CHAPTER I.

ON BOARD THE DIOMEDE.

At sunset, on a wild January afternoon in 1776, the Diomede frigate passed Beaver-Tail light and entered the harbor of Newport. At that time the town was held by a large British fleet and land force.

The Diomede was a crack frigate and evidently had a crack crew from the beautiful precision with which she made a flying moor. It seemed as if in one minute her yards were squared, her sails furled, and her cable rushed out of the hawse hole in a blaze of sparks.

All this was done under the orders of the Diomede’s commander, Captain Forrester, who, being one of the best seamen in the British navy, liked to show his skill in anchoring before the assembled fleet. As soon as everything was made snug the captain went below and, seating himself at the cabin table, began to examine some papers by the light of the swinging lamp. He had a kindly, frank face, which was an index to a kindly, frank nature.

After reading and writing for a while he called to the orderly who stood at the cabin door.

“Direct the master-at-arms to bring me the man and the boy taken prisoners on the brig Betsey,” he said.

The orderly disappeared and a few minutes later the master-at-arms marched in with a remarkably handsome old sailor of about sixty and a boy of ten or twelve.

As soon as the old sailor saw the captain, he touched his glazed hat with prompt civility and in a way very suggestive of a naval man, although he wore the rough pea jacket of a merchant sailor.

Captain Forrester motioned to the master-at-arms to leave him alone with the two prisoners. As soon as the master-at-arms’ back was turned, the captain said to the old sailor: “Shut the door, Bell.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bell in a tone and manner of deference clearly never learned in the merchant service.

“You see I know your name,” continued Captain Forrester, looking at him keenly.

“Yes, sir,” replied the old sailor slyly, with something suspiciously near a smile; “Bell ain’t a uncommon name, and I once knowed a midshipman named Forrester, sir; a mighty smart little reefer he was, too, sir.”

This time it was the captain’s turn to smile when he spoke.

“The man Bell that I knew was an American, but he had spent most of his life in His Majesty’s service—Jack Bell he was—captain of the mizzentop when I was midshipman on the Indomptable, and captain of the maintop when I was sailing master on the old Colossus.”

Jack Bell’s eyes gleamed as the captain spoke, and there was an answering gleam in the captain’s eyes. The tie that unites good shipmates is a strong one, no matter how great the difference in rank; and the old sailor’s delight at being recognized, although it might mean trouble for him, was evident.

The captain remembered that in his reefer days, when as a mere lad he was ordered to command a boat’s crew, that Jack Bell had always been orderly, respectful, and sober, and had helped him out of not a few scrapes, and had occasionally got him into some.

“The first time I ever went aloft,” said the captain, smiling involuntarily, “Jack Bell was in the mizzentop, and I recollect my feelings when I was ready to go down, and Jack held on to me, insisting I should pay my footing.”

“Ten shillings it were, sir,” chimed in Jack with a broad grin. “That’s what was axed reg’lar of the reefers on the old Indomptable, and many’s the shilling you’ve give me besides—I—I mean—you give that ’ere Jack Bell.”

Jack stopped, wholly confused.

“And that Jack Bell was a famous singer. Many a night when the ship was going along under easy sail with a fair wind, I have sat for hours listening to Jack’s sea songs, like ‘Tom Bowline,’ ‘When the Wind at Night Whistles o’er the Deep,’ and all those fine old catches. I never heard anybody sing them so well as he.”

“His voice is badly cracked now, sir,” said Jack solemnly, “but this ’ere little brat Dicky Stubbs can sing all them old songs—Jack Bell l’arned ’em to him. But, Jack, he remembers that ’ere little midshipman Forrester—and a gallant officer, sir, he turned out to be arterwards—when he was sailin’ master on the Colossus. Did you ever see, sir, such a ornhandy ship for tackin’ as the old Colossus? If Mr. Forrester hadn’t been a rale sailor, he’d ’a’ got hisself in trouble all the time with that old three-decker.”

Captain Forrester knew this was honest praise from an honest man, and it pleased him more than many fine words from fine people. After a moment Jack continued:—

“Axin’ your parding, sir, there’s a midshipman on this ’ere ship as is named Mr. Forrester. I never see a young gentleman so like that other midshipman Forrester as I knowed more ’n twenty-five year ago.”

“That’s my son—my only child—and a smart fellow, if I do say it myself. But I want to hear something about Jack Bell. The man I knew was a devoted American. I wonder what he did when the colonies rebelled against His Majesty?”

Jack twiddled his cap awkwardly for a moment, glanced around and saw the door was shut, and then began to speak. His manner was respectful and not without a rude and simple eloquence of his own.

“Cap’n Forrester, that man Jack Bell wanted for to do his duty. He had tooken the oath to King George when he ’listed in the navy and had served him stiddy for more ’n forty year. But that man, Cap’n Forrester, sir, was a American, and when that there Congress at Philadelphy said Ameriky was free and independent, Jack Bell, he were in a peck o’ trouble. There was his oath o’ allegiance to King George starin’ him in the face, and there were the heart and soul o’ him tellin’ him he were a villain to fight ag’in his own country. Well, sir, Bell, not bein’ a eddicated man, couldn’t think out easy what was right for him to do—’cause that man, sir, wanted for to do his duty. But he knowed if he had suspicioned King George was a-goin’ to declare war ag’in Ameriky, Bell, he’d ’a’ never tooken that oath; so at last he thought it was his duty to desert.”

The old sailor paused slightly at this word, and the officer and the former captain of the maintop looked each other squarely in the eye. The boy Dicky Stubbs, who had a bright glance, gazed first at one and then at the other, wondering what it all was about. After a little pause Jack Bell continued:—

“Well, sir, that man Bell had a considerable sum o’ prize money due him, but he thought as how he’d ruther not take it, as he was goin’ to take French leave; so he give that up willin’ and cheerful. And he knowed, too, if he were caught, he’d be strung up at the yardarm in spite of his havin’ served King George for more ’n forty years faithful; but he thought he couldn’t die but oncet for his country, and it didn’t matter much which way he went, if only he was a-doin’ of his duty. So one night at Gibralty, Jack Bell disappeared from his ship—’twas a ship o’ the line. Maybe the Don Spaniards garroted him; maybe he was tooken by pirates; maybe he got on a American merchant vessel that was took arterwards by the British, who thought she was a privateer. Anyhow Jack Bell did what he thought was right, and if he’s got to be hanged for it, well, that’s a easy, comfortable way o’ gittin’ out o’ the world, and Jack Bell ain’t got no apologies to make, excep’”—and here the old sailor’s voice deepened—“excep’ for not desertin’ sooner.”

All this time the officer and the sailor had looked steadily at each other. Captain Forrester knew perfectly well that the man before him was Jack Bell, and, if openly recognized, there would be but a short step for him from the fok’sle of the Diomede to the whip[3] at the yardarm. But Captain Forrester also believed Jack had acted from his conscience, and he did not believe in hanging a man for that. After a pause the captain spoke:—

“Sometimes it is as hard for an educated man as for an uneducated one to know on which side his duty lies; but it is safer to be on the side of mercy. If I should meet Bell, I should not feel obliged to know him.”

At this Jack stood upright at “attention” and saluted the captain. Each knew what that meant. It was Jack’s way of thanking the captain, who knew him perfectly well, for not betraying him.

“There is one thing, though, my conscience would require me to do if I should meet Bell,” continued Captain Forrester. “It is to land him here where he can be watched, that he can’t get away to enlist in the rebel navy, army, or marine corps. If King George can’t have his services, the rebels sha’n’t.”

Jack’s face was a study in its intense disappointment, but in a little while he seemed to submit to the inevitable.

“Well, sir,” he said, “Jack’s pretty old now—goin’ on to sixty—and he ain’t wuth his salt, excep’ as a foremast man on a man-o’-war. So neither King George nor Ameriky ain’t losin’ much. He’d ’a’ liked to jine the navy, but as for the marines, poor Jack Bell wouldn’t trust hisself with them murderin’ marines.”

“The Jack Bell I know always hated the marines,” said Captain Forrester with a smile.

“I reckon he do still,” calmly remarked Jack. “And as for fightin’ on dry land—why, sir, he’d git so tired runnin’ about he never could do no fightin’. Landsmen instid o’ fightin’ at close quarters fights over forty or fifty acres and does more walkin’ than fightin’, I’m thinkin’.”

“Well, then,” said Captain Forrester, “to leave Jack Bell and come to your own affairs. When I land you to-morrow morning I shall ask the authorities to give you the run of the town of Newport, but not to let you go outside. I think I can contrive it through the admiral, who is my friend. And how about this youngster here?”

“That brat, axin’ your parding, sir, is the son o’ the Widow Stubbs at Newport—a excellent woman, and a good hand at book-larnin’, as well as at the spinnin’ wheel. Her husband was killed in one o’ the fust scrimmages o’ the war, and this ’ere brat, he run away to jine the ’Merican navy and was took on the Betsey along with me. I knowed his mother well, and I’ve kinder kep’ my eye on the young one. He is a right handy sort o’ boy, and he can sing a lot o’ chunes I’ve larned him. He can sing all the old songs and two or three ‘Tid re I’s’ I’ve set him.”

“Pipe up, youngster,” said the captain; “I’d like to hear one of the old songs again. Give me ‘When the Wind at Night Whistles o’er the Deep.’”

Little Dicky Stubbs looked scared to death. His mouth came open, but no sound issued. Jack Bell, giving him a nudge that nearly broke his ribs, whispered:—

“Didn’t you hear the cap’n tell you to pipe up, you mutinous brat?”

Thus adjured, Dicky began in a deliciously sweet but rather uncertain voice:[4]

When the wind at night whistles o’er the deep And sings to landsmen dreary, The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep Or takes his watch most cheery. Snoozing here, Tossing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea.

Before he reached the third line Dicky’s courage, and his voice too, returned and he sang like some sweet-throated bird the next verse:—

When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck, And landsmen hoist the boat, sir, The sailor scorns to quit the deck While there’s a single plank afloat, sir.

Captain Forrester, leaning his head on his hand, listened to the song that carried him back to his midshipman days, and watched the boy whose young fresh voice echoed through the low-pitched cabin. Dicky was unmistakably a child of the people, but his honest face, his bright, intelligent eyes, and his clean though ragged attire made him a prepossessing little fellow.

“You may go now,” said Captain Forrester to Jack Bell, and meanwhile giving Dicky a bright shilling, “but do not forget what I have told you, and also that you have got off very well. As for that lad, take him to his mother and tell her to keep him at home until he has cut his wisdom teeth.”

“Thank ye kindly, sir,” answered Jack. “I’ll not forget your orders, sir, and as long as I live I’ll not forget your kindness, sir.” And, with a parting salute, Jack returned to the custody of the waiting master-at-arms.