on William Thornton’s literally translating the Captain’s

speech; “we feel highly the compliment; but for our own parts, we

should prefer his devotion without the brush with the corvette.”

“Be St. Patrick! the eyes of those girls so bewilder me,” said

O’Loughlin, “that I forgot what I came down here for. Here, look at

this;” and he pulled a very soiled and sealed note from his waistcoat;

“a fishing boat with two men in her pulled up alongside just after you

went down, and saying something or other I did not understand, handed

up this note. I called out to them to hold on till I sent for you to

speak to them; but, confound their impudence, they did not seem to

understand me. What’s that on the back? it’s not English.”

“No,” said William Thornton, looking at the writing, “by Jove, it is

directed to me!”

“You,” said O’Loughlin; “that’s not your name at the back; I could make

that out if it were.”

“No, it’s not my name; but you see it says, ‘To the young midshipman on

board the Babet,’ and that’s me, unless you choose to change ranks with

me.”

“Upon my conscience I’d have no objection, if I got the gift of the

language by the change. But what the deuce is in it; are there any

girls ashore looking after you?”

“No, I think not,” said our hero, laughing; and begging Madame’s and

the young ladies’ pardon, he opened the note. But the name of Jean

Plessis at the bottom made him say out loud, and in French:

“Mabel, this is from Jean Plessis!”

The child gave a cry of joy and clasped her hands, whilst the Misses

Volney started up with joyful exclamations. Captain O’Loughlin rubbed

his head, uttered an anathema against the French language, and looked

at Agatha Volney’s handsome features, lighted up with the glow of

expectation, as she said:

“Oh, dear! perhaps we shall hear something of this dear child’s mother.

Do read it out, Mr. Thornton.”

This our hero did as follows:

“MONSIEUR,—

“To relieve the anxiety Mademoiselle Arden must feel concerning her

mother, I contrive, though at great risk, to send this to you, having

found out that she and you are on board the Babet.

“The Duchess is _quite safe_ and well, I dare not write more, and

with the blessing of God we may be in England as soon as your ship. I

cannot venture to put more on paper—tell Mademoiselle to keep up her

spirits, and all will be well.

“JEAN PLESSIS.”

The overjoyed child threw her arms round Agatha Volney’s neck and burst

into tears, exclaiming:

“Oh! dear, dear mamma is safe and well, and that dear good Jean

Plessis, how I love him for his faith and devotion!”

Agatha kissed the little girl fondly, which proceeding seemed to affect

the worthy Commander of the Babet, who would willingly have offered

his service for a similar demonstration on the part of the fair French

girl; but the loud report of a cannon roused him from his reverie,

and caused him to rush upon deck. William Thornton followed. There

had sprung up a fine breeze out of the gulf, and the gun was to call

attention to the signals.

“Ah! I thought so,” said Captain O’Loughlin; “the signal to get under

weigh. Here’s a glorious breeze. We shall now see what this craft can

do, for I have a very good opinion of her; she has fine beam, carries

square yards, and has a very clean entrance.”

In a few minutes the boatswain’s whistle called the crew into action;

there were but forty-two men, officers included, on board. Although an

eighteen-gun corvette, she had at this time only eight twelve-pounder

carronades mounted; the rest of the guns were below; and as the Babet

was very short handed, and required some considerable repair before

fit for actual service in the British navy, Lieutenant O’Loughlin’s

directions were to take her to Plymouth, and avoid any encounter with

the enemy’s cruisers, if compatible with honour to do so.

It was a dark night when the various vessels sailing in company got

under weigh. It was not intended or expected that they should keep

together after sailing, the disparity of their size and equipment

putting that out of the question. Their restrictive orders were to make

the best of their way to an English port, excepting two or three, which

were bound to Rochford, to land the Royalist fugitives from Toulon.

With the wind at north-west, the Babet, under topsails and top-gallant

sails, went rapidly through the water. The log was tried towards

morning; she was then going better than twelve knots, which Captain

O’Loughlin thought very good work, considering the breeze and the sail

set.

It was the latter end of December; it therefore did not surprise the

Commander of the corvette, that as the sun rose on the following

morning the gulf wind fell, and the appearance of the sky showed signs

of heavy weather from the south-west. They had run during the night

out of sight of land and from all the vessels, save the huge Commerce

de Marseilles and the two frigates, which were in sight about three

leagues ahead.

Before mid-day there was a short calm, with a long swell from the south

and east.

Madame Volney and her daughters, and Mabel, came on deck, though it was

extremely cold; but, like all young voyagers on the vasty deep, they

paid their initiate to its power, by being sick all night, and anxious

for fresh air.

“I am sorry,” said William Thornton, “to see that you and the young

ladies have been suffering, Madame Volney.”

Poor Mabel looked even paler than usual.

“It is a suffering few escape,” said Madame Volney, “but I suppose it

is what we must endure for a few days; indeed, very likely, if we have

a good passage, we shall not have time to become good sailors.”

“I trust you will not suffer beyond to-day, or to-morrow at furthest,”

said our hero.

“We must have sailed very fast in the night, Mr. Thornton; I see no

land anywhere. What an immense ship that is away before us!” said

Agatha Volney, trying to shake off the disagreeable sensation of

giddiness she experienced.

“That is the Commerce de Marseilles, and most likely the Puissant and

the Perle are with her.”

Madame Volney sighed, saying—

“The Puissant was the last ship my noble but unfortunate husband

commanded; it is somewhat strange that we should be proceeding to

England with her.”

Captain O’Loughlin joined the party, and made an attempt to express

his sorrow at seeing them all looking so pale; but as the day wore on,

and a light breeze sprung up from the south, they all began to get

gradually much better.

Little Mabel seemed to regain some little portion of spirit; the news

of her mother’s safety and the prospect of meeting her in England

cheered her. And as the sickness wore off—for sometimes children suffer

less than adults—she felt a desire to walk about the deck, William

Thornton aiding and assisting her, and chatting to her of her future

prospects, making the day pass pleasantly enough; the Babet working to

windward under a light breeze, but with a very threatening sky, heavy

masses of clouds rising rapidly in the south-east quarter.

After the ladies had retired, our hero and his Commander kept pacing

the deck in conversation.

“What are you to do with your little charge,” demanded Captain

O’Loughlin, “when we reach Plymouth? I had not time to ask you before

sailing.”

“Why, you see,” returned the midshipman, “Lord Hood had a long

conference with Howard Etherton, which satisfied his lordship that

Howard’s father, Sir Godfrey Etherton, was little Mabel’s uncle. Though

Howard did all he could to persuade the Admiral that Mr. Granby Arden

was never married—but his lordship said he knew better—he did not

pretend to say that he knew he left children, but he felt convinced

that the contents of the casket given me by Mabel’s mother would

sufficiently explain the matter. ‘You are very young, Master Thornton,’

said the Admiral to me afterwards, ‘to be concerned in an affair of

this sort; but as it appears the wish of the Duchesse de Coulancourt

that, young as you are, you should have the care of this child and

this casket, I will not alter her desires. When you reach Plymouth or

Portsmouth, proceed to London, take the casket, which is sealed, to Mr.

Joseph Stanmore, my solicitor, and a most eminent man; give him also

this letter,’ handing one to me, ‘and then be guided by him.’ Thus you

see, O’Loughlin, my course is properly chalked out. Mr. Stanmore lives

in Cavendish Square; so, leaving Mabel with Madame Volney, I shall go

up to London as soon as we reach Plymouth.”

Captain O’Loughlin seemed buried in thought; at last he looked up,

saying—

“You are in love with Agatha Volney!”

The midshipman burst into so loud and hearty a laugh, that it startled

the man at the wheel:—

“Well, upon my honour, Captain O’Loughlin——”

“Oh, bother with your Captain! If you go on with any more of that

nonsense, I must give you up. Call me Patrick or O’Loughlin, but to the

deuce with my captainship! What did you laugh in that manner for? by

Jove, you shook all the wind out of the royals!”

“The idea of a boy, scarcely seventeen, in love with a full-grown

Demoiselle Française, of nineteen! You are dreaming, or, what’s deuced

more likely, you are in love with her yourself.”

“Devil a doubt of it, my lad, I confess; but you look so sweet at one

another. Isn’t there the other little girl? She will, in four or five

years, be tolerably good looking; she has fine eyes, at all events. She

will never forget you, and, by Jove, you may depend on it, she will

have lots of cash!”

“By Jove, O’Loughlin, you are pitching into the future, like a jolly

boat in a head sea—manufacturing a wife for me five or six years off.

I don’t intend,” continued our hero, “to get married till I am a post

captain—perhaps an admiral.”

“Tare and nouns! If you wait till you are an admiral, with perhaps a

leg and an arm or an eye less than your complement, she must be a tidy

craft that will take you in tow. Hollo! There’s a squall!”

As he spoke, the boatswain’s whistle was heard, the men hurrying up,

whilst O’Loughlin gave rapid orders to take in the royals, and furl

the top-gallant sails, for the ship heeled over to a very sudden and

singular kind of squall, that struck the water within a few yards of

them. In a few minutes the sea was feather white, squall after squall

coming over its hitherto tranquil surface. But the Babet was rapidly

got under double-reefed topsails, and top-gallant masts housed, and was

standing away to the westward, close hauled.

“By St. Patrick, how suddenly this gale has come on,” observed Captain

O’Loughlin to the first mate, William Thornton having gone below to

reassure their passengers, who were alarmed by the sudden, and, indeed,

violent heeling over of the corvette.

“Yes, sir,” returned the mate, an old and experienced sailor; “but

common enough in the Mediterranean. I should not be surprised if it

increased to a very heavy gale; it’s looking exceedingly black to

windward.”

“She’s a steady craft under canvas, Mr. Holder.”

“Yes, sir; but our rigging is all new, so we must be tender, or our

masts may suffer.”

“It would be well to get up some preventive back stays, and take in the

lee rigging, which I see is as slack as a purser’s liberality.”

As the night, which was intensely dark, advanced, the gale increased

to a hurricane. Captain O’Loughlin, on consulting his charts, found

they were heading towards the Spanish coast. So rapidly had the sea

increased, that before morning they were preparing to heave the ship

to, when the man forward sung out—

“Ship right ahead.”

The next moment, as Captain O’Loughlin and our hero were anxiously

looking out, a huge ship was dimly seen, rising on the top of a

monstrous billow. She was lying to.

“It is the French ship, the Commerce de Marseilles,” said William

Thornton, as the man at the wheel was ordered to keep the Babet a point

or two to the nor’-west; and then she was hove to, just as a gun was

fired from the Commerce de Marseilles, and the night signal displayed.

This was promptly answered by the crew of the corvette, and her name

given; and then all relapsed into silence, excepting the roar of the

gale through the rigging, and the breaking surges as they dashed

against the side of the ship. Still the gale increased; and when the

grey light of morning broke over the storm-tossed deep, they could

distinctly make out three ships, not half a mile from each other, all

lying to.

CHAPTER IX.

This was the memorable storm on the 28th of December, 1793. So

tremendous became the hurricane before sunset of the day following its

commencement, that the Babet became literally buried in the tremendous

seas. She had lost her bowsprit, close to the stem, a great portion of

her bulwarks, and all her boats, and just as night set in, a sea of

terrific bulk and fury broke on her larboard bow; fortunately, it was

expected, and the crew saved themselves from being washed overboard by

timely precaution; but for several moments all thought the corvette was

sinking, when a tremendous crash took place, and both main and fore

masts went over the side, a furious sea striking her at the same time,

fortunately driving her right round before the tempest.

Holding on by ropes stretched across the decks, Captain O’Loughlin and

William Thornton called out to the crew to cut away the wreck with

their axes, and two men were lashed at the wheel to keep her steady

before the storm.

“Be St. Patrick, William,” said the Commander, giving himself a shake,

“it was nearly up with us. We shall drive ashore before morning, I

fear.”

“God forbid!” said our hero, thinking of the terrified and dismayed

females fastened down below. “She is quite tight yet, the carpenter

says; very little water in her.”

“So far so well,” said the Captain; “but all depends upon the distance

we are from the land. This morning, you know, I calculated as the wind

blew that we were about two-and-forty miles from the Spanish coast,

in a direct line. As we are going now we shall run aground somewhere

between Pralamos and Ampurias, for the force of the hurricane came from

the east and south.”

A change was coming over the elements as he spoke; a furious deluge of

rain, accompanied with continued peals of thunder took place. Gradually

the wind began to lull, and before an hour was out, a ceaseless torrent

of rain was the only remains of the tempest, excepting, of course,

the sea, which for several hours would remain in a terribly disturbed

state. The great danger to be apprehended in the cessation of the

hurricane was the Babet’s getting broadside on to the sea, in her

perfectly powerless state.

“We shall have the gale out from the Gulf of Lyons before morning,”

observed Captain O’Loughlin to our hero. “We are in a nice mess. You

may manage to get down below, however, and see how our poor passengers

get on; they must be awfully frightened.”

“Sad loss, our masts,” remarked the midshipman, whilst some of the crew

were removing the tarpauling over the companion.

“Faith, it’s just what I expected,” said O’Loughlin. “Look at the

hasty way we were fitted out; and yet there was no help for it. In the

confusion, we were over-masted, too, and the rigging quite new. I’ll

venture to say many of the smaller craft foundered in the gale—the

heaviest I ever remember.”

The corvette still plunged and rolled tremendously; but, fortunately,

they contrived to keep her before the seas, which, owing to the

continued and heavy rain, were falling fast.

William Thornton made his way into the principal cabin of the corvette.

Notwithstanding everything had been secured in the best possible

manner, many things had broken adrift and lay scattered over the floor;

a swinging lamp threw a feeble gleam over the handsome saloon. The

females were in their private cabins, but Madame Volney’s attendant, a

woman who had lived with her many years, and was greatly attached to

her, answered our hero’s summons at the door.

“Oh, mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Janette, “we thought every moment would

be our last. Are we going into port, for we appear quieter?”

“We are running in for a port, Mrs. Janette,” said William Thornton,

“and the hurricane has ceased; so tell the ladies they have nothing

further to fear. In an hour or two the sea will be comparatively

smooth.”

“Is there any one hurt on board, Mr. Thornton?” inquired madame; “we

heard such a terrible crash during the night, as if the masts were

being carried away.”

“I am happy to say, madam, that there was no one hurt; but I fear you

all suffered a great deal by the rolling of the ship.”

“Oh! we fastened ourselves into our berths, and escaped suffering

only from intense anxiety, which we are greatly obliged to you for

relieving, Mr. Thornton.”

The midshipman returned upon deck, the rain still falling heavily,

but there was not a breath of wind, though vivid flashes of lightning

at intervals threw a bright gleam over the heaving waters, but

unaccompanied by thunder.

“In an hour or so it will be daylight, William,” said Captain

O’Loughlin. “We must try and get up some of the spare sails; luckily

our spare spars have escaped. We may rig up a couple of jury-masts and

get to Gibraltar with them, unless the gale sets in again. I have no

faith in those sudden lulls.”

“We might make Barcelona or Carthagena, and get a rough fitting-up

there,” said our hero; “it’s a deuced long run to Gibraltar.”

“Depends on how we get the wind, my lad. Port Mahon would be better if

we could manage it. But, hark! do you hear that noise aloft; do you

feel the change of temperature?”

“There’s the nor’-wester aloft, sir,” said the first mate, who was

standing by the wheel; “it’s coming out of the Gulf of Lyons like

thunder.”

“Be the powers of war! the gale is aloft, sure enough,” said Captain

O’Loughlin; “it will strike us very shortly. Now my lads,” turning to

the crew, who were splicing the main brace, “let us see what we can do

to get up a jury-mast, just to keep us steady before the gale. Faith!

here it is, and no mistake.”

As he spoke there was a loud roar like thunder, and the well-known and

much dreaded nor’-wester of the Gulf of Lyons was upon them.

It could do them no harm at that time, so in a few moments they were

running before a storm nearly equal in violence to the previous gale,

and bitterly cold; but Captain O’Loughlin knew they would run out of

that gale in less than twelve hours. The nor’-westers of the Gulf of

Lyons rarely blow a hundred miles out from the gulf, getting less

violent, and losing their bitter coldness, as they approach the African

or Barbary coast.

As there was nothing to apprehend in running before the gale, and the

dawn breaking, and the sky clearing to windward, Captain O’Loughlin

insisted upon our hero retiring for a few hours’ rest, and getting rid

of his soaking garments.

William Thornton felt little inclination to sleep, but he was quite

willing to change his clothes, for he was soaked from head to foot.

Nevertheless, as there might be plenty to do during the next twelve

hours, he turned in, and before he was well aware of it, was sound

asleep. He might have slept about three hours, when he was suddenly

aroused by the loud boom of cannon. Jumping up, he was dressed in a

few minutes, and hurried on deck, one or two more guns expediting his

movements.

To his extreme surprise, he beheld his Commander and the whole crew of

the Babet actively engaged dragging a couple of long twelve-pounders

aft, and, looking in that direction, he beheld a craft of their own

size, with only her lower mast standing, and, under her fore course,

following them.

Captain O’Loughlin had rigged up a flag-staff, from which floated the

flag of Old England. They had got up a jury-mast forward, and some of

the crew were bending on a yard a spare topsail. There was not a cloud

in the sky, the gale blowing with unmitigated violence, and a nor’-west

sea rapidly rising, though a tremendous swell still ran in from the

eastward.

“By all that’s lively, William,” said Captain O’Loughlin, “we are in

for a brush with that fellow after us. He’s a privateer, I think; he

was close-hauled till he made us out, and then he squared away after

us. Now, my lads, steady! His metal is not nearly as heavy as ours;

watch the rise,” and bang went the twelve-pounder cannonade.

The messenger went through the stranger’s fore course; what other

damage it did they could not see; but, carrying so much canvas, their

pursuer was coming up rapidly—he was then not more than half a mile

astern.

The decks were now cleared, and every preparation made for action. In

spite of their crippled state, they found they could work six of their

guns well, and powder and shot were handed up in abundance. With their

two cannonades they kept up a tolerably well-directed fire upon the

Frenchman, whilst he, with his bow chasers, returned the compliment,

but, as yet, without doing mischief.

The Babet was very shortly furnished with sail forward, under which she

moved, it soon appeared, nearly as fast as the privateer—for such their

pursuer was—and, as she yawed in the sea, they could see she was full

of men.

A lucky shot from the Babet cut the slings of her fore yard, not being

hung in chains, bringing it down with a crash upon her deck.

“Come, that’s a settler for you, Master Crapaud,” sung out the gunner;

but immediately their pursuers set their main course without a reef,

under which she tore through the water, and in less than half-an-hour

it became very evident she would pour a broadside into them. She was

a fine, handsome craft, apparently carrying sixteen guns, and well

manned. She hoisted the privateer flag, and ranging up alongside,

within pistol-shot, poured in a discharge of grape and canister from

her eight-pounders; but, from the fury of the gale, and the tremendous

swell, the iron shower passed harmless over the deck of the Babet.

“Now, my lads,” cried Captain O’Loughlin, “we must try and get rid

of this troublesome leech, for if the wind lulls, which it will, the

farther we draw to the southward, she will be too much for us. So bring

over two more guns to this side, watch an opportunity when she heels

over to port with the swell, and let her have a dose of round shot

below her water-mark.”

“Aye, ay, sir,” said the gunner; “we’ll do our best to physic her.”

In so heavy a gale, and with such a sea running, Captain O’Loughlin

knew that the privateer would not attempt to board him, as the

destruction of both vessels would ensue; neither could he manœuvre the

Babet in any other way whatever than to let her go before the wind.

If he attempted to get up his spars, he would expose his men to the

musketry of the privateer, whose crew appeared to amount to more than

one hundred and twenty. She rolled in the cross sea considerably more

than the Babet, having less beam, and her lower masts and main and

mizen yards standing.

The two ships were scarcely pistol-shot from each other; so, watching

the opportunity, and the guns being skilfully pointed, the broadside

was discharged right into the hull of the privateer, who, rolling over

to port, left herself greatly exposed to the iron shower; as she came

upright, she again discharged a broadside of grape upon the Babet,

killing one man and wounding three, but not severely. William Thornton

was standing anxiously watching the effect of their broadside; he

could hear the shot hulling her, and could see that her bulwarks were

knocked into splinters, and the next few minutes satisfied the crew of

the Babet that their broadside had, as their Captain hoped, rid them

of their dangerous enemy; for, after a very short time, she altered

her course, bracing up on a wind, and heeling over exceedingly on the

opposite tack. This was done evidently to keep her wounded side out of

the water till they plugged the shot-holes, if they could. A loud cheer

from the Babet’s crew testified their satisfaction.

“Be my conscience, William, I think our pills will injure our friend’s

digestion; she’ll have enough to do to keep afloat. One or two of the

balls struck very low, and the holes will be hard to get at.”

“Yes,” returned our hero; “I saw them strike her. We shall gain some

hours, and in that time get up our jury-masts; this nor’-wester is only

a squall after the deluge of rain. I was down with our poor passengers,

who were terribly frightened by the firing; in truth, they have had a

poor time of it since we started.”

“You may say that, William,” said the Captain; “it is to be hoped we

have had the worst of it. I have seen land these last ten minutes away

there to the south-west—Majorca or Ivica, no doubt.”

William Thornton looked in that direction, above the storm-tossed

billows, and could distinctly discover the high land stretching away to

the southward.

“It cannot be the mainland,” he observed, promptly, “for I can make out

its termination. No doubt it is Ivica, the smallest of the islands.”

“Well, the sooner we get to work the better. You see our friend the

privateer still keeps on the same tack, with reduced canvas.”

Going steadily before the gale, the Babet, excepting an occasional

roll, remained pretty steady, and there were tokens of the gale

lulling; so all hands turned to, to get their jury-masts and yards up.

The corvette was well supplied with everything in the shape of rigging

and sails, an abundance of rope, and some fine spars. They worked

unceasingly, speedily rigged a pair of spars, whilst the wind and the

sea were rapidly falling. There was not a cloud to be seen—the sun

shining as bright and glorious as in the early autumn, though the air

was exceedingly keen.

Before sunset, Ivica was plainly to be seen, and, in the distance, the

other islands; and so well and energetically did the crew work, that a

main and mizen jury-mast were stepped and wedged, and before dark they

could set sufficient canvas to permit them to alter their course, and

draw off from the land, towards which they had been previously running.

During the evening, both the gale and the sea gradually fell; the

night was fine and bright, and the air less cold. Before twelve on

the following day, the Babet looked like a new-rigged craft, with

reduced spars; and by working all day, and the weather continuing

fine, she could set as much sail as a craft half her size; but, being

a remarkably fast sailer, she went through the water at a very fair

speed, and so satisfied became her commander with her rig, that he

resolved to continue his voyage to England under it, giving up his

previous intention of putting in to Gibraltar to refit.

Off the Cap de Gatt they had a calm of two days, with the weather warm,

so that the females could enjoy air, and a little exercise. They had

quite recovered their sea-sickness, and little Mabel, in anticipating

her future meeting with her mother in England, was rapidly increasing

in spirits.

She was sitting one beautifully fine evening, the last of the calm,

beside William Thornton, gazing over the ship’s side at the long line

of Spanish coast, not more than two leagues from them, on which the

sun was shining brightly, and watching the numerous craft, becalmed,

like themselves—some with their lofty latine yards and sails, lying

in graceful folds, their crews plying their long sweeps, and creeping

gradually along the coast, whilst lying within a mile of them were two

Spanish gun-boats, or “guarda costa,” and, some three leagues seaward,

two vessels, evidently frigates, but whether English or French they

could not make out.

“Oh! how different this is, William,” exclaimed Mabel, “from the

frightful storm of the last few days. How quiet and beautiful this blue

sea looks! and how delightful to catch a glimpse of the land, which, do

you know, we all thought we should never see again.”

“Ah, Mabel, I dare say you were terribly frightened,” remarked the

midshipman, thinking it was very possible that the thin, almost

haggard-looking little girl, with her quiet and wonderfully expressive

eyes, with the brows so beautifully marked, might turn out a very

lovely girl in a few years; “but tell me, dear, now that we have a

quiet hour, and our handsome commander is so busy learning French from

Mademoiselle Agatha——”

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mabel, with a smile “if he is anxious to learn

French, dear Agatha is quite as anxious to learn English, and the

Captain is so quick. But what were you going to ask me, William, when I

so thoughtlessly interrupted you?”

“Why, to tell me all you remember about your little self, and how you

came to lose your poor brother, who was not a native of France, and was

too young to be mixed up in the political parties which distracted, and

still distract that unhappy country, France.”

“Ah!” replied Mabel, with a sigh, “I was younger than dear Julian,

and yet they would have killed me but for good Monsieur Jean Plessis.

When I was very young—too young to remember things well, only mamma

has often spoken of that time—we were with mamma’s husband, at his

château far away in France, near the sea coast, in Normandy, I think.

That château was called Coulancourt, for mamma’s husband possessed

other estates besides those near Lyons. Ah! I have heard mamma say we

were very happy then. The Duke so loved mamma, and loved us; our own

father could not have loved us more. I remember numbers of servants,

and attendants, and chasseurs, and the great château of Coulancourt,

with its great trees and lawn before it; but mamma said the troubles

were coming over France, and the Duke was called to Paris, and we all

went with him. Then, after a time, mamma was persuaded to go with us to

Lyons, for Paris became dangerous for Royalists, and Lyons was then a

great royal city.

“So we went to Lyons, and there we stayed till the whole country of

France became disturbed, and then—ah! shall I ever forget mamma’s

agony!—Monsieur Plessis arrived from Paris with the news of the good

Duke’s death. Oh! how we all cried. My brother Julian was frantic, and

wished to go to Paris; but Jean Plessis implored him to stay, telling

him that his mother required all his care.

“Monsieur Plessis’ wife and little daughter Julia were at the château.

Dear Julia was only two years older than I; but she was so sensible and

so loving, she made me dote upon her, whilst mamma could not bear to be

a moment without Madame Plessis.

“We were not long destined to remain in peace. The terrible Collet

d’Herbois came to the château. I do not know what he said or did, but

he made mamma tremble, and Jean Plessis was away in Toulon, where he

possessed some property; and before our protector returned, a party

of furious Revolutionists, with this wicked D’Herbois at their head,

surrounded the château, plundered it, drove all our domestics to

flight, and carried us all prisoners into Lyons, and lodged us in a

frightful prison. Oh! what we suffered from hunger, and cold, and want

of every kind of necessary! Our cell was damp, and with very little

light, and, to make things worse, they took Julian from us. Oh! that

was a terrible day.

“Collet d’Herbois came every day, and once, showing my mamma a paper,

said, ‘Sign this, and you and your children shall be released.’ ‘Never,

wretch, never!’ exclaimed mamma, passionately; ‘I will die first!’ The

cruel wretch stamped with fury, saying, ‘Die! yes, cursed brood of

aristocrats, you shall die!’

“‘Oh, my child!’ my poor mamma would say, as I hung round her neck,

‘that monster wants to be my husband, and to be possessed of all the

Duke’s lands. I care not for them; I offered him all. But to be his

wife—oh, horror! rather welcome death. But when I think of you and

Julian, my heart fails.’ From that hour,” concluded Mabel, “we never

saw Julian again;” and the tears streamed from her eyes.

The midshipman pressed his little companion’s hand; he soothed her, and

then a sudden thought arose that perhaps Julian might still be alive,

and he inquired—

“Who told you, dear Mabel, that your brother was beheaded?”

“The horrid gaoler,” returned the little girl, with a shudder. “He

came into the cell one morning, and, with a frightful laugh, said, ‘So

the young aristocrat’s head is off, with fifty others. It was a fine

sight.’ Mamma was in hysterics for hours.”

“And did no one else tell you but that brutal wretch?” again

interrogated the midshipman.

“No, William; but as neither mamma nor Jean Plessis ever heard more of

him, it must have been true; for the wicked Democrats cut off all the

Royalists’ heads they could find in Lyons.”

“And yet, Mabel,” said our hero, “many circumstances might have

occurred to save him. How were you and your mamma rescued?”

“Oh, we lingered a long, long time in that horrid prison, reduced in

health, with filthy, bad food and cruel treatment, till at last it was

resolved to spare no one in that ill-fated city, not even infants.

“Our savage gaoler at last came for us. ‘Come,’ said he, with a

ferocious laugh, ‘you are going to enjoy the fresh air; you will see a

grand sight.’”

“Inhuman ruffian!” interrupted William Thornton, passionately.

Mabel gazed up into the flushed face of the midshipman so earnestly,

and with so affectionate an expression, as if she had done wrong in

paining him, and he said—

“I was wrong, dear Mabel, to ask you to relate such painful scenes;

the very mention of them inflames even me. But you got away from the

wretches; God still watched over you.”

“Ah, yes, God did save us,” replied Mabel, “and sent Jean Plessis in

time to rescue us. We were brought out, with hundreds of others, from

our vile prison. Oh! how the sun dazzled us, after being so long in

the dark cell without its blessed light! When we could look round, we

saw the streets filled with a furious mob. We were forced to walk,

and those with us said we were to be tied to trees and shot down by

cannon; and the prisoners cried and sobbed, whilst the crowd laughed,

and hooted, and jeered us, as aristocrats. Amidst these insults we were

paraded through the streets till we came to a great square, all in

ruins. The houses on all sides were tumbled down, and their furniture

tossed about and strewn all over the space—the frightful wretch, Collet

d’Herbois, had ordered the town to be blown up. I clung to the side

of mamma, whose sweet face was turned towards heaven, as she prayed.

Indeed, William, I did not think then of death, but of what mamma

suffered. And dear mamma thought only of me.

“The horrid gaolers now put us by dozens in a cart. Mamma had her

hands tied, but I lay in her arms, almost insensible, though I could

feel her tears rolling down my face and neck, and could hear her

sobbing, ‘Oh, God! spare my last and only one; I am resigned, but

in mercy spare her!’ I think I was roused then, when I heard those

words, and felt her lips pressed to mine, for I cried out, ‘No, no,

where you go I go.’ Then there was a great and terrible shout from the

multitude; the soldiers on horseback trampled on the crowd; shrieks

and frightful cries filled the air; the cart we were in was surrounded

and overturned; there was firing of guns, and then mamma and I were

torn from the cart, mantles thrown over us, and we were hurried along

without seeing or knowing anything. By and by—how long I cannot say—our

eyes were uncovered—I was in mamma’s arms; we were in a boat, and Jean

Plessis and another man, stripped of their coats, pulling strongly at

the oars.

“We were going down the Rhone—we were saved! We endured a great deal

getting to Toulon, Jean Plessis’ native town, and the house he put us

in there was his own; for his father, at one time, was very well off.

You know all the rest, dear William; and now do you really think it

possible my brother might have been saved? Surely Jean Plessis would

have heard of him.”

“No, my dear Mabel, perhaps not; because your brother might have still

remained in prison, or have been forced to join the Republican army as

a soldier, like hundreds of others.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mabel, with enthusiasm, “what happiness would be in

store for mamma, if Julian lives.”

“Do you remember the Duke, your stepfather, well?” questioned our hero.

“Yes; though for more than two years before his death he was absent

from the château.”

“And what kind of a man was the Duke, Mabel?”

“Oh, a grand, tall gentleman, with such a kind, gentle look; but he was

quite grey—oh, much older than mamma; he looked more like her father

than her husband, and he was so kind to Julian and myself; I loved him

as well as if he had been my own father.

“Won’t you, William, be rejoiced to see your father and mother, when

we get to England?” asked Mabel, fixing her expressive eyes on the

midshipman, who, for an instant, looked sad. Mabel saw the change in

his handsome features at once, and, taking his hand in hers, said,

softly——

“I fear I have asked a question that pains you; like me, perhaps, you

have lost a parent?”

“I never had the blessing of seeing, to my remembrance, either father

or mother,” returned William Thornton. “I was picked up at sea, in a

boat, by the crew of a French frigate called the Surveillante.”

“What name did you mention, Master Thornton?” interrupted Madame

Volney, who had approached the two young people unobserved; “I thought

you mentioned a vessel I remember well.”

“I was telling Mabel, madame,” replied the midshipman “that I was

picked up in a boat, when a child of perhaps two years old, by the crew

of the Surveillante frigate. The vessel that my unfortunate parents

were in, it is conjectured, had been run down in a gale by that vessel.”

“Mon Dieu! how strange and extraordinary,” returned Madame Volney,

sitting down by the surprised young couple. “My brother was

first-lieutenant of the Surveillante at that time, and often has

he spoken to me, years afterwards, of that event, and of the child

they picked up—the only living thing saved, as they thought. The

Surveillante afterwards fought the English frigate the Quebec; and so

greatly was the Surveillante injured, that she went ashore on a reef

off Isle Dieu.”

A breeze of wind suddenly springing up, and taking them aback, put

a stop to the conversation becoming so interesting to our hero; but

Madame Volney said, as our hero proceeded to fulfil some duty, “We will

talk of this again, Master Thornton, for I have something to say that

may interest you.”

CHAPTER X.

The springing up of a breeze, and in an adverse direction, with a

promise of blowing fresh, disappointed all on board; for they fully

expected that with the land wind, usually blowing during the night, the

vessel would make good way towards Gibraltar.

However, there was no fear of meeting any of the enemy’s cruisers so

near that stronghold of Great Britain; but, not being able to make out

the two ships of war in the offing, the Babet tacked in shore, with the

intention of working along the coast.

“How very singular,” observed Captain O’Loughlin, to our hero, as they

walked the deck together, “that Madame Volney’s brother should happen

to command the Surveillante at the time they picked you up. I should

not be at all surprised that you may hear something very important

concerning yourself—perhaps even the name of your parents.”

“I am greatly excited by the same idea,” said the midshipman; “for,

though I do not often talk about the circumstance of my birth, yet, in

secret, it haunts my mind.”

“Faith, William,” said the Commander of the Babet, “I never bestowed

a thought upon the respected authors of my being until now,” and the

Captain tried to sigh and look sentimental.

“And why now, old friend?”

“Don’t you think me, William, a complete madman to be after letting

myself fall ever head and ears in love with a French Admiral’s

daughter?—and I a poor devil of a Lieutenant, worse off than yourself;

for, by the powers of war! your father and mother may turn out, as in

fairy tales, prince and princess; whereas mine, if I had any, were

honest—by the bye, that’s doubtful!—pains-taking shoemakers.”

“Why, what on earth puts that into your head, O’Loughlin?”

“Stop till I light my pipe, and I’ll tell you all about it; I enjoy a

pipe when I’m spinning a yarn.”

“You may,” returned our hero, laughing; “but it sadly interrupts the

unity of a story.”

“Oh, by St. Patrick! never mind the unity; you will make it out,

famously; you will have fire and smoke alternately. My first

recollection,” began the Captain, “is of a Foundling Hospital in the

beautiful city of Cork. How old I might be at the time my recollection

begins, I can’t say—perhaps five or six.

“There were a round dozen of us, some younger and some older, but none

beyond ten, for at ten years of age they were put out as apprentices.

As I told you before, my lad, I never heard who my parents were, and,

be my conscience! I don’t think any one of my comrades were a bit

wiser. The treatment we got was none of the best, nor the food neither.

When about nine years old, I was told I was to be bound in another year

to a shoemaker, as it was very likely my father before me had been one.

Why the devil they should think that puzzled me then, uncommonly; for,

at that time, I had scarcely worn a shoe to my foot; but I knew I was

firmly resolved never to be a shoemaker, or even a cobbler, who is a

shade higher in rank in my opinion, as they are, like the king, exempt

from taxation. I was a stout, active boy, and could write and read

well, and was fond of getting hold of a book of any kind. I made up my

mind to relieve the establishment of my presence, and one fine evening,

just as it grew dark, I managed to hide myself, got out unobserved, and

took to my heels, with a remarkably ragged coat, light airy trousers,

seeing that they were full of holes, and as poor a pair of shoes to

my feet as ever the son of a shoemaker possessed—and they do say they

generally have the worst of those articles of any children.

“You may say with truth that I began the world very humbly, and with

remarkably small amount of capital—having just one halfpenny, and

that a bad one, in my pocket; but ‘a light heart and a thin pair of

inexpressibles’—and mine were thin, God knows—is an old saying; so away

I went, light every way, for I had had no supper.

“I got out of the town somehow, for I had never been out of it before,

greatly tempted to stop and look at the fine shops, all lighting up

so gaily, but I was resolved to get into the country. I knew nothing

of the locality, had no idea where I was going or what I was going to

do; the only thing that occupied my mind was, that a shoemaker I would

not be. My first night was passed under a hedge; luckily it was in the

summer months—August, I think—so I was not much worse lodged than usual.

“As soon as I awoke I made a start of it, walked a mile or two along

the bye-paths, till I came to a small cabin—a labourer’s cabin. The

father, mother, and seven children were eating their breakfast—that is,

the table was covered with a lot of smoking hot potatoes, and a pile

of salt in the middle. The sight made me hungry, so I asked them to let

me join them, as I had had neither supper nor breakfast.

“‘Bedad, help yourself and welcome,’ said the man, and I did.

“In this manner, sleeping under hedges and haystacks, and eating

potatoes, whenever I could get them, I travelled for five days, till I

was beginning to get foot-sore, when I suddenly beheld the sea from the

top of a hill, with a large town at the foot, and a number of vessels

lying alongside of a quay. To my boyish eyes, the sea was a glorious

object, and I said to myself, ‘I will be a sailor.’ I knew what a ship

was, and what a sailor was, for I remember reading a penny ‘Robinson

Crusoe,’ and being in raptures with it, and vowing at the time I would

be a sailor. I met a man driving a flock of sheep, and I asked him the

name of the town.

“‘Bantry,’ says he, and I walked on. I thought the sight I viewed from

that hill one of the finest I ever saw, and faith I think so still; as

I did when years afterwards I stood upon the same spot, having ascended

the hill for the very purpose of bringing my boyish recollection more

vivid to my mind. I was descending the hill, a good carriage road

winding down it, when I heard a post-chaise coming rapidly after me.

I turned and soon perceived that an accident had happened. The pole

chain had snapped, and the carriage, which was a gentleman’s, laden

with a good deal of luggage, was pressing on the back of one horse and

knocking him down, whilst the other was kicking and plunging; and a

lady with her head out of the window calling out to the postillion to

stop: but you might as well have tried to stop a nor’-wester with a

lady’s parasol. Just as they reached me, the horse, whose pole chain

was broken, fell, the carriage gave a lurch, and over it went on the

side next the precipice; the door was burst open, and out rolled a

little boy scarcely two years old, and with him a curious woolly dog,

a poodle; I did not know its name then. Though stupefied and terrified

when I saw the child tumble out, the lady’s shriek roused me. I rushed

over the side, caught the child’s garments in one hand, and we rolled

down the precipice together some twenty or thirty yards. I luckily

grasped a branch of furze just as we were going to topple over the edge

of a cliff, full fifty or sixty feet perpendicular, and held on like

grim death, still keeping a fast hold of the little boy, the confounded

dog sticking to me like a leech, as if it was I that was rolling over

the precipice, not his young master, for my special amusement. He bit

me two or three times, for I could not help myself; if I let go the

child he would tumble over the edge, and if I let go the furze we were

sure both to go. I looked up and beheld the lady and another female

above, screaming and clapping their hands, and a gentleman cautiously

groping his way down to where we were.

“‘Hold on, my brave boy!’ shouted the gentleman, in intense anxiety,

‘and I’ll provide for you for life.’ On he came cautiously. I could not

stir, for the weight of the child, half hanging over the cliff on my

one hand, was quite as much as I could bear. At length the gentleman

reached us, and, holding on by a stout branch of a furze with one

hand, he dragged me and my burden up out of danger, and clasping the

frightened and crying child in his arms, he said, ‘God be praised!

but for this brave boy I should have lost you, my beloved child,’

and he repeatedly kissed the boy till he ceased crying; the lady and

her attendant from above anxiously and wildly gazing down on us. The

gentleman was in a naval uniform—of course, I did not know it was one

then—but his gold epaulette on his shoulders and gold lace attracted my

gaze.

“‘Now, my fine little fellow, let us get back to the road; luckily we

have all escaped, and the postillion is gone into Bantry for help and a

post-chaise.’ Well, we soon got up, and then the child was embraced and

kissed and made much of by the mother, who was very handsome and young.

The chaise or carriage lay on its beam end, that is, it had overturned

on its front; so the child was leaning on the door when the accident

happened, and its swinging open threw him out.

“‘And now, my fine little fellow,’ said the gentleman, sitting down on

one of his own trunks thrown out on the road, ‘who are you, and where

do you live, for I owe you my child’s life?’

“‘I lives nowhere, sir,’ I replied; and, determined to tell the truth,

I said I was a foundling, and had run away because they wanted to make

a shoemaker of me, and that I would rather go to sea.

“‘Go to sea!’ said the gentleman, his handsome wife standing near us,

with her pretty child clasped in her arms; ‘by Jove, that’s just where

I am going, and you shall go with me, if you like, and I will take care

of you, for it appears by your own account that no one has any claim to

you.’

“I kissed the gentleman’s hand, my heart beating with joy.

“‘Poor little fellow!’ observed the lady; ‘tell me your name?’

“‘Patrick O’Loughlin,’ I replied.

“They both smiled, saying, ‘A very fine name, indeed; very likely his

father’s,’ said the gentleman. ‘Don’t think I ever had a father, sir,’

I replied, very quietly.

“‘Oh, yes,’ said the gentleman, laughing; ‘you may be quite satisfied

you had both father and mother, though they left you to the care of

others. But never mind, my little fellow, I will make a man of you.’

Just then we saw the postillion coming up the road, and a post-chaise

following, and one or two helpers, and some of the country people

attracted by the account of the accident.

“The pole only of the gentleman’s carriage was broken, but he and the

lady and servant got up into the chaise. I was told to place myself

beside the driver, while the postillion remained behind to set up the

broken pole and bring the carriage into Bantry.

“On reaching the inn, there appeared a great commotion in receiving my

protector, as all the inmates of the hotel turned out, and there was no

end of donning of hats, and bows and curtseys.

“‘Here, my good dame,’ called out the gentleman to the landlady, ‘take

care of this young boy. Let him have anything he wishes for, and send

for a tailor and let him make him a couple of suits of clothes, fit for

a lad going to sea. I am going on to Glengariff to-morrow, but shall be

back in a couple of days, so let the clothes be ready by that time,’

and, patting me on the head, and telling me to go with the landlady, he

proceeded up stairs with his wife and child.

“‘Bless me!’ cried the landlady, looking at me—I was not very

aristocratically clothed certainly, and had lost my cap into the

bargain. ‘Where did you come from, little boy, I never saw you before?

You do not belong to this place, do you?’

“‘No ma’am,’ I replied, ‘I come from a long way.’

“‘There, Peggy,’ said the host, ‘don’t be after bothering the child.

What’s it to us where the dickens he comes from. Sure his honour the

Captain told you to give him plenty to eat and drink, and get a tailor

to make a suit of clothes for him. The great thing in this world is to

obey orders, that is, when you are put to no expense, and that you are

sure to be paid for executing them. That’s the point; and faix, Captain

Sir Oscar de Bracy pays like a prince.’”

Our hero started when he heard the name of De Bracy, but remained

silent.

“‘Well, many’s the order you gives, _avick_,’ said the landlady,

‘that’s never paid for. But, come along; what’s your name, child?’

“‘Patrick, ma’am.’

“Well, I’m spinning a fine yarn, William,” continued Captain

O’Loughlin, knocking his ashes out of his pipe; “but you see, I wanted

to show you how small a thing alters one’s destiny in this world. If

I had not read ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ I very likely should have been a

shoemaker, and if the pole-chain of Sir Oscar de Bracy’s carriage had

not broken, I should never have obtained the rank of a lieutenant in

His Majesty’s Royal navy. I’m not going to weary you with any more of

my story, but sum up, as the lawyers say. Captain Sir Oscar de Bracy’s

ship, the Redoubtable, sixty-four guns, and three frigates, were at

anchor in Bantry Bay. When he returned, after leaving his lady at an

estate of his near Glengariff, he took me on board with him, and we

sailed for Portsmouth, where he put me to a public school, and there

I had to fight my way, and found out that my big fist was both father

and mother to me, for I pummelled every young urchin’s head that cast a

slur upon my country, or my orphan state. When fourteen I was appointed

a midshipman on board the Concord frigate, through the interest of

Sir Oscar de Bracy, and then, after passing my examination—I may say

with _éclat_—I was appointed acting-lieutenant of the same ship, and

finally third-lieutenant of the Victory. My kind patron is, however,

and has been for years, governor of ——, in the East Indies, and I heard

that he lost his wife and little boy in a most melancholy manner. From

the period of my being put to school in Portsmouth, I have never seen

him. He took a most affectionate leave of me, told me his lawyer had

instructions to provide me with everything, and ample pocket-money; and

finally, when I passed my examination, Mr. Bodletop, the lawyer, handed

me £500, which he said Sir Oscar de Bracy had left directions for him

to do, and trusted that I would be an honour to my country and my noble

profession. My heart is full of deep and lasting gratitude to that

generous-hearted man, and most acutely I feel his deplorable loss of

wife and child so shortly after, as it appears, my saving the child’s

life.”

There was a long pause, broken by the Commander saying, as he turned

and looked with surprise upon his young comrade, “Why, what the deuce

are you thinking of, William; you look taken aback?”

“I did not interrupt you, Patrick,” replied our hero, thoughtfully,

“because your brief history has surprised me, and filled my mind with

vague ideas and thoughts, a gleam of hope, and a confusion of surmises

that bewilder me.”

“The deuce it does,” returned the Commander; “what have I said to

bewilder you? Are you in love?”

“No,” said the young man, with a smile; “but one thing I will observe

to you first. You said your protector was called Sir Oscar de Bracy.”

“So I say still, William. What then?”

“I will tell you. In the letter written by the Duchesse de Coulancourt,

directed to the officer, Lieutenant Cooke, you remember, who was in

command of the boat that penetrated into Toulon, with Lord Hood’s

proposals to the Royalists, the Duchess signed herself—I remember it

so well—de Coulancourt, _née_ de Bracy; that is, her maiden name was de

Bracy.”

“By the powers of war! that is singular and extraordinary,” said

Patrick O’Loughlin; “are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure. Lieutenant Cooke read the letter to me, and I was

particularly struck with the name at the time; therefore it is not at

all improbable but that the Duchess of Coulancourt is perhaps a sister,

or at least a relation, of Sir Oscar de Bracy, for that is far from a

common name.”

“By Jove, it’s very likely,” said Captain O’Loughlin, with vivacity.

“Then that dear little girl may be his niece. But that is not all that

makes you so thoughtful and serious, William?”

“Well, not exactly. Now do not think me an enthusiast, but try and

answer me a few questions. Can you remember the year in which you saved

the life of Sir Oscar de Bracy’s child?”

“Can I remember it? faith, I can, my lad. I was then nine years

old; I am now going on twenty-four: it was thus rather more than

fourteen—perhaps fifteen—years ago. This is ’93; that will, as near as

I can go to it, make the year of the accident 1778 or ’79.”

“In the year 1779,” said our hero, his cheek flushing as he spoke,

“I was picked up, as I told you, at sea in a long boat. No doubt the

Surveillante frigate ran over the vessel my parents, or those who had

the care of me, were in, and thus in a strange way I was the only one

saved. You will think me crazy, Patrick, but the coincidence is at

least singular. You said Lady de Bracy and her child perished in a

melancholy way about a year or so after you saved the child; do you

know in what way?”

William Thornton felt his arm grasped by the warm-hearted O’Loughlin

with a nervous hold.

“By Heavens, William!” he exclaimed, somewhat agitated, “you raise

strange ideas in my own mind, which may account for the marvellous

feeling of attachment I from the first felt for you. If your

conjectures, for I understand what you mean, turn out correct—(and now

I recollect, when I inquired of Mr. Bodletop, the lawyer, how Lady

de Bracy lost her life, he said she was drowned, she, and her child,

and every soul, in a heavy gale, on board the Spitfire gun brig, on

her passage from Bear Haven to Southampton)—God bless me!” continued

the Captain, “it’s quite possible that the Spitfire was run down by

the Surveillante—the dates correspond—and that you, the boy I have so

strangely loved with a brother’s affection, may be the child I saved

years gone by.”

“It’s perhaps a wild thought of mine, O’Loughlin,” said our hero,

pressing his friend’s hand; “but to-morrow we may hear something that

may tend to elucidate the mystery from Madame Volney, whose brother

was first lieutenant of the Surveillante at the time she ran down the

ship that I was supposed to belong to; she said she had something of

importance to communicate.”

“By St. Peter! if you turn out to be the son of my noble protector,

to whom I owe everything—my position—all,” said Patrick O’Loughlin,

warmly, “the great desire of my heart will be gratified, for I shall

look upon myself as a father to you.”

“A young father, O’Loughlin, twenty-four years of age, scarcely seven

years older than your son,” said our hero. “However, to-morrow much of

this wild dream of mine will vanish or be substantiated.”

CHAPTER XI.

Towards sunset the following day the Babet was within sight of

Gibraltar, the wind having shifted, during the night, to the eastward.

The ladies were all on deck, anxious for a view of the rock, the

bold and noble front of which, approaching from the eastward, is

particularly fine, and struck Madame Volney and her daughters with

admiration, and Mabel with wonder. They were only three leagues

distant; and as Captain O’Loughlin required some few things to complete

his jury rig, he resolved to run into the bay for a day, and give his

guests an opportunity of landing and seeing the place.

“I promised you yesterday, Mr. Thornton,” said Madame Volney, sitting

down beside the anxious midshipman, “to give you some particulars

concerning the young child saved in the long boat by the sailors of

the Surveillante. I stated that the frigate—so my brother told me—went

ashore on a reef off Isle Dieu; part of the crew became mutinous,

and got at the spirits. However, as many remained true, the frigate

was got off, and anchored, very little damaged; and the next day my

brother, who was greatly interested about the child, inquired for him,

and was grieved and vexed to hear that in the hurry and confusion of

the preceding night, the English prisoners had got away with the jolly

boat, and no doubt had taken the child with them. Now my brother was

the first person that received the child when handed on board the

Surveillante, and he carried him down in his arms, for he was nearly

dead, to the cabin stove, and with the steward’s assistance applied

restoratives. In stripping him of his wet garments to wrap him in hot

blankets, he perceived a small morocco case fastened round the child’s

neck, and on opening it beheld the small miniature of a very handsome

man, in a British naval uniform, and on the back, in small gold

letters, ‘Oscar de Bracy!’”

“My God, how extraordinary!” exclaimed the midshipman, greatly

agitated; and the hand little Mabel was holding nervously pressed hers.

“You suspected this disclosure, Mr. Thornton, I see,” said Madame

Volney.

“Yes, madame; I thought and hoped something might lead to this

important announcement.”

He then briefly related Mr. O’Loughlin’s intercourse with Sir Oscar

de Bracy, but carefully refrained from stating his friend’s early

history, merely saying that Sir Oscar de Bracy was Captain O’Loughlin’s

guardian, and that he had saved his boy’s life when a mere child of two

years old.

“Providence, my dear Mr. Thornton,” observed Madame Volney, much

interested, “brings about and reveals circumstances, apparently

wrapped up in impenetrable mystery, in its own good time. I feel quite

satisfied you are the child taken out of the long boat by the crew of

the Surveillante, and I greatly regret not having that portrait, which

I always carried with me, in my possession. My brother was exceedingly

annoyed at the loss of the child, for he had intended questioning one

of the English prisoners, who seemed greatly interested in the little

boy; but he did not know what to do, for he was, from the death of the

Captain of the Surveillante, the next in command, and her situation

required her going into port. He therefore took her into Rochefort,

and almost immediately after was ordered to Paris. I was there with my

family. Alas! there were then symptoms of the terrible times coming.

One evening he related to me all the circumstances concerning the

child, and gave me the portrait to keep, putting down in a pocket-book

everything connected with the event, the date, the day, and even hour.

Immediately after this he was ordered on a secret expedition to the

West Indies in command of a frigate, and there, alas, he died of the

yellow fever. When forced to fly from Paris, I had to leave everything

behind me in our mansion, and Heaven knows what became of all! I saved

our jewels; and by the precaution of my deeply lamented husband, a

large sum of money was secured for our support in a foreign land. We

fled to Toulon, where my husband possessed a fine estate, thinking that

the march of the Revolution might be checked by the determined loyalty

of the Toulon inhabitants and the fleet; but you are aware how affairs

turned out.”

William Thornton expressed himself very grateful to Madame for her

narrative, and the interest she expressed, and that he must only

rest contented with the state of things as they were, until he could

communicate with Sir Oscar de Bracy, if he still lived.

Little Mabel, who had been listening with wrapt attention, and watching

the changes in the expressive features of our hero, suddenly said—

“Mamma’s name was De Bracy; and if you, dear William, are a De Bracy,

we must be relations; is it not so?”

“I trust it may prove so, Mabel; such a contingency would make me very

happy indeed.”

Captain O’Loughlin joined them, with the two Miss Volneys, who had

been walking the deck with him; for somehow the gallant Captain

contrived—whether with his tongue or his eyes, we cannot say—to make

himself wonderfully agreeable to both these young ladies, and, as he

hoped, especially to Mademoiselle Agatha.

When the ladies retired to the cabin, the two friends continued to

pace the deck; and William Thornton detailed the particulars of Madame

Volney’s narrative, confirming their conjectures of the previous night.

“From my heart I warmly congratulate you,” cried the Irishman, pressing

the midshipman’s hand. “Be my conscience! another thing gladdens my

heart as much as any other part of the information you have received,

and that is, that you’re a countryman of mine. And faith, let John Bull

mimic us, and denounce us, in his arrogance, as a vulgar and ignorant

set, without any pretensions to be gentlemen, and all rebels at heart;

he is vastly mistaken. There are as loyal hearts in old Ireland, and

as good blood too, as any in Britain; and though we may like a row and

a drop of whisky now and then, we are always ready to stand up for

the flag of old England whenever it needs our defence. Now I tell you

what we must do: the moment we get to England we must inquire whether

Sir Oscar de Bracy has returned to his native land; if not, he must be

written to at once; and there is no question, in my opinion, when he

hears all the particulars, but that he will with joy and delight own

you as his son.”

Our hero was so full of conflicting thoughts arising from the recent

unexpected revelations, so momentous to him, that he could scarcely

reply to questions or attend to his friend’s conversation. This

singular combination of events, produced by the very simple fact of

his being permitted to accompany Lieutenant Cooke in the expedition to

Toulon, had led to the whole; all those with whom he had thus become

connected were linked in a chain of evidence.

“You seem in the clouds, William,” remarked O’Loughlin; “and, indeed,

there is enough to bewilder a young head like yours; but there’s no

use in bothering one’s brains till the time comes for action. See, we

shall run into the bay in a very short time; and, since we are here, I

think I will try and get up a better and taunter set of masts, if the

Port-Admiral is willing. If we should chance to have a brush or a run

with any of the enemy’s cruisers on our way home, we should be at a

great disadvantage.”

An hour afterwards the Babet was at anchor. As nothing of any

consequence occurred during the forty-eight hours they remained in

Gibraltar, and as Mr. O’Loughlin was not allowed a refit, the Commander

on the station thinking he was quite in a condition to make the voyage

to England, he again got under weigh, having spent a few hours,

however, in escorting his fair guests over the lions of the place.

Two days after leaving Gibraltar, the weather became very bad, so

much so, that both the Captain and our hero doubted the power of the

Babet, under her thin rig, to save herself from being blown ashore

on the coast of Spain. However, with a slight change in the weather,

they safely entered the Bay of Biscay, though, owing to the violence

of alternate westerly and northerly gales, much too close in with the

French coast for their liking. The weather had been so thick, squally,

and bitterly cold up to this time, that the ladies were forced to keep

below; and but once, indeed, from the period of leaving Gibraltar, were

they able to walk the deck. It was the month of January, and they could

expect nothing else. One night the wind fell, but a heavy sea and a

thick fog still prevailed—thick as during the two previous days. Just

at daybreak a very light breeze sprung up from the nor’-west, and, as

the fog lifted a little, our hero, who was on the watch, thought he

perceived, as he was looking out over the weather quarter, something

dark, that loomed like the hull of a craft, amid the vapour. He called

the attention of the quarter-master, who was standing near him, to the

object, but the fog again grew dense, and obscured their view; but so

satisfied was William that what he had seen was the hull of a vessel,

that as they were on dangerous ground, he roused his Commander, who had

lain down half-dressed. He jumped up in a moment, knowing how sharp

and quick the young midshipman’s eyes were, and ascended upon deck.

Five minutes afterwards the fog again lifted, and so suddenly, that

the water was perfectly clear for five hundred yards all round. To the

great surprise of all parties, those on board the corvette beheld,

within three hundred yards of them, two vessels, whose calling there

was no mistaking.

The nearest, our hero thought one of the handsomest vessels of her

class he had ever seen. She was a long, low, beautifully-shaped craft,

lugger rigged, but with the taunt masts raking like a slaver’s. She

carried ten four-pounders and several brass swivels, and appeared to be

full of men. The other was a schooner, a handsome vessel, and carrying

eight guns, probably six-pounders.

Both crowded sail when they beheld the Babet; but, as the tricolour was

flying at the corvette’s peak, and her French build deceived them, they

tacked and stood towards them.

“Now, my lads,” said Captain O’Loughlin, “we must take those two

fellows or sink them. That lugger, I know, can outsail us, therefore

the first thing to do is to cripple him; so down with the tricolour,

and give him a dose under the bunting—that always wins.”

Down went the revolutionary flag, and in its place arose old England’s

ensign. This proceeding astounded the two strangers. The lugger was the

well-known and notorious privateer, Vengeance, the fastest and most

successful of its description, out of any French port—a perfect pest

to commerce. This, of course, was not then known to those on board the

Babet, neither could our hero imagine how much that said lugger would

affect his after destiny.

The moment the lugger became aware of the dangerous enemy she was

approaching, then she wore, firing her starboard guns at the same time.

But the Babet poured in a broadside from her heavy metal that seemed to

do considerable mischief; in fact, wounding her main mast so severely

that, had there been more wind, it would have gone overboard.

The schooner came boldly up, and, seeing how few men were on board the

Babet, fired a broadside into the corvette, cutting her rigging up, and

wounding two of her crew. She had also a heavy pivot-gun, which she was

preparing to use, loaded with grape.

But, the wind freshening, the crew of the corvette, with a hearty

cheer, returned the broadside, at only pistol-shot distance. This

action evidently confounded the crew of the schooner, which at once

bore up, whilst a discharge from the larboard side of the Babet knocked

the main-mast of the lugger over the side.

Again did the crew of the corvette cheer, though, unfortunately, one

man was killed, and four wounded, by the broadside. The schooner,

however, having her braces and principal rigging shot away, missed

stays, and the next minute the Babet luffing up, the schooner fell on

board her, on her starboard quarter.

“Now then,” exclaimed young Thornton, to his favourite top-man, Bill

Saunders, who had been purposely selected to accompany the corvette to

England; “now then, let us at them with cutlass and pistol!” and, with

a wild hurrah, he sprang into the shrouds of the schooner, and then,

cutlass in hand, sprung upon her deck.

Saunders followed, with a daring set of boarders, and, swinging his

cutlass round his head, dashed headlong after his favourite. There

were nearly fifty men on deck, and the boarders of the corvette were

met at first with desperate obstinacy. But the midshipman was a daring

youth, of great activity and strength for his years; he burst through

the enemy and reached the Captain, who was furiously urging on his men,

swearing he would sink the schooner before he would strike his flag.

Seeing young Thornton driving his men forward, he aimed his pistol at

his head, but missed him; whilst our hero, drawing one from his belt,

fired in return, and the Captain fell dead upon the deck. The mate,

uttering a terrible oath, clutched his musket, and, with a blow behind,

felled William Thornton beside the Captain; but Bill Saunders drove his

cutlass through the mate, and had lifted the midshipman in his arms,

just as Captain O’Loughlin, with a dozen men, threw himself on board.

Dispirited and disheartened by the fall of their Captain, and seeing

their mate desperately wounded, the crew of the schooner threw down

their arms and surrendered.

During this contest on board the schooner, the Vengeance, in her

crippled state, had kept up a constant fire upon the Babet, but a dense

fog again setting in, accompanied by drizzling ruin, shut out all

objects around.

“Are you much hurt, William?” demanded O’Loughlin, anxiously, of the

midshipman, as he sat on the cabin hatch, letting Bill Saunders bind up

his wound on the head with a handkerchief.

“No, nothing of any consequence,” replied our hero, rising up, and

looking around; “but where is the lugger?”

“To the deuce with the lugger!” cried Captain O’Loughlin; “jump on

board and pacify the women; they are frightened out of their wits, and

have got it into their heads you are killed.”

The young man jumped on to the deck of the Babet, and in another minute

was in the cabin. Mabel gave a cry of joy, and the girls, shaking him

by the hand, expressed their joy at his safety—hoping that Captain

O’Loughlin was unhurt, and, indeed, anxious for the safety of all on

board.

“Our gallant Captain is quite safe,” replied our hero, petting his

little favourite, who clung to him with sweet affection.

“You have had a terrible fight, Master Thornton,” observed Madame

Volney; “and you are hurt.”

“We certainly had a sharp brush whilst it lasted,” said our hero; “but,

as to my hurt, it is nothing. O’Loughlin has persuaded me that I am an

Irishman, and, consequently, my head is composed of harder material

than heads are usually. Now, having proved I am alive, I must leave

you, and help my Commander to clear the vessels,” and, kissing Mabel,

he hurried up on deck.

The schooner was named the Bon-Citoyen, and had been commanded by the

late Victor Chabot, whose brother-in-law was Captain of the Vengeance.

It was a valuable prize; having a large sum of money on board, besides

some valuable cargo, previously taken from English ships.

It was finally settled between Captain O’Loughlin and our hero that

the latter should run the schooner, with ten men, to Plymouth, keeping

company with the Babet as long as circumstances or weather would

permit. Accordingly, after the prisoners had been disposed of, and

the dead committed to the deep, Thornton proceeded to bid the females

farewell for a time.

This separation annoyed them all. Mabel was in tears, and almost felt

inclined to ask to go in the schooner with her friend.

“We shall be alongside all the time, Mabel,” observed her young

protector, “so keep up your spirits. We shall meet again in England in

a couple of days.”

The midshipman proceeded on board the prize, taking with him, as his

mate, Bill Saunders. There were four killed on board the schooner

besides the Captain, and nine wounded, including the mate, a man

apparently of a brutal and fierce disposition; for though carefully

attended and taken to the Babet—he could walk notwithstanding his

wound—he cursed and vowed vengeance the whole time. The vessel was

very little damaged in her spars or sails, her rigging had principally

suffered; but a few hours would set all that to rights. Captain

O’Loughlin, as the weather was thick, arranged a mode of signals should

the fog continue, and he also agreed to fire a gun if he tacked. So,

shaking hands, the friends parted, and in a few minutes, so dense was

the fog, they lost sight of each other.

Young Thornton naturally felt very proud of his command; and though

he limped a little from the thrust of a boarding-pike in the leg, and

smarting at times from the blow on the head, he walked the deck of

the prize with amazing satisfaction, wishing for Charles Pole as a

companion, now that he had lost the kind-hearted, cheerful O’Loughlin.

The schooner, after parting from the Babet, kept close hauled, sailing

about six knots; the water was tolerably smooth, but the rain fell in

thick drizzling showers. Bill Saunders was taking a turn at the helm,

when our hero paused in his walk beside him.

“I wish it would clear, Bill,” he observed, in a thoughtful tone; “for

though I am steering the course agreed upon, I am not at all satisfied

that we shall clear the French coast on this tack. Can you lie no

higher?”

“No, sir; her topsail shivers now. It is very thick, and for nearly

four days we have not had a glimpse of the land. Where do you say we

are, sir?”

“Captain O’Loughlin thought we were somewhere off Isle Dieu, about two

or three leagues distant, but I fear we are much nearer. Now if that

is the case, and the wind stands as it is, we shall never be able to

weather the West Penmarks.”

“Suppose as how, sir,” said Bill, “if the weather keeps thick like

this—and it is thick enough for soup—suppose as how, sir, we makes a

long leg seaward.”

“I shall certainly do so, Bill, if it keeps on this way. The swell

is also very rapidly increasing from the nor’-west, an ugly customer

where we are, to say nothing of the chances of meeting privateers and

cruisers from Brest. I wonder where that lugger is now? not far off,

I dare say. She is a very beautiful craft, certainly the handsomest

lugger rigged vessel I ever saw.”

“We should have had her also, sir, only for this here fog—darn it.”

Towards sunset, instead of looking up, the schooner fell off, the wind

heading them, and freshening considerably. On sounding several times,

our hero found he had forty or fifty fathoms; this he knew to be about

the soundings close in with Belleisle, a couple of leagues off. He

ought to have about sixty.

Calling the gunner, he desired him to fire a gun, as agreed upon when

either vessel should tack. This was done, and all listened, thinking it

would be returned, but, finding no response, he ordered the schooner

about.

“I do not think the Babet has outsailed us in this light wind,”

observed our hero to an old and experienced man-of-war’s man, who acted

as his first mate.

“No, sir; under-rigged as the corvette is, I should say this craft

would outsail her, and beat her on a wind. Perhaps the Captain tacked

and forgot to fire the gun.”

“I do not think that,” returned our hero. “However, we will let her

stand on this board;” and, having set the watch, and taking all

necessary precautions, he retired to eat his dinner and have a look at

what the cabin contained.

CHAPTER XII.

The main cabin of the Bon-Citoyen was, though not very large, extremely

comfortable, and bore a very war-like aspect, the panels and sides all

being covered with various small arms arranged in fanciful devices.

Young as he was, and a midshipman, Thornton could not help reflecting

on the uncertainty of life, when he recollected that a few hours back

the cabin had been tenanted by Captain Victor Chabot, in full life

and vigour, and now, thought our hero, he lies at the bottom of that

vast expanse of ocean that entombs so many thousands. Too young to be

sad, or reflect long on serious things, the young commander, shaking

off the feeling of depression that had for a moment come over him,

returned upon deck. The fog was still thick, but the wind was rapidly

increasing, and so was the sea. Before midnight they were under a

double-reefed topsail, and double-reefed mainsail and fore-sail; the

schooner was then put about, with her head to the nor’-nor’-east.

Our hero was too anxious to retire to rest; he felt too great a

responsibility rested upon him, particularly in the then state of the

weather, and the ticklish situation in which they were placed. He

also felt uneasy at not being answered by the Babet when he had fired

the gun at sunset; so that altogether he was extremely anxious for

daylight. The fog, as the wind increased, was gradually dispersing,

and towards morning the mist over the sea had totally disappeared. The

gale and sea went on increasing, so that when the day made, all hands

on board anxiously scanned the horizon around. As the light increased,

land was at once seen on the starboard bow, and not more than two

leagues distant; but a mist hung over the coast, rendering it obscure.

“I am certain the land we see ahead is the West Penmarks, Mr. Lochart,”

said our hero to the first mate; “and it is very strange I cannot make

out the Babet anywhere, or the lugger. I see a brig standing under

close-reefed topsails to the sou’-west, and three or four other craft

under easy canvas running in for the land.”

“There is certainly, sir, no Babet to be seen,” replied Mr. Lochart,

“and it makes me uneasy; for if we had not tacked we should have been

unable to weather the land under our starboard bow, and in this gale

embayed, we might not have been able to carry sufficient canvas to work

out.”

William Thornton, if the weather had permitted, would have felt

inclined to stand back, and see what could have become of the corvette,

it seemed so strange that they should thus have parted company; but his

instructions were, under any circumstances, to make the best of his way

to Plymouth, and so, though very unhappy, fearing some accident to the

corvette and his little charge, Mabel, thus deserted by him, though far

from his intention to do so, he carried on till he made the land out,

when he found he was quite correct, as the ranges of rocks he first

beheld were the West Penmarks.

Having weathered the land, he was able to ease off his tacks, and

finally running before the gale, he ran into Plymouth Sound the evening

of the second day from parting company with the Babet.

Leaving him in safety, we must return to discover what became of the

corvette and our little heroine, Mabel Arden, who was greatly grieved

when she understood that her young protector being made master of the

schooner, the Bon-Citoyen, they would be separated; but Madame Volney

consoled her by the assurance that the two vessels would be close

alongside one another the rest of the voyage.

Although the Babet and her prize had lost sight of each other, owing to

the dense fog, both vessels steering the same course, the crews did not

expect to be very far asunder when the fog should clear off, and permit

them seeing over the water.

Now it unfortunately happened, as the wind increased, that the men

who went aloft to reef the Babet’s topsail found the fore topmast had

been so very badly injured by a ball from the heavy pivot gun of the

Bon-Citoyen, that it required fixing and securing before they could

attempt to carry sail up it, and whilst this was doing the Babet

was kept away a point or two. On a closer examination it was found

necessary to shift the spar altogether, and the corvette was then

brought on a wind under her fore course, double-reefed main-topsail,

and driver; thus, as the schooner sailed two feet for her one, by

sunset she was out of hearing of her gun. Captain O’Loughlin felt not

at all uneasy, for, unfortunately, he did not consider himself so near

the land as he was. Thus, they had scarcely shifted their fore-topmast

and got up another, when the man forward called out, in a loud and

alarmed voice—

“Land on the larboard bow.”

And the very next instant the Babet struck the ground with considerable

force; but the next moment beat over the tail of a bank, and getting

stern way on, her commander instantly ordered her anchor to be let go,

and her sails to be furled. This was promptly and well executed, and

the Babet at once rode to her anchor. They were then in five fathoms

water. This untoward event occurred about an hour after midnight.

So exceedingly thick was the weather, accompanied with a continuous

drizzling rain, that even at the short distance they were from the

land, it was invisible.

Several of the French prisoners were on deck, and they said without

hesitation that the Babet had struck on one of the shelving banks on

the north-east end of Belleisle; that they were quite aware the vessel

would run ashore, but it was no business of theirs; they were only a

few hours out from Belleisle themselves when they fell in with the

Babet. This statement Captain O’Loughlin felt to be truth. After doing

all he could to assuage the alarm of the females, and set a guard over

his prisoners, who appeared inclined to be unruly, he ordered the boat

to be lowered, and the second mate and a boat’s crew were sent to sound

astern of them; but, to their surprise, they came almost immediately

upon a rocky shoal, about twenty fathoms from where the ship lay;

and, finally, they discovered she was surrounded with rocks, so much

so, that it appeared incredible how she got where she was without

striking some of them. Where the corvette lay the water was tolerably

smooth, though the wind increased rapidly. There was nothing to be

done, however, till daylight; for to attempt to extricate her from

her extraordinary position at that time was out of the question. They

had thirty-four able-bodied prisoners on board, including officers,

and fourteen wounded; these Captain O’Loughlin at once determined to

put ashore as soon as dawn broke, so that he might not be hampered

in either saving the ship or defending himself from any enemy that

might attack him. He had but thirty-five men able to work the Babet,

including his officers and the surgeon.

As the daylight appeared the fog lifted, the gale increased, but

shifted a point or two, so that where the vessel lay the wind blew

partly off the shore. It was only an hour’s ebb when he anchored, so

that at low water he touched the ground, but no more, and the swell was

very trifling.

Before sun-rise the mist and fog had all disappeared, and anxiously

every one gazed around them. To their surprise, the first thing that

caught their sight was their late antagonist, the Vengeance lugger,

lying at anchor, at the back of a low point, not four hundred yards

from them. She was still without her main-mast; but the moment the

look-out caught sight of the Babet, her cable was cut, and in an

instant her fore and mizen lug were set, and she was under weigh.

Dropping out from under the land, and getting to a distance, she was

hove to, evidently watching the movements of the corvette.

The corvette was not five hundred yards from the shore, and about six

miles from the strong town and citadel of Palais, which had some thirty

odd years before stood a long siege, and was surrendered to the English

on honourable terms, but was given up some few years afterwards.

The Babet’s situation was in truth critical. On every side were ranges

of rocks, all visible at low water, with a narrow gut, through which

the vessel, singularly enough, had run in. Now, to work out through

that narrow passage was quite impossible. It was to be done with a

leading wind, certainly; but the gale, though not direct in, would not

permit a ship to lead out on one tack, and it blew much too strong to

attempt to work through it. Already they could see numbers of persons

assembled on the lofty rocks lining the shore. They were just within

musket shot of the beach, and Captain O’Loughlin well knew that a

party of soldiers would soon arrive from the citadel of Palais, and

open fire upon them from the rocks.

He was, however, determined to get rid of his prisoners, and

accordingly landed them six at a time; they were very unruly, and

swore vehemently that the Babet should never leave that spot in the

possession of the English.

Being able now to use all his crew, Captain O’Loughlin resolved to

attempt to warp at high water into a berth from whence he might make

sail; but the fates appeared against the Babet, for just as her

commander was preparing to make his hazardous attempt, the lofty spars

of a large ship appeared round the north-east end of Belleisle, and

in five minutes more a thirty-six gun frigate, with the tricolour

flaunting in the gale, came rapidly into view, and seeing at once

the situation of the corvette, taking her for a French ship, she

lay to, and commenced hoisting out her boats. As she was doing so,

the Vengeance ran up alongside of her, and then the corvette’s real

character became known, and immediately one of the boats with a flag of

truce pulled in for her.

Captain O’Loughlin was deeply chagrined; resistance was totally out of

the question; and added to his great vexation was the thought that the

ladies on board, as well as his friend Thornton’s little charge, would

fall into the hands of the Revolutionary party. Madame Volney and her

daughters were in terrible despair; they saw that Captain O’Loughlin

suffered intensely, and being unable to express in French what he felt

and wished to advise, rendered him even more miserable. But just as

the boat had come within hail of the corvette, a gun from the French

ship and a signal run up to the mast-head, caused them, to the extreme

surprise of Captain O’Loughlin, to at once turn back, and lower the

flag of truce.

“What’s in the wind now?” exclaimed Captain O’Loughlin. “Be the powers

of war, Mr. Pearson,” addressing his first mate, “there goes the

frigate and the lugger, the lugger bang in amongst the Cardinal Rocks,

and the frigate standing right across us. Lie down, quick!” he shouted

to the men, as he cast a glance round; “she is going to fire!”

As he spoke an iron shower passed partly over them, wounding two men,

and cutting the Babet’s rigging in many places into shreds. The next

instant she was plunging into the head sea without the island. This

seeming mystery was soon explained, for the tall masts of another large

ship were seen rounding the point, and soon the sails and hull of an

English frigate came into view. A loud and triumphant cheer burst from

the crew of the Babet, and in a moment the English ensign was waving

from her mast-head. The English frigate was about half a mile from the

shore; and as the wind then blew she could lie along the coast of

Belleisle, and gain the open sea on rounding the eastern side. She was

evidently following the French frigate, and both were seeking the open

sea, probably to attack each other; for in the confined space between

Belleisle, the Cardinal Rocks, and the banks and shoals lying off the

mouth of the Loire, it would have been impossible, as the wind then

blew, to manœuvre two frigates with any degree of safety.

As soon as the English ship beheld the Babet, a signal was run up

at her mast-head, requiring to know her name. This was answered,

and several other signals followed. Captain O’Loughlin thus learned

that the British frigate was the Iris, thirty-two guns, the French

ship the Citoyenne-Française; but in a quarter of an hour the former

disappeared, standing out to sea on the same tack as the Frenchman.

“Now, my lads,” said Captain O’Loughlin, cheerfully, “we must get out

of this place as fast as possible; the wind favours us a point or two

since morning, so just be quick. Splice and knot the rigging, and we

will attempt the passage before they can send any troops from Palais to

pepper us.”

Madame Volney, her daughters, and Mabel became inspired with fresh

hope, when almost on the brink of despair. Having repaired the rigging,

a boat’s crew put an anchor in a position that would enable them to set

sail, when warped up to it. With his glass, Captain O’Loughlin could

discern a body of men coming along the heights: these he supposed to

be soldiers from Palais; but the Babet was soon warped to her berth,

and, aided by the shift of wind, she ran safely out under double-reefed

topsails, and then tacking, stood out to sea on the same board as the

Iris frigate;[4] and three days afterwards, to the intense joy of

our hero, and also of all on board the Babet, she ran into Plymouth

alongside the Bon-Citoyen schooner.

CHAPTER XII.

Sir Godfrey Etherton, eight or ten days after the arrival of the Babet

in Plymouth, received a letter from Mr. Joseph Stanmore, solicitor.

The Baronet was in his study when the letter arrived; he opened it

with some surprise and curiosity, for he did not know the writing, and

perused the following lines:—

“London, —— Square,

“January 21st, 1794.

“Sir,—

“I beg to acquaint you with the arrival in London of your niece, Miss

Mabel Arden, who is at present residing with a French lady, the widow

of Admiral Volney, a fugitive or emigrant from her native country, and

who has kindly taken charge of Miss Arden, for a short period. I have

also to state that a young gentleman, an officer in the naval service,

has placed in my hands a sealed casket, which he received from Miss

Arden’s mother, the Duchesse de Coulancourt, with an injunction for

it to be opened in his presence and that of Miss Arden’s nearest

relative, which I understand you are. Any further particulars I will

defer till I have the pleasure of seeing you, which I hope will be as

soon as may be convenient.

“I have the honour to be,

“Yours most obediently,

“JOSEPH STANMORE.”

Sir Godfrey Etherton read this letter twice, and looked very serious,

as he muttered half aloud—

“So she is come at last.”

He remained thoughtful some time; then, rising, he proceeded to the

drawing-room, where Lady Etherton and two of her youngest daughters

were sitting near a blazing fire.

“I have just received intelligence,” commenced the Baronet, “that Miss

Arden has arrived in London.”

“Oh, indeed!” returned Lady Etherton, whilst the two girls, both very

plain, but very fashionably dressed in the ugly style of the period,

looked up from their fancy work.

“I wonder what she is like?” said Miss Jane to her sister Barbara.

“Howard said she was such a puny thing, that she would hardly live to

reach England.”

“It’s very obvious,” said her mother, “that she has lived,

nevertheless. I suppose, Godfrey, you will have to go to London, and

bring her here; the weather is very severe for so long a journey.” Even

from Southampton to London, sixty years ago, was called a long journey.

Oh, steam and rail, what a different world you have made of it! Who can

tell, in sixty years more, but that steam and rail will be looked upon

as slow coaches are now-a-days?

“Yes,” replied Sir Godfrey, handing the letter to his spouse, “I must

set out to-morrow. I shall not require you to accompany me; but I will

take Jane, to keep the child in countenance and companionship.”

“I wonder if her mother still exists?” said Lady Etherton.

“Not very likely,” answered the Baronet, “in the state France is, that

any titled aristocrat would escape, though by birth an Englishwoman.

But it’s strange that Mrs. Arden—or the Duchesse de Coulancourt—should

in a manner confide her child and a valuable casket, no doubt, to the

care of a boy.”

“And a boy of no family or connection,” remarked Lady Etherton, laying

down the lawyer’s letter.

“That is of very little consequence now,” Sir Godfrey replied, and,

turning to his daughters, said, “You had better, Jane, make some

arrangements for to-morrow; I shall leave early, so that we may reach

London in good time the following day.”

The two girls then left the room.

“It has just struck me,” remarked the Baronet, “that as this child is,

no doubt, totally uneducated, whether it will not be better to place

her in some first-rate establishment for the education of young ladies,

than to bring her here. For several reasons I think that would be the

best plan, as all our girls are finished off, and to bring a governess

again into the house would be unpleasant.”

“You might do so in the spring,” returned Lady Etherton; “but for

appearance sake I think she had better come here for a few months. I

wonder greatly what is in the casket?”

“Some family jewels, I suppose,” replied the Baronet; “perhaps some

papers to prove the child’s birth, &c. But I forgot to mention to

you that I saw in the Plymouth paper an account of a spirited action

fought by the corvette that brought Miss Arden to England with two

French privateers. She took one, a very large schooner, which it seems

was brought to Plymouth by this young midshipman, William Thornton.

The corvette had scarcely half her armament, and it is stated only

forty-five men on board at the time. Now, this midshipman has attracted

great attention; his gallantry during the action, and the fact of his

having shot the captain of the privateer at a critical moment, and also

having brought the prize home safely, notwithstanding some tremendous

gales, has caused him to be highly spoken of. Even Admiral B—— has

taken notice of him, and I think it extremely probable that he will be

made a lieutenant at once, without waiting the expiration of his time.”

“Hem, indeed!” returned Lady Etherton, with a contemptuous look and

manner. “This boy seems to be fortune’s favourite—a lucky chance, I

suppose. I dare say, if Howard had had the opportunity, he would have

done equally well.”

“Of course he would,” returned the Baronet, confidently. “However,

Howard shall not want either an opportunity or the means of

distinguishing himself when the time comes. It is very clear every

one cannot have the chance at the same time, or the service would be

overrun with young heroes.”

“Well,” observed the mother, “I am sure, when the time does come,

my son will not be behind-hand in spirit or ability,” and so the

conversation ended.

Everything being prepared for a journey, Sir Godfrey Etherton and his

daughter Jane took their departure in the family chariot with post

horses. A journey from the family mansion to London, in those not

very remote days, required nevertheless a whole twenty-four hours. On

reaching town, our travellers took up their abode at Pierce’s hotel.

Now, Jane Etherton was extremely anxious to see this little Mabel

Arden; though she considered her a mere child, still she created a

kind of excitement in her mind. Jane Etherton was not a handsome girl,

and, we regret to add, by no means an amiable one; about twenty years

of age, rather tall and slight in person, and vain and selfish in

disposition; whilst her manner was extremely arrogant and overbearing

to all she considered her inferiors, and to those of her own rank and

station in life she was stiff and often supercilious. She had heard

her mother say that the unexpected turning up of Miss Arden would

materially diminish hers and her sister’s fortunes, as their father

would be obliged to refund a very large sum which Miss Arden, as the

daughter of Mr. Granby Arden, would by right inherit—Sir Godfrey

being quite ignorant that his brother had ever married: therefore the

unexpected appearance of this little girl was a most disagreeable event.

“But,” continued the mother, “we may consider it a most fortunate

circumstance that Miss Arden, who had a brother, alone lives to claim

the inheritance. Her brother was beheaded, she asserts, somewhere in

France, during the convulsions that overthrew the French monarchy:

otherwise we should have lost not only the estate but the title.”

We cannot vouch for the fact, but it was said that Miss Jane observed

that it was a great pity something of the same kind did not happen to

Miss Arden; for it was too bad to have to give up property so long

considered her own. We presume, therefore, though Miss Jane was a

little curious to see Mabel, she was not prepared to regard or receive

her with any very kindly or cousinly feeling.

The day following the arrival of Sir Godfrey Etherton in London, he

dispatched a note to Mr. Stanmore, the solicitor, appointing an hour

on the next day for a meeting. If the time was not convenient, he

requested the solicitor to name his hour; requesting also to know where

he should find Miss Arden.

A polite answer was returned, stating that the time mentioned by the

Baronet was quite convenient, and that Miss Arden was residing for

the time with Madame Volney, who had rented a detached cottage at

Brompton, No. 7, East End Terrace.

On consideration, Sir Godfrey deferred visiting Madame Volney till

after his interview with Mr. Stanmore; so at the appointed hour he

proceeded to the solicitor’s residence. The Baronet was shown into a

handsome sitting-room, where he beheld Mr. Stanmore and two gentlemen,

to whom the Baronet was introduced by the solicitor, first to

Lieutenant O’Loughlin, and then to William Thornton, saying—

“This is the young midshipman who has acted so kindly and gallantly

towards your niece, Miss Arden.”

The Baronet first bowed politely to Lieutenant O’Loughlin, though

wondering why that gentleman should be present; but when face to face

with our hero he scarcely bent his head, and the expression of his

countenance was haughty, if not contemptuous. A careless smile passed

over the midshipman’s very handsome and prepossessing countenance as

he perceived the change of expression in Sir Godfrey’s features when

introduced to him; but the solicitor, who also marked the change,

looked serious.

“I have wished Lieutenant O’Loughlin,” said Mr. Stanmore, addressing

Sir Godfrey, “to be present at the opening of this casket,” directing

the baronet’s attention to that article lying on the table, “because

Lord Hood mentioned in his letter to me that, considering the youth

of Mr. Thornton, he had better be accompanied to London by his friend

Lieutenant O’Loughlin, who would have, conjointly with Master Thornton,

the care of the casket. Acquainted with this proceeding on the part

of Lord Hood, I considered it my duty to secure the presence of Mr.

O’Loughlin on the occasion of this meeting.”

“I can see no objection,” said Sir Godfrey; “but I think Lord Hood

might have dispensed with the services of so young a lad as Master

Thornton altogether.”

This was said in an ungracious tone, and O’Loughlin’s cheek flushed as

he retorted rather sharply—

“Faith! Sir Godfrey, perhaps his services in saving mother and

daughter’s life might equally be dispensed with. As I find——”

The lawyer coughed, fidgeted about, and, seeing a dark frown on Sir

Godfrey’s brow, interrupted the worthy lieutenant by saying—

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but business is business; we will at once open

the casket, and see to its contents.”

Approaching the table, he took it up, remarking that it was heavy.

The casket was evidently of Indian workmanship, beautifully put

together; the sides and edges inlaid with silver, richly engraved with

various curious hieroglyphics. A large massive wax seal, bearing the

arms of the Duchesse de Coulancourt, covered the key-hole.

“You may perceive, Sir Godfrey,” remarked the solicitor, “that this

seal is perfect in all its parts?”

“Undoubtedly,” returned the baronet; “it could not be otherwise in

honourable hands.”

“I can assure you, Sir Godfrey,” said Lieutenant O’Loughlin, coldly,

“that my gallant young friend perilled his life to preserve that

casket, and there was no fear of any one tampering with it whilst under

my care.”

Sir Godfrey bowed, observing, “It was fortunate his niece had had such

able protectors of both her person and her property.”

Mr. Stanmore, who did not admire either the tone or the look of the

baronet, and who could very well judge of the feelings of the two young

men, hastened to break the seal. William Thornton, with a look not

particularly conciliating at Sir Godfrey, handed the key, which was of

rather curious construction. This the solicitor inserted, turned the

lock, and then threw up the lid, all present naturally leaning forward,

feeling some little curiosity concerning its contents.

Each naturally expected to behold jewels of great value and diamonds;

what they first beheld were shavings. These appeared a rather strange

packing material for a rich jewel case; but supposing that the Duchess,

in her extremity, could find no other, these were carefully removed,

when, to their intense mortification, surprise, and indignation,

nothing was found but pieces of old worn lead wrapped in pieces of old

sacking or canvas. The four spectators remained for several moments

gazing at each other, unable to utter a word.

Sir Godfrey Etherton was the first to recover from the surprise all

felt. He started to his feet, his sallow cheek flushed and his eyes

glistening with the feeling of unaccountable relief, and even of

triumph. What cared he for the poor child thus left penniless?

“Ah!” he exclaimed, not trying to conceal the joy he felt, or the

triumphant tone of his voice; “so this is the end of our investigation.

I thought from the first the whole story was a trumped up one, and that

this supposed Duchess of Coulancourt was some artificial adventurer and

her daughter.”

“Hold, sir, and take care what you say!” interrupted O’Loughlin, the

fierce, angry flash from his dark eyes telling how strong was the

struggle within that hindered him from felling the Baronet at his

feet, whilst William Thornton could hardly contain himself. “How, Sir

Godfrey,” continued the Lieutenant, checking his rage, “can you presume

to call the Duchess of Coulancourt an adventuress, because this

casket, be it how it may, has been tampered with?”

“Sir,” returned the Baronet, with a dark frown, gazing fiercely at the

Lieutenant, and his lip trembling with passion, “I am not answerable

to you, or any man, for my words; I am, however, responsible for

the honour of my family. I was invited here, and I came expecting

to receive proofs of a child of my brother’s—a lawful child, mind

you—born in wedlock; when at the same time I felt fully convinced

that my brother never was married, even though my Lord Hood appears

to say to the contrary, but who cannot say who his wife was, or

whether—— Pray hear me to the end, Lieutenant O’Loughlin,” continued

the Baronet, waving his hand, seeing the angry impatience of the

honest sailor. “Lord Hood is depending on reports; I cannot depend on

any such foundation. I am quite willing to listen to reason, or to do

my duty, provided I am satisfied with the proofs put before me; but

you or any one else may depend I will not consent to rob my children

of their rightful inheritance, without some substantial evidence of

birth, marriage, &c. This young man,” continued the Baronet, turning

with a look of fierce hatred towards William—(neither O’Loughlin

nor the solicitor interrupted him, waiting patiently till he had

ceased speaking)—“this young man is introduced into the presence of a

female, apparently hiding—from whom—who can say? Seeing how young and

inexperienced was the person introduced to her, she declares herself to

be a Duchess, thinking this high title would impose——”

“You are going too far, Sir Godfrey Etherton,” interrupted William

Thornton, losing all patience; his features flushed with excitement as

he confronted the Baronet, and their eyes met. “I will not stand here,

quiescent, to hear a noble lady and her unfortunate child so grossly

maligned and insulted. You have, no doubt, received a false statement

of facts from your son, Howard Etherton——”

The Baronet, one of the most excitable and passionate men breathing,

lost all control over a temper that had rendered his name one of

detestation in the naval service of his country.

“How dare you!” fiercely interrupted Sir Godfrey, stamping on the floor

with rage. “You, the son of a common seaman, dare to accuse my son of

giving false statements! You forget, boy, to whom you speak!”

The Baronet felt a grasp upon his shoulder that turned him round face

to face with the excited O’Loughlin, whilst poor Mr. Stanmore, a quiet

and rather timid man, looked and felt extremely miserable and uneasy.

“Ah,” he thought to himself, “these sons of the ocean are terribly

fiery; better use the pen than the sword—a much safer weapon!”

“Sir Godfrey Etherton,” said the Lieutenant, speaking calmly, though he

trembled with passion; “why I have not felled you to my feet, I cannot

say! You are no longer on the quarter-deck of the Dauntless, where your

passions found vent upon the victims your anger selected. You here,

in your supposed triumph in ousting a poor child out of its parents’

heritage, hurl insult upon the head of an unfortunate lady, and dare to

call your brother’s wife an impostor and an adventuress!”

“I will listen no more to this tirade!” furiously exclaimed the

Baronet, seizing his hat; and as he reached the door he turned, and

shaking his clenched hand at O’Loughlin, he added: “You shall hear from

me, Mr. O’Loughlin; and as to this farce of a niece, I disclaim all

relationship, and leave to those who have trumped up this deception the

right to make the most of their ill got-up project.” So saying, the

Baronet slammed the door after him.

The worthy solicitor leaned back in his chair, exclaiming—

“God bless me, I’m glad he’s gone!”

“Faith, so am I,” said O’Loughlin, wiping his brow; “for if he had

remained only two minutes more, he should have vanished through the

window!”

“This is too bad,” exclaimed William Thornton. “What a heartless,

worldly-minded man!”

“Oh, confound him, don’t bother about him; we’ll defeat him yet; and by

Jove, if he only gives me a chance, which I am afraid he will not, I’ll

make him remember O’Loughlin.”

Mr. Stanmore, who began to recover his presence of mind, and his

thoughts reverting to the casket, and its strange contents of shavings,

rags, and leads, said—

“Now, Lieutenant O’Loughlin, that that peppery Baronet is gone—he quite

bewildered me,” added the solicitor, “let us think about this strange

affair. The poor little girl is now actually left without her natural

protectors.”

“Natural! do you call them?” replied O’Loughlin, who kept pacing the

room to cool himself, whilst William Thornton was examining the casket

and the lock. “I call him the most unnatural beast I ever met with; a

dead match for a crocodile I once saw on the banks of the Nile, making

a breakfast off half-a-dozen of his own progeny.”

“But, O’Loughlin,” said William Thornton, “there is something very

mysterious in all this. I am perfectly convinced that the Duchesse de

Coulancourt never gave me this casket, knowing it to contain those

articles on the table; but, indeed, Mr. Stanmore, we ought to beg your

pardon for thus giving way to our hasty tempers.”

“Why, so we ought,” said the Lieutenant; “but, tare and ouns, William,

was I to stand silently by, hearing that Baronet calling you the son of

a—hem—and I knowing you to be the son of Sir Oscar de Bracy.”

Mr. Stanmore looked up amazed at hearing William Thornton called the

son of Sir Oscar de Bracy; he, however, merely said—

“Let us calmly look into this mysterious affair. I am satisfied myself

that the original contents of that casket have been removed, and that

rubbish substituted.”

O’Loughlin started, saying—

“That is not possible; you saw the seal unbroken.”

“Yes, yes,” said the solicitor; “there are more ways of opening caskets

than with the key,” and then he rang the bell, and ordered the servant

who answered the summons to tell his housekeeper to send up wine and

refreshments. “Now, I beg you, Mr. Thornton,” continued the solicitor,

addressing our hero, “I pray you to recall every circumstance that

occurred after receiving the casket, for it may be quite possible that

the contents might have been extracted previous to your receiving it

from her hands.”

“No, Mr. Stanmore,” returned the midshipman, “not previously, of

that I am confident, and I will tell you my reason for being so.

When introduced into the chamber where I first saw the Duchess of

Coulancourt, and whilst conversing with her, I observed that casket on

the table; the lid was up, and though I could not, or indeed thought

of trying to inspect the contents, still I can safely say there were

no shavings whatever in it. I observed her close the lid, lock it, and

then affix the seal, after doing which she gave me the key; therefore,

the Duchess could not have been deceived. Whilst conducting Miss Arden

through the streets, several ruffians made efforts to get it from me,

but they failed.”

“Afterwards,” inquired Mr. Stanmore, “what did you do with the casket;

that is, when you got back to the boats?”

“I still held possession of it,” said the midshipman, “till we all got

on board the dismasted frigate, where we were to remain for some hours,

and where the Commissioners had prepared refreshments for us. Poor

Mabel was so fatigued and overcome, that I begged her to lie down in a

berth. I placed the casket at the foot of the berth, covered it over,

and found it in the same place when we had directions to return to our

ships.”

“How long, Master Thornton,” questioned Mr. Stanmore, “do you think the

casket remained in the berth with the little girl?”

“Oh! I should say several hours, from three or four o’clock in the day

till ten at night; we could not venture to cross the outward harbour

till dark. I examined the casket when I took it up, and Mabel said she

had not been disturbed by any one.”

“Nevertheless,” observed Mr. Stanmore, rising and ringing the bell,

and then taking up the casket he began carefully to examine it, “it

is possible it may have been tampered with during those hours. I feel

satisfied that shavings and lead were not its original contents, and

that those contents could not be changed without hands. I am anxious

to investigate the mystery as fully as possible. You see, Lieutenant

O’Loughlin, it is beautifully put together, and all the edges clasped

with silver plates,” and turning it up, he keenly examined the bottom,

which had no plate of any kind across it.

“There does not appear the slightest indication of any attempt at

opening it,” observed the Lieutenant, carefully scrutinising it.

“I am not so sure of that,” said the solicitor; “but I will have a

keener eye to examine into this, and one accustomed to these kinds of

things, and who has often been employed to detect dexterous burglaries.

Ah! here is John,” and turning to his servant, he desired him to go

across the street and request Mr. Robins, the jeweller, to come to him

for a few minutes, and to bring one or two of his spring saws with him.

The two young sailors wondered what Mr. Stanmore expected to find, but

the worthy solicitor remarked to William Thornton—

“When on board the frigate in Toulon, who did you see there; were there

many persons about?”

“No, Mr. Stanmore, there were not; for after the committee men left,

there was only the steward, three or four sailors, and about as many

convicts or galley slaves, who were at liberty about the ship with only

an iron ring round their ankles; but they did not come into the after

cabins.”

“Ah! here is Mr. Robins,” observed Mr. Stanmore, as the jeweller

entered the room, bowed to the gentlemen present, and at once fixed a

remarkably keen pair of grey eyes upon the casket.

“Ah! Mr. Robins,” said the solicitor; “I see your eyes are upon this

casket,” laying his hand on it.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Robins, taking it up; “an Indian cabinet or casket,

beautifully put together, and yet by no means a particularly safe

article for holding valuables; for though exquisitely worked, and the

edges all clasped and riveted, there is no security in the bottoms.”

“Ah! so I thought,” said Mr. Stanmore; and then he briefly explained

how he suspected the contents of the casket to have been stolen,

without breaking the seal over the key-hole.

“Nothing more easy,” remarked the jeweller, “to an expert burglar, with

a watch-spring saw—the bottom has been taken out;” and drawing from his

pocket a small case, he selected a remarkably fine blade of a knife,

and began passing it along the edge or sides till the knife stopped.

“Ah,” he continued, with a satisfied smile, “I see: a watch-spring saw,

exceedingly fine, has been used here to cut the small pins holding the

bottom to the sides,” and taking one of those instruments he passed

it all round, finding only four pins and a powerful cement. He soon

freed the bottom, and then all plainly perceived it had been previously

held to the sides by twelve steel pins, which had been all sawed, the

contents abstracted, and the bottom cleverly replaced, and four very

small iron brads used to fasten it, and then cement put along the edges.

“By Jove! that’s it,” said O’Loughlin, “there’s no mistake. This job

was done on board that confounded ship whilst Mabel slept.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Stanmore, excessively chagrined, whilst William

Thornton’s face flushed with vexation.

“Ah!” remarked the jeweller, “some of those French convicts are most

expert burglars.”

“No doubt,” observed Mr. Stanmore, addressing William Thornton,

“you were observed carrying the casket and watched, and whilst the

tired little girl slept and you obtained refreshment, the theft was

committed.”

“If you look at the lead,” said Mr. Robins, who had examined it, “you

will easily see it is the lead used for ships’ scuppers, put in to make

the weight up. Less than an hour to an expert hand would complete the

job, if provided with a watch-saw and a piece of wax.”

Mr. Robins, having partaken of a glass or two of wine, then retired.

“This is a sad misfortune for the little girl,” said Mr. Stanmore,

feelingly. “I could very well perceive Sir Godfrey was exceedingly

rejoiced to get rid of his relationship to Miss Arden. No doubt she has

a large claim upon the estate, as Mr. Granby Arden’s only child.”

“Sir Godfrey Etherton,” observed William Thornton, with great

bitterness, “may yet be made sorely to repent his almost brutal cruelty

to his lawful niece. Besides, it is by no means certain that her

brother is dead; and, if he still exists, he will strip this proud and

heartless man of both title and fortune. In the meantime, Mr. Stanmore,

something must be done for Miss Arden, till her mother, the Duchess of

Coulancourt, can get to this country.”

“I shall be most happy to assist you in any way, Master Thornton,”

observed the solicitor.

“Well, then, Mr. Stanmore,” continued our hero, “as she cannot remain a

burden upon Madame Volney, whose means are limited, I should wish her

to be placed in one of the best establishments for young ladies in the

vicinity of London, and no pains spared in her education. I can place

six hundred pounds prize-money in your hands for that purpose, and I

am quite satisfied Madame Volney will pay her every attention till her

mother arrives.”

“You’re a jewel of a boy, by my conscience you are!” exclaimed

Lieutenant O’Loughlin, vehemently, and clasping his favourite by the

hand; “and, harkee! Mr. Stanmore, I’ll place the same sum in your

hands, and that will make a clear twelve hundred for the little girl,

and last her till, please the Fates! we knock double the amount out of

Monsieur Crapeau.”

Mr. Stanmore was much moved by the simple, noble conduct of the two

sailors; he remarked that he had two daughters at school with a most

talented and highly-educated lady, who received only a few pupils, and

resided about fifteen miles out of London. By this lady Miss Arden

would have every kindness shown her, and have the very best masters.

“Now, I have a couple of hours’ business to transact, but I shall

expect you both to dinner; and, after that very necessary daily

occupation is over, we shall have full time to settle everything.”

The two friends, somewhat reconciled to their mishap in the loss of the

contents of the casket, though desperately indignant at Sir Godfrey’s

conduct, then shook the solicitor heartily by the hand, and departed to

pay a visit to the Volneys.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The Iris afterwards engaged the Citoyenne-Française, and after an

obstinate contest, the French ship, her masts standing, got away, and

ran into the Bordeaux river. The Iris lost her fore-mast, main-topmast,

and mizen; the French frigate had her captain and fifteen officers and

seamen killed.