Chapter 17

By fixing the thinner sticks into the sand, fastening them at the top, and stretching the sail over them, I formed something like an Indian wigwam, strengthened by the heavier pieces of driftwood. I observed that Owen moved about with difficulty, and looked ill, but he made no remark on the subject.

"Now go and collect dry leaves and grass for my bed. Be off with you," he exclaimed, glaring fiercely at me.

I obeyed as before, but when I returned, time after time, laden with bundles of grass, not an expression of approval even did he utter. Thus he kept me employed for the greater part of the day, and when I proposed collecting some grass for my own bed, he told me that I could not occupy his hut but must form one of boughs for myself. Such is an example of the way he treated me, not for one day only, but for day after day, not one passing without my being struck and cursed. It is wonderful that I could have borne it, but I was not weary of my life, and I had resolved to show my gratitude to him for having preserved it. I was very anxious, however, to escape, and whenever I could get away from him, I used to go to the highest part of the island to look out, in the hopes of a ship appearing. With indefatigable labour, I cut out a long pole and fixed it in the ground, with a part of my shirt, as a signal, fastened to the end. When Owen found out what I had done, he ordered me to take it down, and not again to visit the hill.

"Ah! ha! youngster, you've friends you wish to return to, and wealth you long to enjoy. I have neither, and I don't intend to let you go while I can prevent it."

This was almost more than I could bear, and I could not trust myself to reply to him. I might fill a volume with my extraordinary life on that islet in the Pacific--how I slaved on for that determined, stern, evil-disposed man. Constant occupation enabled me to keep my own health. I found cocoa-nuts and numerous roots and fruits, and invented various ways of cooking them. I even made clothes of the bark of the paper mulberry-tree, so that I was able to save my own before they were quite worn out. Thus months passed away. I might have lived there from youth to old age, as far as the necessaries of life were concerned, but it was dreary work. Owen grew worse and worse, and I became convinced that his days were numbered. He did not seem to be aware of the state of the case, though rapidly growing weaker. I may honestly say that I felt deep compassion for him. I told him at last that I thought him very ill, and feared that he would not recover.

"Don't flatter yourself with that. I shall recover sufficiently to make you wish that you had never seen me," he answered, as he raised himself on his arm and glared fiercely at me.

I thought that he uttered but an empty threat which he had no power to execute. Still he lived on, and I tended him as if he had been a friend or brother. I had made my hut at some little distance from his. I had one night gone to sleep, leaving him not worse than he had been for some time past, when I suddenly awoke with a start, and hearing a noise looked out. What was my horror to see Owen stalking stealthily along with a huge piece of heavy driftwood uplifted in his hands, as if it were a club. I darted out on the other side of the hut as down came the log with a crash above where my head had just been laid, and a fearful shriek rang through the night air. I expected to see Owen following me, but he lay, as I looked back, across the ruins of my hut. I slowly approached--he did not move--the timber had fallen from his grasp. I touched his hand. He was dead.

I must bring my tale to a close. I was convinced that the wretched man was mad, though, from what afterwards came to my knowledge, there was more reason than I had supposed why his madness should have taken the form of hatred towards me. I cannot describe how I managed to pass the many dreary days I was destined to spend in solitude on that island, or how I was at length rescued by a South-Sea whaler, and ultimately fell in with my own ship, on board which I was heartily welcomed, having long been given up as lost. Owen's death excited universal horror. Pearson told me that he had been directed by the captain to examine his papers, among which he found parts of a journal, in which he described his bitter disappointment on discovering that the estate which he thought would be his had gone to another, and how, considering himself wronged, he had resolved to wreak his vengeance on the head of the person who had obtained what he conceived ought to have been his; how he had gone to see me, and finding that I had resolved to enter the navy, how he had formed the diabolical plan which he had attempted to carry out, but in every step of which he had been so mercifully frustrated.

I immediately wrote home to say that I was alive and well, with an account of my adventures, and expressed a hope that my letter would arrive in time to prevent Jack from being spoilt by the flatteries and indulgences he might receive as an elder son, advising that, if he appeared the worse for them, to effect a radical cure he should be forthwith packed off to sea.

Story 9--Chapter 1.

PAUL PETHERWICK THE PILOT--A TALE OF THE CORNISH COAST.

The _Sea-Gull_ Pilot-boat, hailing from Penzance, and owned and commanded by old Paul Petherwick, lay hove-to, one winter's day many years back, in the chops of the Channel. The dark-green seas rose up like walls capped with snow on either side of the little craft; now she floated on the foaming, hissing summit of one of them, again to sink down into the deep watery trench from which she had risen. Thus, as rising and falling, her white staysail glancing brightly, she looked not unlike the sea-bird whose name she bore.

Old Paul was the only person on deck, and he had lashed himself to the bulwarks. His white hair, escaping from under his "sou'-wester," streamed in the wind, and ever and anon he turned his head aside to avoid the showers of spray which flew over him, covering his flushing coat with wet. Again he would look out in search of any homeward-bound vessel which might need his services. His heart was heavy, for the previous night a fearful sea had struck the cutter, and washed his mate, Peter Buddock, and another man overboard. The latter had seized a rope, but it had slipped from his grasp; and poor Buddock was carried far away, his shriek of despair as he sank beneath the waves being his last utterance which reached the ears of his shipmates.

Another of Paul's crew, an old hand, had been injured by a blow from a block, and the rest were young men, willing and active enough, but not able to take entire charge of the cutter. Still, old Paul was a determined man, and as long as there was a chance of meeting a vessel to pilot up Channel, and as long as the cutter could keep the sea, he would not give in.

Hour after hour passed by. Suddenly the crew, sitting round the stove in the little after-cabin, heard a loud report, followed by a deep groan. The trysail gaff had parted, and, falling, had struck the old pilot to the deck. They carried him below, and placed him in his berth. Not a moment was to be lost if their own lives were to be saved. The helm was put up, and the little craft, paying off under her head-sail, before the rough sea, which came roaring onwards, had reached her, was running up Channel towards the Cornish coast. Old Paul continued to groan, seeming unconscious, and evidently suffering great pain. One or other of his young crew every now and then went below to ask him the right course to steer, for not even the outline of the coast could be seen. It was getting very dark, and thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall. The old pilot probably did not comprehend them; not a word could he utter. They endeavoured, therefore, to rig a spar on which to set the trysail; but no sooner did they hoist it than it was carried away, and at length they gave up the attempt in despair. They could not, therefore, heave the cutter to, and were obliged to run on. One of them went below, and endeavoured by every means he could think of to bring the old man to consciousness. The darkness increased as the night advanced, and the snow came down thicker and thicker. On flew the cutter.

"We must be nearing the land," said Jacob Pinner, the best seaman of the crew. "I wish that the old man would rouse up. I don't like the look of things, mates, that I don't."

Scarcely had he spoken when a deep, sullen roar, easily distinguished by a seaman amid the howling of the tempest, struck on the ears of the crew. "Breakers! breakers ahead!" they shouted.

"Port the helm--hard a-port!" cried a deep voice. It was that of the old pilot. The sound of the breakers had reached his ears even below, and roused him up. The order came too late. At that moment there was a loud crash; the cutter struck, and her rudder was carried away. The following sea lifted her and carried her on, while other seas came roaring up, and hissed and foamed round her. Though they covered her with sheets of spray, her crew were still able to cling to the rigging and preserve their lives. Providentially, most of the hours of the night were already spent, for they could not long have endured the cold and wet to which they were exposed. When daylight broke they found that they were near the end of a reef, about a mile from the shore. The gale had greatly abated. The tide was low. Inside of the reef there was smooth water. If they could launch their boat, which had remained on deck uninjured, they might save themselves before the return of the tide, when the cutter would be sure to go to pieces. Though the little boat narrowly escaped being stove in, the attempt was successful. The shore was reached. It was close to Paul Petherwick's house, some miles to the eastward of the port to which the cutter belonged.

Close to the spot where Paul and his crew landed, on the shore of a romantic bay, stood the residence of Sir Baldwin Treherne, known as the Manor House. Sir Baldwin was lord of the manor--a kind, warm-hearted, generous man. He had himself been at sea in his youth, but on coming into his estate had given up the profession. He had learned when at sea, probably from experiencing some of the hardships sailors have to endure, to sympathise with them, and to feel for their sufferings. He had seen through his telescope, while dressing in the morning, the wreck on the reef, and had immediately set off to find out what assistance could be rendered to the crew. He met the old pilot and his people not far from the shore, and insisted on their coming at once to the Manor House to be warmed and fed. Paul Petherwick would indeed have been unable to have reached his own home, as his strength and spirits were already exhausted. As the day advanced the wind again increased, and when the tide rose the _Sea-Gull_, battered by the waves, was seen quickly to disappear.

Great was old Paul's grief as he watched the destruction of the vessel. "God's will be done," he said, bowing his head. "My poor wife and children, what will become of them? With her goes all the means I have of supporting them, and part of her cost is still unpaid."

The kind baronet overheard him. "Paul, we have known each other a good many long years," he said, putting his hand on his shoulder. "I should like to make you a Christmas-box. Let you and me go off to Plymouth to-morrow, and see if we cannot fall in with as fine a cutter as the _Sea-Gull_. It won't do to be letting our ships knock about the chops of the Channel this winter weather without you to show them the way up; so I'll find you a craft, and may she have better luck than the poor _Sea-Gull_!"

"Oh, Sir Baldwin, you are very good; so good, I shall never be able to repay you," exclaimed Paul Petherwick, respectfully pressing the kind baronet's hand.

"I am paid beforehand with all the blessings I enjoy," answered Sir Baldwin. "They came to me without my having toiled for them, far less deserved them; I am bound to make the best use of them in my power, so say no more about the matter."

A new cutter was found and purchased, and named the _Lady Isabel_, after Sir Baldwin's wife; and for many a day, in summer and winter, Paul Petherwick sailed her in pursuit of his calling.

Story 9--Chapter 2.

There was not a finer lad in the country round than Sir Baldwin's third son, his blue-eyed, light-haired, merry, laughing boy Harry. When he came home from school for the summer holidays, Harry declared his fixed intention of going to sea. Sir Baldwin, after several conversations with his son, felt convinced that it was his settled wish to enter the navy, and forthwith set about obtaining a berth for him as a midshipman on board a man-of-war. There was but little difficulty in doing this; for, after a short peace, England was again at war with France and Spain and other countries, and ships were being fitted out as fast as they could be got ready. Harry was in high glee. The dream of his life was to be realised. He had not talked about the matter. People often, when they are very earnest in wishing for a thing, do not talk about it. Sir Baldwin took him to Plymouth; his outfit was soon procured, and he was entered on board the _Phoenix_, a dashing 36-gun frigate, destined for the West India station; a part of the world where there was every chance of her having plenty of fighting. Captain Butler, her brave commander, lost no time in getting his crew into an efficient state by exercising them constantly at their guns, and in shortening and making sail. Harry Treherne thus rapidly acquired a knowledge of the profession he had chosen. He had determined to be a good sailor; he gave his mind to the work, and considered no details beneath his notice; consequently, everybody was ready to give him instruction; he gained the confidence of the officers and the respect of the men.

"A sail on the lee bow!" shouted the look-out man at the mast-head.

The cry made the captain and officers on deck turn their glasses in the direction indicated. The helm was put up, and at length, through the haze of a warm summer morning, the stranger was discovered, with her mizen topsail aback and her main topsail shivering, evidently awaiting the arrival of the _Phoenix_. She was clearly an enemy's frigate, heavily armed. The _Phoenix_ had been disguised to look as much as possible like a corvette, a much smaller class of vessel, and it was more than possible that the Frenchmen might find that they had caught a Tartar.

"We shall have some glorious fighting," cried little Tommy Butts, the smallest midshipman on board. "We shall thrash 'em in quarter less no time. I hope that we shall have to board; that's the way I should like to take the enemy."

"Why, your cutlass would run away with you, Tommy," said a big mate, who delighted to sneer at Tommy. "It is a shame to send such children as you to sea."

"His spirit may run away with him," observed Harry. "Never mind what old Hulks says; Nelson was a little chap, and he did a few things to be proud of."

Many a joke and laugh were indulged in as the men, stripped to the waist, stood at their guns, while the frigate approached her powerful antagonist. At length, as she got within range, the Frenchman opened his fire, the shot flying through the sails and wounding severely the masts, yards, and rigging. Not a gun, however, was discharged on board the _Phoenix_ in return till it could take deadly effect. The _Didon_, the French frigate, however, from fast sailing and clever manoeuvring, always managed to keep in such a position that the guns of the _Phoenix_ could not bear on her. At length the English losing patience, ran right down on the _Didon_ to windward, and thus the two antagonists were brought broadside to broadside.

This was the longed-for moment, and the British crew made up for the previous delay by working their guns with a rapidity which soon strewed the decks of the enemy with the dead and wounded, damaged her hull, and cut up her rigging.

Again the French ship got clear; but, as she had lost several of her sails, the _Phoenix_ was more of a match for her. Once more the antagonists closed, this time in a deadly embrace, the bow of the _Didon_ running into the quarter of the _Phoenix_.

"We have you now," cried the gallant captain, lashing, with the help of some of his men, the bowsprit of the enemy to his own mizen mast.

While he was so employed, Harry Treherne and Tommy Butts saw a Frenchman taking deliberate aim at him. Tommy had got hold of the musket of a marine who had fallen wounded.

"See, Harry, what a little chap can do!" he exclaimed; at the same moment firing at the Frenchman, who fell, his musket going off and sending the bullet flying just above the captain's head.

Captain Butler saw the act, and nodded his thanks, for he had no time to speak. The next proceeding was to bring a heavy gun to fire through a port which had been formed by enlarging one of the cabin windows. Several seamen fell, picked off by the French marines, till the gun was in its place. When, however, it once opened fire, its effects were terrible indeed, full twenty of the Frenchmen being struck down at the first discharge.

Meantime the English marines kept up so hot a fire on the _Didon's_ forecastle, that the seamen could not venture on it to fire the gun which had been placed there. At length, however, the antagonists separated, both presenting a woeful appearance.

Instead of the clouds of canvas swelling proudly to the breeze with which they had entered into action, rope-ends and riddled sails hung drooping down from every mast and yard. The fight was not over; the crew of the _Phoenix_ busily employed themselves in repairing damages, and, having knotted and spliced the rigging, and trimmed sails, she stood towards the _Didon_.

With the first fresh puff of wind the foremast of her opponent went over the side, and at the moment she was about to open her fire the brave captain of the _Didon_ hauled down her colours, finding that he could neither escape nor fight with any prospect of success. Loud cheers burst from the British crew. This was Harry's first fight. It was indeed a hard-fought one. Twelve men had been killed and twenty-eight wounded of the crew; while the _Didon_ had lost no less than twenty-seven officers and men killed, and forty-four wounded, out of a crew of 330, while the _Phoenix_ went into action with only 245 men. She and her prize arrived safely at Plymouth. She only remained long enough to refit, and once more was at sea, and on her way back to the West Indies.

Harry's next exploit was of a different character. Passing near the Isle of Pines, two schooners and a brig were discovered far up a bight, protected by a battery. There was little doubt that they were privateers, and likely to do damage to British shipping.

"We must cut those vessels out," observed the captain.

The frigate stood off the land as if she was going away, but at night once more stood back. As soon as she was well in with the land she hove-to, and three boats were manned and lowered. Harry was appointed to go in one of them. They were to pull up the harbour and attack the three vessels, and, if necessary, one boat's crew was to land and storm the fort. With muffled oars they pulled up the harbour. They could just make out the vessels as they lay floating in silence on the calm water, a light wind blowing off-shore. The boats got close up to the brig before they were discovered. The enemy then, who had rushed to their guns, which were run out, opened a hot fire from them, with muskets and pistols; but the boats being close the shots passed over the heads of their crews. With loud cheers the British sprang up the sides of the brig. The crew bravely stood to their arms, but were speedily overpowered by the impetuosity of the boarders, and were cut down or driven below, some in their terror leaping overboard.

While Harry Treherne and his crew remained on board, the other two boats proceeded to the attack of the schooners. He, meantime, having secured the prisoners below, sent some of his hands aloft to loose sails while the cable was cut, and in a few minutes the captured brig was standing out of the harbour. The roar of the guns, the clashing of steel, and the rattle of musketry had aroused the garrison of the fort, which opened fire on the brig. The shots fell around her, and several went through her sails, but no one was hurt. As he passed near the schooners he listened anxiously for the signal which was to announce their capture. First one loud cheer and then another told him that the work was done, and they were soon perceived following under all sail, little heeding the fire from the fort. Harry Treherne, with all the officers and men engaged, was warmly commended for the spirited way in which the exploit had been performed. It was not the only deed of naval daring in which he took an active part.

At length the frigate was ordered to Bermuda on her way home. Within a short distance of that island a suspicious vessel was seen from the mast-head. Sail was made in chase. The stranger on discovering the frigate did her utmost to escape, steering to the eastward, the wind being from the west. A stern chase is a long chase. The night was clear and the stranger was kept in sight. When morning dawned the frigate had scarcely gained on her. This made the captain still more eager to overtake her. All that day the chase continued--the frigate gaining, however, somewhat on the stranger, a large fore-and-aft schooner. At length, at sundown, it fell calm, and fears were entertained that, should a mist rise, the schooner might escape during the night. The captain therefore, sent three of the boats to capture her. They had been discovered some time before they got alongside. Boarding nettings were up, small-arm men were stationed at the bow and stern, and as they drew near the guns opened a hot fire with grape and canister. Still the British seamen, not to be daunted, dashed on, and, climbing up the sides and cutting their way through the nettings, in another minute the schooner's deck was won. She proved to be a Spanish privateer, a very fine new vessel. A light breeze at daybreak enabled the frigate to come up with her. The prisoners were transferred to the frigate, and the command of the prize given to old Hulks, the mate, who had been Tommy Butt's tyrant; and Harry Treherne was sent as his second in command, with orders to proceed to Plymouth.

Old Hulks had several failings: whenever spirits came in his way he could not refrain from them. Harry had, therefore, the chief charge of the schooner. It was the winter season, and as they approached the chops of the Channel the weather became very bad. Old Hulks, however, declared that he must be home by Christmas, and ordered Harry to crack on all the sail the schooner could carry night and day. Harry had taken his observations as long as the sun could be seen, but for some days the sky had been obscured by clouds. He believed that they were not far from the Land's End, and well over to the British coast. Old Hulks insisted that they were too far to the southward, and ordered the schooner to be headed more to the northward. Night was approaching. It was Christmas Eve. The wind was strong, and a heavy snowstorm prevented the possibility of their sighting the land.

"Never mind, Harry; we shall see it in the morning,--about Plymouth, I take it, and I shall be at home in plenty of time for our Christmas dinner, and you shall dine with me, as you won't be able to get to your own place."

"I wish that I could think so. We are nearer the English coast than you suppose," said Harry.