Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1847], The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett bay (Williams Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf209].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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THE FREE-TRADER:
OR, THE
CRUISER OF NARRAGANSETT BAY.
BY J. H. INGRAHAM,
AUTHOR OF “MONTEZUMA,” “GRACE WELDON,” “DANCING FEATHER,” “MORRIS
GRAEME,” ETC.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAMS BROTHERS, 24 Ann-Street.
1847.
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Acknowledgment
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by Williams Brothers, in the Clerk's Office
of the District Court, for the Southern District of New York.
Main text
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CHAPTER I.
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Our story opens in the harbor and
town of Newport in the “Old Colony
Days.” At the period in which we
shall lay the scenes of our romance, this
town was second in New England only
to Boston in wealth and commercial
importance. Its trade was far more extensive
than it is at the present day,
and was mainly carried on with the
West Indies and Spain, with its dependencies,
in vessels of all classes from
the shallop of twenty tons to the imposing
merchant-ship. Its merchants
were enterprising and intelligent, and
rivalled those of Boston in the opulence
of their style of living and show of state.
They dressed in velvet on holidays and
Sundays, and in their counting-rooms
wore ruffles of lace and powdered curls.
Although Newport did not then exhibit
as many beautiful villas about it
as it now does, it nevertheless contained
substantial mansions which were the
abodes of refinement and intelligence.
Its harbor was then as beautiful as now,
with perhaps more woodland crossing
its shores and darkening its surrounding
uplands.
The small island opposite the town
was then overgrown with a noble grove
with one or two humble tenements visible
near its eastern and southern shore,
the dwellings of fishermen or boatmen;
and on several points on the main-land,
where now the hills appear open and
bleak, grew thick copses of dark pine
and larch. But the town itself was as
compact and nearly as large as it is
now; and its wharves as numerous;
and wearing an aspect of commercial
thrift they have scarcely exhibited since.
The times into which we are about
to carry back the reader, were full of
excitement touching the revenue laws
which Great Britain's fatal obstinancy
persevered in fastening upon the
commerce of her colonies. In vain did
the colonists by protestations, by petitions,
by remonstrances, and finally by
non-importation, urge the removal of
this obnoxious usurpation of the power
of the mother country. In vain did the
Massachusetts men assembled in council,
declare, “We know no Commissioners
of His Majesty's customs, nor of any
revenue His Majesty has a right to establish
in North America.”
The ministry exerted their power to
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compel the colonists to submission, and
sent over armed vessels to protect the
commissioners of her customs in the
exercise of their authority.
Upon this the merchants of the colonies
resolved to import goods in defiance
of the laws of revenue and trade; and
smuggling became in the eyes of every
patriotic American a virtue! In Boston,
vessels, when arrived, were taken
possession of by parties of citizens, and
their cargoes discharged in the very
face of the intimidated officers; and
hundreds of men stood around to protect
the workers while engaged in landing
the cargo. Everywhere the spirit
of indignant resistance, (which for
years afterwards, in 1776, broke out
into open rebellion and revolution) was
aroused, and the most determined opposition
to the unjust revenue imposed
by the crown, was resolved upon by
all men, from the highest to the lowest.
The merchants of Newport had
shown a very prominent determination
to set at defiance these laws of the British
ministry, and the most eminent of
them who were engaged in the foreign
and West India trade secretly held a
meeting at the house of one of their
number, at which they passed resolutions,
declaring “that the laws of revenue
imposed by the crown, being unjust
and tyrannical, should be resisted
by every free man.”
The day after the passage of this spirited
resolution, the citizens of Newport
were not a little surprised at the
sight of a British ship-of-war coming up
the bay and dropping anchor within a
mile of the town. That the meeting
and decision of the merchants had not
brought her there so promptly, was very
clear; and all men saw in her presence
there a determination on the part of
he crown to protect its commissioners
in the exercise of their duties. Nevertheless
the officers of the sloop-of war,
when they came on shore, were treated
with hospitality and courtesy by the authorities
of the town.
It was towards the close of the afternoon
of the day on which the British
ship-of-war arrived, that two individuals
were seen standing upon a low eminence
south of the town, from which
the armed sloop was in full sight. One
of these persons, was a man full fifty
years of age, but with the hardy frame,
and sun-burned visage of an old seaman,
though his dress was of the land, consisting
of a well-worn blue coat, with
broad skirts, a flapped brown vest, and
knee-breeches fastened with paste
buckles. His hat was, however, a seaman's
glazed chapeau. He wore at his
side, hanging from a leathern belt, a
straight sword with a rusty iron handle.
His head was grizzled, and also his
whiskers, which were immensely large
covering half his cheeks and chin. In
height he was far from being a tall
man, but his shoulders were broad and
square, and he was built like a man of
great strength.
He carried beneath his arm a small
spy glass, and when he was not pacing
up and down the green mossy rock on
which the signal-staff stood, he was looking
down the bay with his glass at his
eye.
The other person was a female. She
was coarsely dressed in a faded chintz
frock that had once been very gay, and
wore a man's hat with a broad brim;
about her shoulders was drawn a scarf
that had doubtless once graced the
form of some one of the fair daughters
of the wealthy colonists, but which had
now lost all its richness, save the costliness
of its texture. She had on a pair of
worked Indian moccasins, and in her
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ears and about her neck were ornaments
of gold beads. She was about eight-and-thirty
years of age, with a bold
and still handsome profile, and a dark
Egyptian skin. Her eyes were large
and lustrous and seemed to burn with
their own fire. By her, upon the ground,
lay a stout staff, crooked at the end, with
a serpent's head carved upon it. She
was seated upon a large stone a few
feet from the flag-staff, her elbows resting
upon her knees and her chin supported
in the hollow formed by her two
hands. She kept her eyes fixedly, and
with a stern compression of the mouth
upon the sloop-of-war, which was at anchor
directly opposite the height. In
her whole appearance there was something
wild and unusual. The man who
paced to and fro, occasionally glanced at
her, as if familiar with her presence, but
she paid no attention to him or anything
but the British ship. She had approached
him from the town about a quarter of
an hour before, as he was looking
through his glass down the bay, and
without saying a word had seated herself
upon a rock and fixed her immovable
gaze upon the ship.
At length she began to mutter in an
under tone, when the man with the spy-glass,
after watching her with something
like superstitious awe in his looks, said,
“Well, Margaret, what is the matter?
Don't you like the cut o' the
sloop's jib, hey?”
“Don't disturb me,” answered the
female, impatiently. “Don't disturb
me, I say. I am putting every soul on
'em under the evil spell. They will do
no mischief after I have looked at 'em
and prayed at 'em till the sun goes
down.”
“It is two bells yet to sun-down, Maggy,”
said the man. “You'll get tired
cursing 'em.”
“I love my country too well to get
tired serving it, mate Finch. Many's
the night I've watched under the stars
and prayed for the colony and cursed
the crown! Don't disturb me now. I
must put this ship under the spell. Soon
as I heard that the British ministry had
sent us a ship, I prepared my herbs and
medicaments, my silver dust and holy
water, my fire and incense, and made up
a curse for her; and now I have come
here to put it on her and hers; on her
hull and on her spars, on her rigging
and on her sails, on her captain and
her crew, on her keel and on her deck,
and on all without and within. So let
me alone that I may curse her ere the
blessed sun goes down.”
And she shook her head fiercely and
impatiently, and settled herself more
firmly to her work, bending her eyes,
that were as bright as the eyes of a serpent,
on the vessel before her. The
man stood regarding her for a few seconds,
with a smile of pity mixed with
fear, and then murmuring, “poor Mag,”
raised his spy-glass to his eye and levelled
it at some object down the bay
which seemed suddenly to have caught
his eye.
“By the king and parliament, it is a
craft of some sort coming in. Now if
it should be the old gentleman's brig,
there'll be a squall here in Newport
afore twenty-four hours goes over it.”
“A squall,” repeated the woman,
turning her head at his words and as if
forgetful of her other purpose, proceeded
violently, “you may say a squall, but
I say a tempest. Not in Newport, tomorrow,
but ere long throughout the
length and breadth of the land. God
is with us, mate. God is against them,
mate! A tempest, I say, menaces the
British throne. Ah, send your armed
ships!” she cried, rising up and
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stretching her hands towards the sloop and
shaking her fingers, while an expression
of withering scorn and contempt mould
ed the features of a face that had once
been beautiful. “Send your cannon
and your troopers, proud king of the
Isles, but we will laugh you to scorn.—
We will mock your power and despise
your arms. God is with us and against
thee. What dost thou see? Nay, I
have eyes that need no aid. It is a
schooner and an enemy's schooner!”
she said, catching with her bright glance
the distant sail.
“Nay, dame, thou canst not tell at
this distance with the naked eye what I
can hardly make out with a glass.”
“Who made that glass?”
“It was made in Paris.”
“It was made by some man?”
“Yes, of course.”
“God's works are better than man's.
God made my eyes. I tell you, believe
me when I speak, I deceive no one. I
say the craft is an armed schooner and
a foe.”
“I don't see how you make it out;
but I see now she is a schooner and not
a brig! I sometimes have thought,
Maggy, that you deal with the old one.”
“As if Sathana had power to make
me see what my own eyes could not
see! as if he was greater than all. But
I see with my understanding. I can
comprehend with my senses, which are
greater than the eye or the ear, that are
only the servants of the senses. I know
that the schooner is an enemy—that she
carries George's flag at her mast head.”
“Well, if turns out to be so, I shall
be afraid of you, Maggy. If you know
so much how is it you don't know what
has become of your boy?”
“My boy! my Harry!” she almost
shrieked, while her face became deadly
pale, and she clasped her hands firmly
across her heart as if compressing it
with all her strength. “Why do you
speak of him? oh, why do you name
him whom I shall never see more? It
is this that hath crazed my poor brain.
It is my boy—my darling, handsome,
noble boy. Oh talk not of him. Let
me not think of him, save when I am
on the sea side, and the waves roll and
the winds roar, and the rocks echo, and
I can shout and let my madness keep
time with the madness around me! But
not here! not in this still summer day,
with the sum shining and the birds singing
and all so peaceful—oh, speak not
of him. I shall go mad.”
“I am sorry, Margaret,” said the
man, looking fearful, and his face expressing
the deepest commisseration.—
“It was a thoughtless question. I ought
to ha' know'd better, coz I knew how it
was when he was mentioned.”
“Hist! Silence! Hush!” she gasped
with a deep painful suspiration between
each word, while she rapidly
walked round and round in a circle, her
hands clasping her heart. Suddenly
she stood still and smiled with terrible
vindictiveness, while she shook her finger
at the British ship:
“Oh, murderers of my boy! Oh, ye
have yet to give him up to the bar of
God. Ye tore him from me! ye wrested
him from my arms! ye robbed me
of my noble one. But it shall not prosper
with you. The curse is upon you,
proud ships of Britain. For my boy's
sake, ill shall befal you. My prayers
have armed the winds and sharpened
the lightnings of heaven against ye.”
“Be calm, mother,” said the man,
gently.
“Well, I will be calm. I will say no
more. But you should not have asked
me about my boy. It makes me mad.
But let me prophesy to you, mate Finch.
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The day is not far distant when the
glory of England shall be humbled before
the power of this colony, and for
al this oppression we shall be avenged
seven-fold. Let their ships with their
bloody flag come and anchor before our
towns; the day will come when they
will leave their anchors and fly like cowards
before the might and majesty of a
free people.”
“I hope you speak the truth, Margaret,
but I fear it will be worse afore its
better,” said the man. “I do really believe
you are right, and that is an armed
schooner up the bay,” he added,
with his glass once more at his eye.—
“Well, I shall really begin to think you
are what folks say you be.”
He looked round as he spoke, but
she had disappeared around a projecting
rock, and gone in the direction of
a hut near the water.
CHAPTER II.
The man stood for some time closely
watching the distant sail after the departure
of the female, and having one
eye shut and the other at the lens of the
telescope, he did not observe the approach
of two persons, the sound of
their footsteps being broken by the thick
moss with which the rock was covered.
One of them was an elderly gentleman,
the other an extremely beautiful
young girl of seventeen, who was hanging
upon his arm. They were approaching
by the path which led from
the town, which was but a short walk
from the height, being indeed so nigh that
one could distinguish and recognise persons
walking in the streets.
The gentleman was about forty-seven
years of age, tall and commanding in his
person, and with that indescribable air of
high-bred courtesy which marks the
man by fortune and condition. His
dress also evinced, but less strongly,
his position in society, for money can
purchase the garb but not the mind of
a true gentleman. He wore a very elegant
coat of purple velvet, with silver
lace at the cuffs, a white waistcoat with
silver buttons, and small clothes of
drab cassimere, while at his knees and
in his polished shoes sparkled jet buckles.
His neatly plaited ruffle that
amply filled his bosom, his snow-white
stockings and spotless cravat, evinced
a man of neat and precise habits, though
all well-bred persons of that day studied
more precision in dress than those
of modern times. His hair was powdered
and a queue wound with black silk
hung down over his collar.
He wore a chapeau, laced and sparkling
with the diamond button that looped
up its front. He wore no sword, but
carried in his grasp a stout bamboo
stick ornamented with a gold top. The
expression of his face, which was very
noble in the outline, was that of mingled
firmness and benevolence, combined
with worldly sagacity. He was
in conversation with the maiden, and a
smile of affection, which played upon
his face whenever he spoke, showed
that she was dearer and nearer to him
than a mere acquaintance. This the
character of her face gave clear evidence
of; for she had the same clear,
hazel eye and intelligent looking brow
that characterized his countenance, and
there was a likeness to his smile in hers.
Those features of resemblance were,
however, refined and spiritualized in
her, for she was surpassingly lovely.
Her complexion was unusually brilliant,
a beauty for which the ladies of Newport
are at this day remarkable, and her
fine eyes were animated with intelligence,
and cheerfulness shone like
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sunny all over her light bright, joyous face.
Her figure, as she slightly leaned
with unstudied grace upon her father's
arm, for such was the near relation in
which he stood to her, displayed the
most exquisite symmetry just developing
into the blooming tournure of womanly
proportion.
They had been walking on slowly,
enjoying and remarking upon the beauty
of the harbor and bay under the
pleasant evening sun, and occasionally
stopping to enjoy some new and interesting
aspect under which the scenery,
familiar as it was to them, presented
itself; for never does the same
scene offer the same appearance twice
to the eye of the tasteful observer. It
is even modified by the state of the atmosphere,
of the heavens, of the wind,
and even the feelings of the spectator.
No landscape looks the same in the afternoon
and in the morning; nor if there
be water and a breeze, in a wind and in
a still day. A cloud passing over the
sun will change its character for the
moment, and clouds hanging upon the
horizon often serve for the time, instead
of a range of mountains, to terminate a
level prospect. The glory and beauty
of nature is forever varying, and the
eye of taste never wearies in gazing on
he most familiar scenes.
Thus it was, that although Barbara
Frankland had been conversant with
the landscape around her from very
childhood, and had walked to the signal
hill a thousand times alone, for she
dwelt not far distant, she every few
moments would stop to draw her father's
attention to some new and beautiful
feature of the scene around her. The
British sloop-of-war which had anchored
in the harbor in the morning, was also
an object of deep interest to them both,
and came in for its share of attention;
but when Mr. Frankland, on gaining
the top of the acclivity, saw the mate
with the glass at his eye and beheld the
said down the bay, he quickened his pace,
dropping his daughter's arm, saying:
“There is something coming in!
I must see what master Finch has made
of it.”
The man was so busily occupied in
trying to make out the stranger, that
the new comer was close by his side
and had laid his hand lightly on his
arm before he discovered his presence.
“Oh, your sarvant, sir, I begs pardon!
and good day, miss!” he said,
bowing sailor-fashion, with great respect
to the merchant, for such he was,
and with a more than usual degree of
nautical grace to the maiden, who had
stopped a few feet off and was engaged
in looking admiringly about her from
the commanding eminence which she
had reached. She smiled and nodded
pleasantly at his salutation, while her
father said eagerly,
“What do you discover, master
Finch? What, is she coming up? Is
it the brig?”
“No, sir,” responded the mate, as he
touched his hat and handed to him the
spy-glass. “She is an armed schooner
I think, sir, by her rakish and taunt
looks and the squareness of her top-sail.
But look for yourself, sir.”
“Yes, I think you are right. She is
very plainly a schooner, but what can she
be? Are we to have more war-vessels
up here, forsooth?” added the merchant
with a slight flash of angry surprise
upon his cheek. “Do you see her,
Bab?” he said, addressing his daughter,
whose attention was drawn to the vessel
by their words. “Take the spy-glass.
It is an armed vessel, Finch
says.”
“And mad Margaret says that it is
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an English cruiser, miss,” said Finch,
“and I believe she is right, for she told
me it was a vessel-of-war before I made
that out with the glass! She has better
eyes than most folks, or she sees like a
witch.”
“When did you see Margaret?”
asked the young girl with some animation,
upon hearing the name of the woman
mentioned.
“Not ten minutes agone, miss. I
was here keeping watch, as his honor
bade me do, to give him the first notice
when this brig hove in sight, when Mag
comes and anchors herself on that stone
there, and amuses herself with cursing
the sloop-of-war there.”
“Poor woman!” said the merchant,
“she has good cause for wishing evil
to the British ships.”
“Where is she, good master Finch?”
asked Barbara Frankland.
“Well, that would be as difficult as
to tell which way the wind would blow
next Friday week. But I think she
steered for her house under the hill
there by the cove.”
“Well, father, I believe I will walk
down and see Margaret, while you and
master Finch are watching the approaching
vessel.”
“Don't be long, child,” answered
the merchant, “and here, give this
piece. She may stand in need of more
comtorts than she has.”
“Thanks, father, I will place the
money in her hands and say you sent
it,” answered the maiden, taking from
him a Spanish coin of considerable
value.
“And she will send good winds and
fair after your ships, sir,” said the mate,
with the looks of one who believed she
could do as he said, “I would rather
have Maggy's good will than her illfavor.”
“Art thou so simple-minded, master
Finch, as to believe she hath power
over the winds?” asked the merchant
with a look of grave reproof.
“Certainly, he does, dear father,”
said the young girl, laughing. “All
sailors believe in the supernatural. I
dare say master Finch has full faith in
aunt Margaret's spells.”
“And some young ladies, too, I suspect,”
answered Finch, “for I've seen
you go to her hut more than once, miss.”
“I go to see if she is in want of
nothing to render her solitary life comfortable,”
responded Barbara, though
she blushed as if there was more in
the old seaman's words than she cared
to confess to him, and as if conscious of
her embarrassed air, she turned away,
saying gaily as she hastened along the
path the other had taken, “But perhaps
I am now going there to get my
fortune told, who knows, master
Finch?”
“It's more likely than not,” he answered
as she disappeared. “The
truth is, your honor,” he added, addressing
her father, “the truth is there
is more superstition in a pretty lass like
Miss Barbara, begging your honor's
pardon, than in the oldest salt as ever
sarved in a man-of-war. They believe
if mad Maggy turns up a tea-cup, she
can tell them what consort they'll cruise
alongside of all their life. Now, I
wouldn't be afeared to guess that Miss
Barbara, from the look of her eye, has
something more to say to Maggy than to
ask her if she is comfortable. There's
some witch business, be sure, your
honor.”
“Well no harm can come of it,
Finch. The poor woman can do no
one either injury or good.”
“I a'nt so sure of that, your honor
Things ha' been said about her as looks
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strange to be said o' any honest Christian
body, not but Maggy is honest and
Christian enough, for she prays like a
parson, and never takes pay for it, and
loves the sailor, too. I never minded
much what folks said about her, but
when I see what she did a bit ago, here,
I was a little put aback, and thought
she knew even more nor folks said she
did.”
“Why, what did she do, Finch?”
asked the merchant, who had turned
his glass from the approaching vessel
and was now levelling it steadily and
with earnest curiosity at the sloop-of-war
anchored in the stream.
“Why, she said positive, that the
schooner was a war-schooner afore I
could make it out to be so with the spy-glass,
which shows confounded long seeing
for nat'ral eyes, and then she talked
so strange about its standing to reason
that eyes as God made is better than
telescopes as man makes; just as if she
could see for all the world as far as a spyglass!
And I believe on my soul she
can, your honor! I never was afraid
of her till then! And if this craft
turns out to be an old country cruiser,
I shall set her down for a witch. What
is it your honor sees in the sloop?”
“I was merely looking at her. She
is a fine vessel, methinks.”
“One of the crack sloops in the
King's navy, your honor. It is the same
one that was chased by two Dutch
frigates and a corvette last year, and
out-sailing the frigates, turned upon and
captured the corvette in sight of 'em.
She sails well and fights well.”
“I would rather she had sailed slower
and been taken by the Dutchman
than be here at anchor, master Finch.
I fear she will give us trouble.”
“She looks quiet enough now, your
honor. What do you suppose she is in
here for? To press men, I dare say.”
“She will no doubt press any men
that come in her way; but this is not
her business. She has come to see that
we Newport merchants obey the new
revenue laws and enter all our cargoes
at the king's custom house.”
“That is, she means to see that the
broad arrow is put on everything that is
landed, is that it, your honor?”
“Yes. But the king has no right to
enforce duties on wines and molasses,
nor indeed to enforce any revenue such
as he has resolved to impose on us,
and we intend to resist the authority of
his unjust laws.”
“In the face of the sloop there, your
honor! no, no,” said the old man shaking
his head. “There is too much
round iron and powder in her.”
“We fear neither her iron nor her
powder, master Finch. I shall land my
cargo of wines and molasses as soon as
the brig arrives, in defiance of the revenue.
I shall not pay a thousand pounds
into the king's treasury for the privilege
of landing my own property; and he
who attemps to rob me of my goods in
the shape of duties is a robber, and
shall be treated as such.”
“But, your honor, you will not resist
the king's new custom house officers, if
they come on board?”
“I don't mean they shall come on
board. I expect my brig, “the Free-Trader,”
in with this wind, and to give
me timely notice of her approach, I
have, as you know, set you on the
watch here, so that when she comes
within signal distance, I can telegraph
her to stand out again until night and
then run in, when I will board her before
she comes to anchor, and have her
up at my wharf and her freight out of
her before daybreak.”
“It will be a dangerous business for
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us, your honor. If the sloop wasn't
here, it might be done, for the custom-house
men are but few, but it will be
risky business now; and here comes
this schooner, too, to make it more so.”
“I have made up my mind what I
will do, and nothing will alter my determination,”
said the American merchant
firmly.
CHAPTER III.
The Colonial merchant, whom we
have introduced to the reader in the foregoing
chapter, was the leading rich man
of the town of Newport. He had been
in earlier years a crown-officer and
secretary to the king's governor; but
subsequently he engaged in commerce,
and at the period of our story he was
one of the most opulent of the New
England merchants, and exercised a
wide influence, both on account of his
intelligence and wealth, over the minds
of those who came in contact with him.
In the oppressive measures of the
mother country towards her colonies,
he had long since beheld the germs
of a serious quarrel between them: for
he well knew the haughty pride of England
would never yield its power, and
that the firm spirit of resistance to oppression
on the part of his colonial
countrymen would never bend itself to
tyranny. He had written to British
ministers, warning them of the danger
they were in of exciting rebellion in the
colonies, and calmly remonstrating with
them; but in vain. The British ministers
laughed at the idea of a colony,
without an army and without a single
armed vessel, daring to defy or resist
the laws of so formidable a power as
Great Britain; and, as if desirous of
testing the experiment, they pushed the
colonies to the utmost limits of forbearance.
Then it was that the spirit of the
American people was roused as the spirit
of one man! The leading men in
the chief towns corresponded with each
other, and consulted upon the perilous
condition in which stood the liberties
of the colonies. Then it was that Samuel
Adams went out from Boston, and
visited the most influential persons in
the Bay Colony and the adjacent ones,
and felt the pulses of men's hearts. In
his tour he came to Newport and was a
guest of Paul Frankland, who suggested
the formation of secret societies of
resistance to the oppression of the Crown.
These societies, the first of which was
held in the library of the rich merchant's
mansion, under the name of “The Sons
of Liberty,” in a few weeks were established
all through New England;
and their influence was dally extending,
and their numbers becoming more formidable,
at the time the chapters of this
romance are opened.
Paul Frankland was a widower with
an only daughter, Barbara, or “The
Heiress,” as she was universally designated
on account of the immense
wealth of her father. He loved her
with the most devoted affection; and,
although he indulged her in every wish
of her heart, she was naturally so good
and generous, and was blended with
such wisdom and discretion that she
was unspoiled either by his lovish fondness
or the flattery of those who were
around her. She loved to be the instrument
of happiness to the needy, and
her purse was always open to the poor;
so that it was well and truly said of her,
“that while Barbara Frankland lived
there would be no more poor in Newport.
The meeting of the merchants, which
has already been alluded to as having
taken place the evening preceding the
appearance of the English war-ship in the
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harbor, had been called together by Paul
Frankland at his own house; for he had
three vessels at sea which were daily
expected in, each of which was laden
with cargo that was dutiable under the
new revenue law; and as men talked
much about what he would be likely
to do, he therefore resolved to assemble
the merchants at his own house, that
some rule of action for all might be laid
down.
At this meeting the resolution was
passed which we have already quoted,
and he was the first to subscribe his
name to it.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said smiling,
as the last merchant of the company
signed the paper, “now we are committed!”
“And you will be likely to have
your resolution first tested, Mr. Frankland,”
said one of the gentlemen, “as
you are hourly expecting a ship in!”
“Yes, and I shall not flinch from my
duty, either to myself or my country.
If we submit to this, gentleman, the
crown will next tax our windows and
chimney flues, as is done in England,
and, 'fore God! our wives and children.
Our only safety against farther tyranny
is firm resistance to the present. If
we submit to the yoke to-day, to-morrow
they will harness us into the van and
make us draw. If they can't bit us,
they can't ride us. We must, therefore,
resist the bit!”
“Suppose that one of your vessels
should arrive to-morrow, sir,” remarked
one of the merchants, who soon expected
in a schooner laden with wine from
Madeira, “would you have her hauled
up to your whart and discharged, even
if the commissioners were on board?”
“I should take care not to let them
on board; but if they got there, I would
treat them civilly so long as they re
mained quiet; but if they attempted to
stop the unloading, I should feel it my
duty to take their swords away and put
them on shore!”
“And we should have a king's ship
here in a week after,” said one of the
gentlemen.
“The rest of our conduct we have
nothing to do with,” answered the fearless
merchant. “It is my duty to have
my cargo loaded free of duty, and I
shall see it done, though the whole
English fleet anchored the next day in
Newport harbor!”
Little did Mr. Frankland anticipate
that ere sixteen hours had passed a
twenty gun ship would actually drop
anchor opposite the town; and when
he saw her and understood from the
officers that landed, that her business
there was to protect the revence officers,
he did not abate in his resolution to land
his own cargoes free of duty if it could
be done. But the other merchants, on
seeing the sloop-of-war, began to feel
somewhat intimidated; and to question
the propriety of resisting, in the face of
so formidable a force. Two of the most
influential among them, who had been
of the company at his house on the previous
evening, even waited upon him
and recommended that in case any one
of his vessels should arrive while the
vessel of war was in port, he should
suffer his goods to be stored by the commissioners,
rather than create a serious
quarrel with the crown officers.
“If you store them and let them-remain
until you can write to England,
protesting against the duties,” said one
of the gentlemen, “it may prevent
bloodshed.”
“It will do no good to write and protest.
If I store them I shall have to
pay the duties, ere I can take them out,”
answered Mr. Frankland, firmly. “No,
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gentlemen, we must be resolved and
uncompromising. I expect that this
wind will bring in “The Free-Trader,”
for she has been a week due, and be
assured that on her arrival, I will test
the authority of the crown to plunder
duties upon her cargo! I have already
sent Master Finch, who used to sail in
my employ, to the signal-station to keep
a look-out for her all day. If he sees her,
he is to let me know and I shall signalize
her to stand off till night, and to run
in under cover of the darkness as far
as Indian Rock, when I shall board her
and bring her in to the wharf.”
“You are very bold, sir! I hope the
best; but I fear you will lose your brig
and forfeit your liberty,” said the timid
townsman.
“Be it so,” responded the merchant,
in a resolute tone; “I am willing that
my case should establish the precedent
for all that follows. I am ready, If I
have a vessel arrive first, to test in my
own person and goods whether an American
citizen is to be imprisoned for
resisting an unjust law. If the country
demands a mortgage, I am prepared to
sacrifice myself! I repeat, sir, I will
not give one cent to the crown for revenue
under the existing law!”
The courageous and patriotic merchant
then attired himself to appear a
a dinner-party given by the King's
Commissioner to the captain and officers
of the sloop-of-war; for as yet the merchants
and the crown officers had not
yet come into hostile collision; and
the usual courtesies of citizens passed
between them. Indeed, the Chief Commissioner
was, like Mr. Frankland, a
native of Newport, and had received
the appointment from the crown for his
strong attachment to the ministry, an
attachment which, about this time, began
to be designated by the term toryism.
Between Mr. Pitt Riverton, the
head-commissioner, and Mr. Frankland
there had existed, even up to this time,
the most friendly intercourse, as well,
also, with the other officers of the customs,
who were appointed from citizens
of Newport. The merchant had openly
declared to Mr. Riverton, on hearing
that he had been commissioned to collect
the obnoxious revenue, that he should
resist his authority. As this was spoken
with a smile, the crown-officer paid little
regard to it, though he well knew
how unpopular the law as well as his
office was to the commercial community.
Nevertheless, hearing the next day
a good deal of bitterness of language
touching the new law, he had thought
it best to strengthen his authority; and
for this purpose had despatched a messenger
to New London for the sloop-of-war,
which, a few days afterwards, had
so unexpectedly appeared in the harbor.
The meeting held in Mr. Frankland's
library was kept secret from the commissioners;
and willing to conciliate
the principal merchants, he had invited
them to a dinner which he gave the
officers of the ship. Mr. Frankland
attended, and had an opportunity of
coming into friendly (externally so) intercourse
with persons whom he looked
upon as his country's oppressors. But
his hostility did not fasten itself upon
the mere agents of the crown, but upon
the ministry itself; and in his heart he
felt that he could not blame the officers
of the armed ship, though he did the
commissioners for the part they were
taking in the execution of the evil laws.
The subject of the revenue was carefully
kept under in the conversation at
the table, each party willing to keep
quiet upon a theme on which it was
well known existed a grave difference
of opinion. But the length to which
the merchants of the town had gone in
having held a secret meeting, and in
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passing resolutions of non-submission,
were not suspected either by Mr. Riverton
or the captain of the sloop. The
dinner passed off well, though not without
a certain degree of restraint; and
soon after returning from the commissioner's
mansion, Mr. Frankland hastened
to his own house to learn if there
was any intelligence from the signal-station.
Then he was told by his
daughter, whom he had left to keep
watch from her window upon the hill
occupied by the mate, that no flag had
yet been hoisted by him.
“We will walk up there, Bab,” he
said; “the afternoon invites to exercise,
and perhaps we may discover some
vessels either coming in or going out.”
“I never refuse a walk, father, especially
on the signal-hill,” she answered;
“and, besides, I was wishing
to walk that way, for, I—I have—”
Here the maiden blushed, and laughed,
and added—“ It is no matter. I
will walk with you, dear father.”
And in a few moments she was ready,
with hat and shawl, and accompanied
him towards the hill. The residence
of Mr. Frankland was one of the most
imposing in the town; and, situated on
the south side of it, was an extensive
garden which reached nearly to the foot
of the eminence; while in front of the
house, between it and the town, was a
wide lawn and flower-garden very elegantly
kept.
They passed out of the house by a
door which led upon a gallery, from
which a flight of stairs descended into
the garden walks. Crossing it by a
shady avenue, they left it by a gate at
the farther end, which conducted them
to the open hill-side. Here a path
wound its way up the declivity to the
flag-staff, and by it they soon reached
the eminence.
The armed schooner now continued
rapidly to make her way up the bay,
before a fair wind, and, as she got nigher,
she hoisted her colors.
“English, by the lord Harry!” cried
the mate, as he saw the dark-red ensign
blow broadly out upon the breeze.
“The woman is a witch!”
“If she was able to see that the
schooner was a vessel of war, Master
Finch, it was easy to guess her flag,”
said the merchant; “for we have none
but English armed cruisers in our waters
in these days.”
“That is true, your honor; but I
believe Maggy is more of a witch than
a Christian woman.”
“She has no knowledge of witchcraft,
that poor woman, be assured, good mate
Finch. She is only an unfortunate,
broken-hearted thing, her mind shattered
by the impressment of her son. But
let me have the glass. There is another
sail in the offing! It is a mere
white speck on the horizon!”
CHAPTER IV.
Leaving the merchant and the mate
to make out the new sail which has
just hove in sight in the southern board,
we will follow Barbara Frankland to
the habitation of Mad Margaret, as the
female whom we have introduced into
the preceding chapters was usually designated.
The maiden, after leaving the
summit of the hill, which was not more
than forty rods over, descended on the
west side by a rude pathway formed by
the removal of loose stones and fragments
of the ledge. Part of the way
led over the face of the smooth stone,
and in some places was so steep that she
had to assist her descent by holding on
to the low fern bushes, which grew by
the sides.
The cot in which Margaret lived,
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[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
was situated under the ledge, close to
the water-side, and at the extremity of
the path by which she had come down
to it from the hill-top. It was a small,
one-story tenement, with a door and
window in one end, the other sides being
closely boarded up. It was blackenedwith
age and the weather, and at a
distance could scarcely be distinguished
from the rocks which overhung it. A
rude stone chimney was built up on
the outside of the hut, and as Barbara
approached, a small wreath of smoke
was curling upward into the heavens.
A single pine tree which had taken root
in a crevice of the ledge, grew so as to
lean far over the cottage and lend it the
only shadow it got from the noon-tide
sun.
There was a wreck of an old boat lying
on the beach by the door, and though
it was worthless, seemed to be preserved
with great care; for a rough shed built
of strips, hides and drift-wood had been
erected over it, and it was carefully
propped up by stones and billets of
wood placed beneath the bow and stern.
As Barbara passed it, she glanced at
it and looked as if she understood the
motive which led to its preservation, for
she said,
“Her poor boy! How her heart is
bound up in everything which once was
his!”
She now reached the door, and paused
to listen with something like fear ere
she knocked. From where she stood
she could see the sloop-of-war, which
was anchored directly opposite the cottage,
and also on her right the town
close at hand and in full view; but the
signal-staff and her own home were hidden
from her by the shoulder and brow
of the hill.
She had raised her hand to tap upon
the door, when the voice of Margaret
from within arrested her:
“Don't stop to knock at my door,
sweet maiden. I knew it was you coming.
I know that light step in a hundred.
Come in, come in! for your
presence is a blessing to any roof you
pass under.”
Barbara opened the door of the hut
and entered. Margaret was upon her
knees before the fire, blowing it up into
a flame. As the red glare of the live
coals enkindled by her breath was reflected
from her swarthy, wild features,
Barbara involuntarily drew back a step,
for there was something in her appearance
then that confirmed the universal
belief in her supernatural character.
“You are welcome, Miss Barbara,”
she said, rising to her feet, and extending
her hand to the beautiful girl, who
looked embarrassed and as if awe-stricken.
“I am always glad to see you on
my hearth-stone! God's blessing always
goes before and follows after the
good and pure. What will ye that I
should do for you?”
This was said in a rough and masculine
manner, but there was a deep vein
of kindness beneath the outward seeming.
And as she spoke, she placed an
old chair with a bottom of smooth oxhide
for her.
“Sit ye, Miss Barbara, sit ye. Ye
must be tired coming over the rocks, for
it is not often that the feet of gentles
like you, walk so rough a road.”
“I walk in rougher paths than that,
Margaret,” answered Barbara. “You
forget what a famous walker I am.”
“True! true! I have met you in
many a wild place by the bay shore
gathering shells. But that was for your
pleasure. You have not come here now
for pleasure. You have business with
me.”
“Business, Margaret!” repeated
Barbara with a blush that overspread
her cheeks with the quickness of
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[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
lightning. “What business can I have with
you? Here is a Spanish coin my father
sent you, and I have come to see if
you are in want of any thing.”
“Thanks to your father, maiden, for
this,” answered Margaret, taking the
silver piece; “the blessing of the Bible
will be upon him and his, for he remembereth
the poor. But thou hast not
come alone to give me this, nor to see
how the world and I fare together, sweet
maiden,” said Margaret, fixing her dark
eye impressively upon her face.
“Do I not visit you as often as once
a month, Margaret? Why should you
attribute other matters now to my visit
than a desire to know of your welfare?”
“Because there are causes for it,
sweet lady,” answered the woman in a
decided and almost severe tone. “Why
will you try to deceive me? I can read
thy thoughts in thy face. There is
something on thy mind that thou wouldst
consult with me upon.”
Barbara became deadly pale, and
gazed upon the singular woman with
fear and surprise. “Can she divine my
thoughts?” she asked herself, amazed;
for she had indeed sought her hut to
consult her, but after reaching the hut,
she had laughed at herself, and resolved
not speak to her upon the subject which
weighed upon her thoughts. But when
she saw that she had discovered through
that keenness of observation which often
characterises madness, that there was
a secret at her heart, she resolved that
she would not go away without laying
it before her. Nevertheless, she did
not like at once to confess her power
and influence over her, inasmuch as
hitherto she had never regarded her in
the superstitious light in which she had
been held by a large portion of the community,
even by intelligent persons of
good family and estate. She therefore
said, making an effort to laugh off her
surprise at having her purpose so readily
divined by the extraordinary woman.
“You know, Margaret, I am not one
of your believers. I give you more
credit than most others for good sense,
and being like other people.”
“Yet at this moment you believe in
me. You had faith in me, or you would
not have come hither. Speak freely
and openly, madam. I love thee and
honor thee, and if in my power, I will
serve thee. What is it on thy mind that
troubles thee, and makes thy eye restless,
and thy cheek as changing as the
autumn sky. I read a secret in thy
bosom as soon as I saw thy face in the
door.”
“Then I will tell thee, Margaret,
though I did intend to return and not
mention it,” answered Barbara, who
spoke with an air of confidence and
sincerity that showed she felt that she
might find council and wisdom in the
words even of Mad Margaret.
Before speaking, she let her eyes
wander round the hut, as if to collect
her thoughts for the revelation she had
to make, and in their tour they rested
on a pair of oars wrapped in old faded
crape above the mantelpiece, a jacket
and straw hat also marked with a bow
of crape hung over the window, and two
or three other mementoes of Margaret's
lost boy, sacredly preserved by the poor
crazed mother.
“I have had a dream, Margaret, that
has troubled me,” at length said the
maiden.
“Dreams are from Heaven, maiden;
speak without fear.”
“I should not have regarded it had
it been but once that I dreamed, but I
have had three nights in succession the
same dream.”
“Then it will become true,” answered
Margaret. “Three is a perfect
number. Did I not say that thou hudst
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something at heart, which led thee to
come to me to-day? What is thy
dream? Perhaps I can unweave its
truths for thee. Was it an evil or a
happy dream?”
“I hardly know. It was both good
and evil. But I am very foolish to tell
it, or to have let it fix itself so in my
thoughts. But having told Edith, my
maid, she advised me to come and consult
you, for she has great faith in you,
Margaret, and she related three or four
instances in which you had explained
dreams which had proved as you said
they would. You know I am not superstitious
and am too good a Christian,
I trust, to believe in any supernatural
power you may be supposed to possess,
still, I have a sort of confidence that you
may be able to divine the meaning of
my dream.”
“All dreams have not interpretations.
Some dreams are mere broken shadows
that pass over the mind, of the events of
the day, or events wished for. But true
dreams all have a meaning to those who
study it; maiden. Let me hear thy
dream.”
“I fancied that I was a bird, and was
very happily singing in my native woods,
when a hawk pursued me and I flew
in terror. It seemed to me that the
woods suddenly turned into my father's
garden, and that as I tried to conceal
myself in the thick foliage of the tree
that grew under my window, the hawk
pressed me so closely, and with his
fierce cries so terrified me, that I dashed
through the glass into the room.—
My room then suddenly became a cage,
and I found myself a prisoner to a very
handsome youth, who held the cage by
its ring, and talked to me encourageingly,
as if he had himself rescued me
from the hawk. While he was gazing
on me, my father came in and asked
him to sell the bird, as he wished to
purchase it for his daughter; for so
strongly did my dream shift its characters
about. The young man, whose
features I cannot distinctly recall, and
who was dressed in very humble apparel,
like a seaman, I think, answered that
he would not sell me at any price, as
he had obtained me at the risk of his
life. Upon this my father said, `If thou
wilt give me the bird, thou shalt have
my daughter; for if I have not that
bird in thy cage, my daughter will die
of grief for it.' The young man then
said, `How can she wish for what she
can never have seen?' `Then, said my
father, she hath dreamed of such a bird
from her childhood. But I will go and
bid her come to thee.' My father then
left the room, and in my struggles to
tell him that I was his daughter in the
cage, I awoke. Three times I have
dreamed the same dream without the
least variation. Now, Margaret, if you
can unravel it for me, you will do me a
great kindness; for, to tell you truly,
it troubles me not a little; though I am
silly to suffer it to do so, and am, no
doubt, very foolish to tell it to you; for
I have no faith in dreams. But I promised
Edith I would tell it to you.”
“I have listened to every word of it,
maiden,” answered Margaret, with a
thoughtful brow. “I think I can tell
you what your dream signifies. But
first let me ask you if you have dreamed
from your childhood of a little bird,
as your father said!”
“No, never, that I know of. It was
only in my dream that my father said
so.”
“Do you remember the color of the
eyes of the hawk?”
“Yes, indeed, I do! for they seemed
human as they looked upon me. They
were a bright grey.”
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“And do you remember the color of
the eyes of the young man?”
“Hazel, and full of expression. He
was very handsome, indeed, though he
seemed poor or of humble origin.”
Do you recollect even seeing her
in your waking moments?”
“Never. The face was new to me!
and I have such an indistinct recollection
of the features, though the impression
they left is pleasing, I should hardly
recognise him were he living. But
it can't be that I should dream of the
face of one who is really alive, but never
sean by me!”
“It would be more wonderful, maiden,
to dream of a face of one who never
had existed,” answered Margaret. “It
is a very remarkable dream. But it
has its meaning. But will you believe
what I interpret?”
“If it is not wrong to listen to you?”
“It is not wrong. I am no witch nor
dealer with evil spirits, lady. He who
hath taken from me human reason, hath
given me the power of a keen understanding.
What I have lost in the
overturn of my senses, hath been made
up to me in spiritual strength. Once I
could not see so sharply and so far as I
do now; yet I was happier; for it is
not good to know too much of hidden
knowledge while in the frail body.—
Yet what I know shall be thine!”
CHAPTER V.
Barbara Frankland listened with
awe and fear, to the singular words of
the extraordinary person, whose presence
she had sought, half in fear, half
faithless, touching her reputation for revealing
dreams.
“If I thought you were gifted with
powers beyond our human nature, Mar
garet, I should fear to hear what you
have to say,” she said, gravely.
“Then, why have you sought me, lady?
But fear not, I will give thee the
meaning of thy dream, as my wisdom
teaches it to me. It is a good dream
to thee, maiden, if thou art humble, and
despisest not lowness of condition in any
one; but thy pride of wealth and station
may make it an evil one to thee.”
“I trust I have no pride, Margaret.”
“The least, lady, that one in thy
place ever had. Thine is the pride of
beauty, and of conscious goodness,
rather than of rank, so I do not fear
but the dream will be a good one for
thee.”
“I hope it will,” answered Barbara,
who began to feel deeply interested in
the disclosure she was about to hear
made, and to feel something of a superstitious
reverence for her upon her spirit.
“The hawk which pursued you,” began
Margaret, without consulting either
tea-cup or cards, or going through
any of the mystic ceremonies that the
professed witches of that day were accustomed
to use. She did not even
look at the lines in the palm of the maiden's
hand. But she took the hand,
soft and tremulous in her grasp, and
fixing her large, dark eyes upon her
fair, youthful brow, said, impressively,
“the hawk that pursued you, and from
which you fled in terror, was human.
It was represented to you in your dream
under the form of a hawk, for such is
the character of one whom you must
fear, and who will pursue you. You
will, under the sanctity of your father's
house, find shelter from this enemy,
but only by becoming captive to another.”
“How?” asked the maiden, whose
eye beamed with the deepest interest,
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though her heart trembled between hope
and fear.
“That is not for me to reveal. You
will escape one pursuer to fall into the
power of another who did not seek you,
but whose you become as a bird in a
cage is imprisoned. It will depend
upon the impression the young man
made upon you in your dream, whether
this captivity be happy or miserable.”
“He made a most favorable impression.
Indeed, I never saw a more noble
countenance, and his voice as he
spoke to me, was full of music. If I had
not been a bird, I thought I could have
listened to it forever.”
“Then your captivity will be a happy
one, and your dream a good dream.”
“But my father, and his wish to purchase
me?”
“That must remain unexplained.”
“And the young man's answer, that
he had risked his life for me, and for no
price would he let me go—will you
explain this?”
“It will come to pass, and let this be
enough for you to know, maiden. Your
dream will all become real. It warns
and encourages you. It bids you be on
your guard, and it encourages you to
feel assured that when danger is
most imminent, that when even the sanctuary
of your father's home will not protect
you, then will aid come to you from
a source you little hoped for. This is
all that I have to say, save that, if you become
not too proud, the dream is for good
and not for evil. But if you are proud in
the hour of your fate, darkness and
sorrow will come upon you as a tempest
in the midnight.”
“I tremble at your words, Margaret;
your manner, too, causes me to fear
you.”
“I speak only the thoughts that pass
through my mind, lady. Were they
full of evil and woe to thee, I should utter
them, but fear them not. They are
for thy good; as I have said to thee, if
thou art humble and grateful, and presume
not upon thy wealth and station
in the hour of thy trial.”
“What trial do you speak of so sol
elmnly, Margaret? In spite of myself,
your language makes a deep impression
upon my mind. And yet I know
you can tell me nothing that is in the
future. I feel that I have been very
weak to come to you, and that you
are mocking my folly by answering me
according to it.
“Fair maid, I have spoken truly, and
in fear of judgment for my words in the
day when every idle word will be adjudged.
All thou hast to do, is to believe
thy dream, and be on thy guard,
and to remember that in the hour of thy
greatest trial, thou wilt have succor,
though it will be secured by thy own
captivity.”
“Then I see danger is before me in
all, for it is not good to be a captive.
“That will depend on him to whom
thou art a captive, and upon thyself.”
“My mind is not relieved by my visit
to you, Margaret,” said the maiden,
rising. “In giving too much thought
and weight to a mere dream, because it
was repeated thrice, and in coming to
thee about it, I have made myself superstitious,
and if I am in no otherwise
a captive, I am become a slave to thy
words. I shall be constantly in bondage
of fear to your interpretation, whether
I believe it or reject it, for you have
spoken so seriously, that I cannot throw
off the serious impression you have
fixed upon my mind, that your words
are true. But how is it that you have
set aside cards, and casting my nativity,
and examining the lines in my hand,
Margaret? If you had used these,
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common signs of fortune-telling, I should
have had less faith in what you have
revealed.”
“I use these toys,” answered Margaret,
with an expression of contempt on
her dark features, “because the common
mind asks for such visible marks
to pin its faith on, but with thee,
there is no need to resort to such follies,
fit only to take the vulgar eye. But
do not be troubled at my explanation of
your dream, for thy fate and happiness
will be in thine own hands. Hark,
what firing is that we hear?” she cried,
as the report of a cannon not far distant
shook the hut in which they stood.
“It is an English schooner-of-war
just arrived,” said Barbara, who threw
open the door and looked out, while in
rapid succession nine guns were fired,
falling on the ear like the continued
reverberations of peals of thunder.
“Yes, and may they all sink in the
depths of the sea! My curse and the
curse of the orphan and the oppressed
light on them all!” cried Margaret, her
eye flashing fire as she surveyed the
newly arrived schooner, as enveloped
in the smoke of her firing, she passed
up, saluting the man-of-war.
“Ah, Bab, you are here then,” cried
Mr. Frankland, approaching. “I hope
you have told her a good fortune, Margaret,
and the tea-grounds were all favorable,”
he said, laughing. “I see,
Margaret, you are looking at the schooner
with no loving eyes. There's more
than one in Newport, that loves her
presence as little as you ssem to do.”
“They have their reasons, and I mine,
sir,” responded Margaret. “Two of
them! was it not enough that one come,
but another should follow close to its
heels? My two-fold malediction be on
them! May the winds be foul and the
sea shoal to them, and the waves overwhelm
them!”
“Nay, Margaret, you should forgive
them.”
“Forgive?” repeated the woman
with a haughty look, “forgive?” she
continued with fierce scorn. “Yes,
when they bring me back my boy, and
God gives me back my reason.”
With these words she strode away
from them and re-entered her hut, closing
the door after her.
“A strange creature, Barbara,” said
Mr. Frankland.
“Yes, sir, and fearful. I never till
to-day had faith in her supernatural
powers.”
“And have you now?” asked her
father, with a look of surprise.
“She has told me—”
“And what has she told thee, child?
If of the past, thou knowest it as well
as she. If of the future, time has to
test the truth of her words. So if she
hath been working on thy fears, neither
heed her nor her words, for they are
vanity and air. She is a poor, mad
creature, with her brain full of phantasles,
and a pity it is people have persuaded
her that she hath the powers of
fortune-telling. Public credulity is all
the capital she ever had. But I forgot
to tell thee that a brig is below, coming
up, and which I believe to the Free
Trader; and if it turns out to be her, I
shall be pretty busy, so I have come
after thee to see thee home in saftey,
for you see it is within a few minutes
of sunset.”
“And, sir, do you resolve to evade
the duties to the crown, if this-should
be your brig coming up?”
she asked earnestly, her eyes following
the schooner, which having crossed un
der the stern of the sloop as if hailing
her, was moving ahead and nearer
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to the town, shortening sail as she approached
the shoaler anchorage ground.
“These two armed vessels look menacing.”
“Their presence will not prevent
me from carrying out my purpose,
daughter. Resistance to the impost, is
a principle which no extraneous circumstances
should or can be allowed
to affect. Would you have me pay the
duty, and then acknowledge the right
of England to bind us by her tyrannical
laws?”
“No, father. But I tremble lest
you should be a sufferer.”
“I shall do my duty and leave the
event with Heaven. I know you are
too patriotic and brave, to wish me to
compromit my honor for fear of personal
consequences. But do not fear.
They will not touch my person. The
worst that can befall me, if I am detected
in smuggling my goods into town,
will be the loss of my vessel and cargo.
But I had rather risk these than be
false to my principles as a free-born
colonist. But let us return over the
hill, as I wish to give an order or two
to Finch, should the brig prove to be
the Free-Trader.”
They ascended the steep path-way to
the summit, which they had no sooner
came in sight of, than they heard the
mate hailing them.
“It is the brig, your honor. She has
hoisted her private signal. Look, sir,”
he added, as Mr. Frankland hastened
to meet him and receive the spy-glass
from his hand.
“Yes, three balls at her main,” cried
the merchant. “It is my brig! Get
ready the signal you brought with you
in the bag, master Finch. Now is the
revenue test nearer at hand than we
supposed, or than the commissioners and
the captain of the sloop imagine.”
The face of the merchant wore a
quiet smile of satisfaction, as he gazed
on the approaching brig, while his eye
brightened up with the resolute purpose
of his soul. Finch prepared the signals
and tied them to the halyards, and got
all ready to hoist, with his eye fixed on
Mr. Frankland, waiting for his orders.
“How far distant is she, sir?” asked
Barbara, who seemed to be almost as
deeply interested in the brig's approach
as her father and master Finch.
“About four miles now, nigh enough
for our purpose. Hoist away, Finch.”
“Hoist it is, sir,” answered the old
sailor, as hand over hand he sent the
fluttering blue and white flags, four in
number, to the truck of the signal staff.
“Don't belay, Finch, but hold on till
I watch her, and see if she answers it.”
The merchant then placed the glass
to his eye, and looked for some minutes
closely at the brig, which still stood on
as before.
“I fear she don't see it, your honor.”
“Yes, they lower and raise the three
balls. They have done it twice. It is
enough. Haul down the signals, for I
don't want to keep them flying there
long enough to attract the attention of
the sloop-of-war.”
“There, she hauls her wind, your
honor. She understands what the flags
say, as well as if it was print in a book.
She is going about.”
“Yes, all is as favorable as I could
have wished. Now, Barbara, let us
hasten home. I must change this dinner
costume for a working one, for this
will be a busy night with me.”
“Shall I knock off watch here, sir?”
“Yes. Roll up your flags and come
down to the house, Finch, and I will then
tell you what you are to do, for you are
to be my right-hand man to-night.”
Thus speaking the merchant drew his
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
daughter's arm within his, and let her
from the summit, just as the sloop lowered
her ensign and fired her sunset
gun.
CHAPTER VI.
Notwithstanding the few moments
during which the signals to the Free-Trader
were suffered to fly, they attracted
the notice of the commissioner,
Mr. Riverton, who had accompanied the
officers on board their ship when they
returned after dinner. The signals,
themselves, would not have been observed
by the captain of the sloop but for
the commissioner, who was at the time
walking the deck with him, and speaking
upon the subject of the hostility of
the merchants to the revenue laws. As
they turned in their walk, and just as
Mr. Riverton was giving Captain Petty
a sketch of the character and influence
of Mr. Frankland, and declaring that if
there were offered any open resistance
to the levying of the tribute, this gentleman
would be at the head of it, his
eye caught sight of the signals flying on
the flag-staff.
“There is mischief there, I fear!”
he said, stopping and pointing to the
hill. “Do you see those flags?”
“Yes,” answered the captain, “I
discovered them before you did, a moment
or two since, but supposed they
were merely signals of the brig's approach
into port to her owner.”
“That flag is not the usual signal
for a brig. It is a telegraphic communication.”
“Give me the glass, sir,” said Captain
Petty to his quarter-master. “I
will look at the brig.”
“They mean more than to tell her
owner of her approach,” said the com
missioner, a good deal excited. “What
do you discover, sir?”
“The brig has lowered two black
balls at her main and hoisted them
twice. It is a telegraphic communication
with her, as you say.”
“See! The brig is putting about!
and the signals are also hauled down.
Captain, if you please, let me see who
are upon the hill? This is all very
singular!”
The spy-glass was placed in the commissioner's
hands, which were half hidden
in deep lace ruffles, and he had not
gazed upon the shore but a moment,
before, with a flushed cheek, he turned
to the captain, and said, with animation—
“Would you believe it, sir? One
of those persons is Mr. Frankland, of
whom we were just speaking. His
daughter is with him, I think. He has
had those signals set for the brig, which
is his own; for I was yesterday looking
carefully over the records of the vessels,
and noting their private signals, and I
remember that two black balls was that
of the Free-Trader, one of Mr. Frankland's
brigs.”
“What can be the object in telegraphing
her?” asked the captain, as
he kept the spy-glass to bear upon the
female figure, which had been discovered
on the height.
“Perhaps to keep away, as you see
she has done. In my opinion, sir, he
intends that she shall land her cargo on
some uninhabited part of the shore of the
bay, and have it carted up to town by
night, thus evading the duties.”
“Then I will defeat him,” answered
the captain, with a smile; “this little
eight-gun schooner has arrived in port
just in time. I will despatch her out
after the brig as soon as the sun goes
down, so that the brig may not see her
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
movements; and if she attempts to land
her cargo to-night, we will pounce upon
them in the very business. How would
you like to go down in the Gaspee?”
“Is it the Gaspee schooner now
coming up so gallantly? I have heard
a good deal of her exploits.”
“Yes, it is the brave little Gaspee!
I asked the admiral to let me have her
as a sort of tender, for shoal water affairs,
and running up the bay and into
the creeks. She has arrived just in
time to do good service. Yes, the brig
has fairly turned her stern towards us,
and is running close-hauled down the
bay.”
“It is, you may be assured, captain, a
plan for stealing her cargo ashore,”
said Mr. Riverton. “If the merchants
are going to be so sharp in their wits,
we must sharpen ours to keep up with
them. I will go down in the schooner,
for it is my place to be on the spot
when the brig is boarded. I shall be a
happy man to defeat Mr. Frankland in
his patriotic purposes of evading the
duties,” said the commissioner, rubbing
his palms together and chuckling at
the prospect of making a seizure of the
brig and cargo. “After he loses one
richly laden bark, he will be more willing
to submit to the crown's just laws.”
The schooner now came so near as
to commence saluting the Bexley, and
as she passed under her stern, Captain
Petty hailed her, and ordered the lieutenant
in command to run in and anchor
with a short cable, and then come
on board of him.
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded the officer,
touching his blue cap; and Mr.
Riverton admired how gracefully the
little cruiser glided onward towards the
town, like a bird on the wing.
“Bless me, captain, what a beautiful
object a vessel is, particularly a vessel
of war! In my opinion, a ship under
sail is the finest sight in the world.
This Gaspee is a saucy looking rogue
and shows her teeth as savage as a bulldog.
She will do us good service in
the bay, especially in cruising above;
for it is my opinion that more than one
foreign vessel will discharge outside
into some Providence trading sloop,
and so the sloop would run up with
a rich cargo to that town, and I might
whistle for her to stop and pay duties.”
“I swear every craft that goes up the
bay shall be boarded and strictly overhauled,”
answered the captain.
“That is right, sir. I see you resolve
to make thorough work of the
matter, sir, and we are fortunate in
having so efficient an officer in the service
sent to this station.” And the
commissioner bowed politely, and the
captain slightly acknowledged the compliment
with a nod. Mr. Riverton was
about to make some other remark, when
the ensign came floating down about
his head, and his ears were stunned by
the loud discharge of an eighteen-pounder
within ten feet of him.
“Bless me! what is that? Really,
captain, one must screw up his nerves
on ship-board.”
“It was the sunset-gun, sir,” observed
the captain, quietly, while he smiled at
the start which it had given the precise
and uninitiated commissioner.
The captain now invited his guest
below to take coffee, and wait for the
lieutenant of the Gaspee to come on
board and receive his instructions; and
while the commissioner is penning at
the table a brief note to his deputy to
be sent on shore, we will go forward to
another part of the vessel, and on the
gun-deck, where a young man is seated,
his hands and feet manacled. He
was alone—and through the open port
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
gazing upon the town and the green
shores, with an expression of mingled
pleasure and pain.
“So, my lad,” said the boatswain,
coming along past him, “you thought
you would get ashore here, while we
were anchored in the harbor; but it is no
go! Ten pound of iron ain't the best
thing to swim with. You missed
stays that time, my lad. You ought to
consider yourself lucky you did n't
get my cat with thirty-nine on your
back!”
The young man merely smiled, and
looked out of the port as before. But
there was a compression of the mouth
and a fire in his eye that showed a spirit
that even chains had not cowed or
broken. The boatswain passed on,
muttering—
“He is a brave fellow, and I am glad
I had n't orders given me to tie him
up for it!”
He was again alone, for the crew
were seated in messes between the guns
at supper, heedless of him. In a few
moments, a youthful officer, in a blue
cap, with a gold band around it, and a
sword at his side, came near him, and
after regarding him a moment, said, in
tones of mingled reproach and sorrow.
“I grieve to see you in this condition,
Martin; I am sorry you did not preserve
more caution, if you intended to
escape from the ship. If you had delayed
till to-night, and dropped overboard
under cover of the darkness, you
might have got your liberty.”
“I could not delay, Mr. Althorp, in
the very sight of my mother's roof. I
even beheld her, or fancied I did. You
would have done what I did, sir, if you
had been four years and a half torn
away from your home as I have been,”
added the young man, between grief
and indignation, his fine features flushed
with deep emotion. “I see now, sir,
that it would have been wiser for me to
have waited a better season; but who
can blame me, sir? It was with difficulty
I could repress my emotions, as
we came to anchor, and I beheld before
me the dear scenes which, for nearly
five years, have been in my thoughts by
day and in my dreams by night. It is
hard, sir, that I should wear these
chains,” he said, rising and standing up
to the full height of his manly form,
and clanking his bands as he spoke of
them; “it is hard that I should wear
these for loving my country and my
home!'
“It is, indeed, Martin,” answered the
young officer, with feeling. “And if I can
help you,” he added, in a lower tone of
voice, and looking round to see that he
was not overheard, “you shall not wear
them longer than the middle watch!”
“Indeed, sir! Are you then still
my friend?” exclaimed the young seaman,
with surprise and pleasure.
“Yes, Martin; do you suppose I can
ever forget your gallantry in springing
into the water to save me from the shark;
as I was bathing at Port Praya; killing
him with your own knife in the water!
No, no: I owe my life to you, and I
will try to return you some part of the
debt of gratitude I owe you! If you
wish to escape to-night, I will aid you!”
“I wish to escape, sir, God knows!”
answered the young-man, earnestly:
“for my heart yearns once more to embrace
my mother, if, indeed, she still
lives! But, sir,” and he hesitated, and
then said, “but, sir, I do not wish to
implicate you in my escape. Rather
than you should suffer, I would prefer
to stay where I am, and trust to the
clemency of the captain to let me go
free!”
“He will not release you while the
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
ship is in port, for fear you will escape
on shore; and you are, he says, too
good a seaman for him to lose you.—
You have no hope then, Martin. You
must, therefore, let me aid you! Do
not fear any evil to me, for I trust we
shall manage the matter so secretly,
that it will be known only to you and I;
will you consent?”
“Consent, sir! who would refuse
liberty?” answered the young man,
grasping his hand. “Heaven bless
you, Mr. Althorp! I did not know I
had a friend in all this ship!”
“You have many, Martin; but they
fear to express their sympathy with you
There is not a sailor of your mess, who
would not rejoice in your escape!”
“Well, sir, I will do whatever you
say,” answered the young man. “I
only do not wish to have you censured.”
“Think not of me, my brave Martin.
Now let me tell you that I have arranged
everything before I came to you
I have succeeded in secretly obtaining
the key to your irons; and after it is
dark abroad, and just as the bells, at
the close of the dog-watch, are striking,
I will be here. Here is the key; and
take advantage of the noise made in
piping hammocks down, to unlock your
irons; but keep them on till I come to
you.”
“How can I thank you, sir!”
“You have already repaid me. I feel
that you are, like all the impressed colonists,
unjustly detained in the service;
and it is a pity, after being so long absent
and in sight of your native town,
you cannot reach it.”
“I ought not to have told so freely
among the men my joy that the Bexley
was coming here to Newport, and mentioned
to the purser's clerk, whom I
thought my well-wisher, that I should,
if I could, quit the ship here. I have no
doubt, sir, it was he who betrayed me.”
“It was, Martin. As the captain's
gig was ordered along side to take him
off to the commissioner's to dine, the
clerk asked the captain, in my hearing,
if he knew that this was your native
town? And hinted that he had understood
you would try to escape.”
“And it was this, then, that led the
captain to order another coxswain to
take my place, when I had already seated
myself in the stern-sheets?” asked
Martin, indignantly.
“Yes; and at the same time, he
hurried to give orders to the boatswain
to bring a pair of irons, when you sprang
overboard, and began to swim for the
shore!”
“I felt, sir, that I should rather be
shot in the attempt, than not make it!”
“I understand your feelings perfectly,
Martin. But here comes a light!
I must go! Now, keep quiet until
eight o'clock!”
CHAPTER VII.
The conversation which had been
carried on between the young officer
and the chained seaman, had been broken
off by the approach of one of the
lieutenants, who was showing the ship
to the commissioner, and also the men
at their suppers. The two young men
had not been overheard, and the obscurity
of the hour, and the part of the
deck, where Martin was chained to a
gun-carriage, shielded them from observation
as they talked; but when the
lieutenant appeared, preceded by a
messenger-boy bearing a lantern, the
youthful midshipman who interested
himself so deeply in favor of the young
colonist left him, adding to his last
words, and speaking in a stern tone,
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
“You will not escape so easily the
next time, my lad! If I had been
captain, I would have given you thirty-nine
with the boatswain's cat.”
“Ah, Althorp, who is it you are verating
in that style, hey?” asked the
lieutenant, coming up.
“The coxswain of the captain's gig,
sir, who wanted to escape ashore and is
now doing penance in irons.”
“Who is he? What is he?” asked
the commissioner who, having rarely
visited a ship-of-war, was full of curiosity
to see and know everything that
was going on; and for this purpose had
asked to be shown about the decks.
“A young colonist seaman, sir,” answered
the lieutenant, in an indifferent
tone; “it seems he wanted his liberty
before we chose to give it to him, and
he is now ironed by way of contrast.”
“Why, he seems to bear himself
bravely,” remarked the commissioner,
looking closely through his glasses at
the young man, as he stood folding his
chains up in his arms and silently and
scornfully regarding him, for he felt indignant
at being gazed upon, as if he
had been a wild beast.
“Yes, these colonists are the most
intractable of all our sailors. It is as
difficult to tame them into submission
as one of their own Indian chiefs.—
They are good sailors, and as brave as
lions in battle; but there is no doing
anything with them without the severest
discipline.”
“They have some of the spirit of the
people ashore,” answered the commissioner.
“He is a fine looking young
man; and it is a pity,” he added, addressing
the chained sailor, “that you
cannot serve your king and country
more submissively.”
“My country is served best by my
resistance,” answered Martin, proudly.
“I am a free-born American, and no
British slave to kiss the hand that smites
me. Yet they would have made me a
slave, and stole me from my childhood's
home! And dost thou, grey haired
old man, dost thou ask me to be more
submissive?”
“Bless me! what a spirit!” exclaimed
the commissioner; “let us pass on,
sir, for there is mischief in his eye.—
He might make a spring upon one and
do damage with those heavy chains.”
“Go, old man, I will not harm thee,
though thou hast cause for fear; for if
I guess rightly, thou art a sycophant to
the crown and a traitor to thy country.”
“Silence!” cried the lieutenant,
sternly. “Thou givest too much license
to thy speech. I will teach thee
that the tongue may be chained as well
as the limbs. “He is an extraordinary
young man,” added the officer, as he
continued on with Mr. Riverton; “he
is intelligent, well-read, skilful in all
his duties beyond other seamen, and
full of courage. Every man likes him,
save some few who envy him. It is a
pity to have to put him in irons. But
he is the coxswain of the captain's gig,
and it was his intention to have escaped
when she reached the town; but his
purpose was discovered in time; when
he sprang overboard and would have
swam ashore. He was picked up,
brought on board and ironed here as
you have just seen him. As soon as
we leave the port we shall let him have
his liberty again; but it would be unsafe
while in this anchorage, for I learn
that he was impressed from this town
some years ago in the Thetis frigate.”
“Ah, I remember when she was
here; I had the honor of dining on
board of her; and also of attending a
brilliant ball given by Captain Montague.
She pressed several of the
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
young farmers about, I was told, and
some of the poor towns-folk's younger
ones. The king is very fortunate in
having such extensive colonies to supply
his navy from.”
“Yes; they are the best sailors, as I
have said, that we have, after we get
them broke in.”
“Sir, the lieutenant of the Gaspee is
just come on board,” said the captain's
liveried servant to Mr. Riverton, “and
Captain Petty would be happy to see
you in his cabin.”
“True, I will go to him at once.—
Brave doings we shall have to-night,
Mister Lieutenant,” said the commissioner,
rubbing his hands together as he
always did when very much pleased
with matters and things.
“The Gaspee I hear is going down
after a brig that put back after coming
nearly up to town.”
“Yes, and we shall seize her—not
the least doubt of it. I shall feel myself
honored in being so lucky as to
make the first seizure under the law.”
“Is there any probability, sir?” asked
the lieutenant, as they mounted the
steps to the upper-deck and walked aft
along the gun deck. “Is there the
least probability that the citizens will
assist the merchants in opposing the duties?”
“The towns' people are very much
excited at the sight of the sloop-of-war
here, but its presence will keep down
their courage. But I should really
have trembled for the consequences to
myself if I had gone on board a vessel
to levy the duties, without such support
as I now have in the presence of an
armed vessel.”
“Well, we shall be ready for any opposition
they may choose to show,” answered
the officer, as they reached the
door which led into the captain's cab
in, where he bowed and took his leave.
The commissioner was ushered in by
the footman, where he found in conversation
with Captain Petty, Lieutenant
Arling of the Gaspee.
This gentleman was an exceedingly
handsome and accomplished young English
officer, richly dressed, and evidently
displaying the man of fashion so
far as it could be done in the uniform of
the navy. He was tall and nobly formed,
with a fine, piercing eye of dark
grey, the expression of which indicated
a fiery and daring spirit. His mouth,
which was remarkably well shaped,
would have been the best feature in a
face where all was symmetry and manly
beauty, but for a slight muscular
curve at the corners, in which was
stamped as plainly as if written, the
evil passions of cruelty and sensuality
The commissioner did not at all like his
looks, although he was struck with the
elegance of his person and not a little
abashed by his fashionable and somewhat
haughty demeanor; for the commander
of the Gaspee was the younger
son of a nobleman.
“Here is the Newport commissioner,
Mr. Riverton,” said Captain Petty, who,
be it said in passing, was a baronet,
with the title of Sir William, as the
citizen entered the cabin. “This is
the commander of the Gaspee, Lieutenant
Arling.”
“Ah, Mr. Commissioner, I am glad
to meet you,” said the lieutenant, looking
at him over his shoulder, but without
rising or extending his hand; for in the
opinions of all true-blooded Englishmen
colonists, although they might be tories
and staunch king's men, and ministry
men, were plebeians. I hear from Captain
Petty, that you suspect the brig
that was a couple of leagues astern of
me, belongs to a Newport merchant,
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
and has run down the coast to land her
dutiable freight by night.”
“Yes, sir, that is my conviction.”
“And you desire to go in the Gasper
I believe, for Sir William Petty has ordered
me to look after the brig.”
“I think my office requires my presence,
sir, and should prefer being on
the spot.”
“Very well, Mr. Rivers—”
“Riverton, sir,” corrected the commissioner,
who less and less liked the
young commander of the Gaspee.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Rivington”—
“Riv—”
“Are you ready to go on board?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the commissioner,
contrasting the well-bred courtesy
of Sir William, with the rude hauteur
of the honorable lieutenant. “Do
you think you will be able to get back
to-morrow?”
“Yes, if we get through our affair
and the wind favors,” answered the lieutenant,
rising. “Well, Sir William, I
will go on board; and if the brig runs
you, give me permission to fire into her
and treat her as an enemy?”
“Yes, but let the two first guns be
blank and five minutes between each.”
“I obey, sir; but you give too much
grace to these Yankee colonists.”
“We must recollect that they are
the king's subjects as well as we, and
are not therefore to be treated as enemies
that we are at war with.”
“If there are not some examples
made of these stubborn people, they will
get so ere long as to declare war against
the crown,” answered the lieutenant, as
he went out with the captain to the
quarter-deck.
His boat was already under the entering-post,
and after receiving one or
two words of caution from the captain
as to his management of the enterprise,
the lieutenant went over the side
and got into his boat, followed by
the commissioner; who, although he
did not well like the distance at which
Mr. Arling kept himself, was still so
earnest in the desire to be wanting in
nothing as a commissioner of revenues,
that he resolved still to accompany
him down the bay in pursuit of the
brig.
“Let fall,” cried the coxswain as his
officer seated himself. “Give way,”
was the next brief command, and the
boat left the ship's side and in five
minutes more was along side the
schooner.
By this time it was deep twilight,
the stars struggling with the glowing
west to rule the night. Mr. Arling, upon
reaching his deck, gave orders to
weigh the anchor, and loose the topsail,
jib and mainsail.
“Let there be no noise of singing
out about it, Mr. Carroll,” he said, to
the passed midshipman, who was first
officer. “I wish to slide away from
the anchorage quietly. The brig which
came up astern of us is supposed to be
inclined to drop her cargo on the
coast; for she turned back as soon as
she saw the sloop-of-war.”
“She was telegraphed, sir! Telegraphed
and warned by her owners, I
saw it done,” chimed in the commissioner,
very earnestly; for he wished to
have all the merit of the affair that was
on the carpet, that he could safely lay
claim to; for next to his gratification
at having been honored with a commission
from the crown, was his determination
that the king should see that he
was worthy of the trust reposed in him.
He seemed instinctively to appreciate
his unfitness, by talents or information
for the office, and, therefore, felt proportionably
grateful for an appointment
which he never dreamed of receiving,
and for which he had no other
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
recommendation than his blind and fawning
toryism. His desire, therefore to make
himself acceptable to the high powers
in his new position, led him to volunteer
to go in the schooner, and to overcome
his nervous antipathy to guns and
gun-powder. His zeal, in one word,
over-topped his cowardice.
The schooner was in a few minutes
under her canvass, and with the wind
as it was, able to lay her course, close
hauled down the bay.
Just as she began to move away
from her anchorage, a small boat pulled
out of a little cove not far below the
hut of mad Margaret, and hugging the
shore, moved rapidly down with the
ebb tide. It contained three persons,
two of whom rowed while the third sat
in the stern and steered her with a
third oar. This was the resolute merchant,
Paul Frankland. One of the
oarsman was mate Finch, and the other
a negro servant belonging to the merchant.
“We shall have to pull for an hour
before we shall begin to think of seeing
the brig,” said Mr. Frankland, as he
glanced along the surface of the water
with his head bent low, and his eyes
brought nearly to a level with it.—
“Pull strong and steadily and not lose
breath by too rapid work. We have a
hard night before us.”
“The brig, your honor, ought to be
coming back towards the harbor by this
time,” remarked the mate, looking up
at the stars and then round upon the
dark shores, past which they were gliding.
“The sun has been gone down
full half an hour. But what is that
moving a-beam? Upon my soul, your
honor, there is the schooner that got in
to-day, standing out again under all
sail.”
“Are you sure it is the same?” asked
the merchant, quickly.
“Sure?” answered Finch, very positively.
“I can see between her masts,
and know her rake. This means som'at,
your honor.”
“Yes, and means that she is after
the Free-Trader,” responded the merchant,
fixing his eyes steadily upon the
indistinct form of the armed schooner
as it passed down the bay, about a
quarter of a mile distant.
CHAPTER VIII.
The boat which contained the merchant
rowed on, close under the shore,
keeping in the obscurity of its shadow
to escape the observation of any sharp
eyes on the deck of the schooner, while
the latter favored by the wind and tide,
passed rapidly by it and soon presented
to them her stern lights. She was going
about five miles an hour, while the
boat rowed four, or a little over.
“There is no doubt that this movement
of the schooner's is owing to the
brig's putting back,” said Mr. Frankland,
after sometime, watching the
vessel as it receded before him.
“I hope, your honor, they won't be
so lucky as to fall in with her and stop
her,” answered the mate, as he bent
his strong frame to the light oar.—
“Row hard, Pompey! Get the oil in
your elbows warm, and loosen your
stiff joints. Throw your head and
shoulders forward, and spring to it.”
“Me do 'em bess, massa Finch. Me
breakee him oar, me pull harder,” responded
the negro.
“Let 'em break. You have only to
'bey orders if you break owners, to say
nothin' of oars.”
“Yiss, massa,” responded the sable
oarsman, as he threw his weight upon
the oar, and nearly bent it into a bow,
with renewed muscular exertion.
“Your eyes are more used to seeing
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
objects on the water than mine, master
Finch,” observed Mr. Frankland.
“Yes, I dare say, your honor. I can
see at night without spectacles.”
“Look over your shoulder occasionally
and scan the water below us, for
we may be able to make out the brig.—
It is now an hour and a half since the
sun went down, and if she put back at
dark she ought to be pretty well up the
bay by this time.”
“Yes, your honor. When she tacked
she was about five miles out. She
probably ran out about five miles more,
before she put about to run in again;
that would give her, at this six knot
breeze runnin' before it, about an hour
and a half, to get in as far as Indian
Rock.”
“In that case we ought to see her
very soon, for the Rock is not more
than half a mile below us. I fear some
difficulty will occur if the schooner falls
in with her. Yet I do not see how she
can help it. The channel is so narrow
and the stars give light enough for one
vessel to see another a mile off. The
Gaspee must be full half a mile ahead of
us, and yet we can still see her very
distinctly.”
“Is that the Gaspee schooner, sir?”
asked the mate, quickly.
“Yes, so I learned just before I left
the town.”
“Then her captain is wide awake.—
She is a regular hard 'un to cruise.—
Her leftenant is a lord's son, and dressed
as rich as if he was just going to a
tea-party, but he's a real fighter.—
There's no back out to him and no
flinch. His men, as was with him off
Halifax, says he's a hard hand with his
crew; and what's more, they say he
hates the colonists as bad as he does
the French, which, your honor knows,
every Englishman is bound to hate.”
But the merchant did not heed his
words, his attention being closely fixed
upon some object down the bay. He
took off his chapeau and bent his head
down over the gunwale, within a few
inches of the surface of the water, and
examined the horizon with the minutest
inspection.
“What does your honor see?”
“I thought I saw the vessel just in
range with the Indian Rock; but I
must have been deceived.”
“It might have been the Gaspy,” answered
the mate, looking round.
“No, I see the Gaspee to the right,
standing down as before. The brig I
thought that I discovered, close in with
the Head; but I see nothing now.”
“Perhaps, your honor, she has seen
the schooner and has run in under the
rock to anchor; for it was where you
telegraphed her to wait for you to
board her.”
“But if she has discovered the Gaspee,
the latter ought to have seen her
also.”
“Pr'aps they wasn't expecting to fall
in with her so near port, seeing her
stand out to sea afore dark, and so they
han't been on the watch for her.”
“Look! There is a flash! She has
fired!” cried Mr. Frankland, as the
sharp report of a twelve-pounder reached
his ears from the Gaspee, which at
the same moment was displayed in the
light of day by the illumination. The
light of the gun also showed the merchant
the Indian Head Rock, with the
mast and mainsail of a vessel just disappearing
behind it. All was the next
moment dark.
“They have seen the brig, your honor!”
“Yes. I saw her just passing the
Head, and I was not deceived at first.
The schooner has fired to bring her to.
-- --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
I hope they will not obey,” he said,
standing up in his boat, much excited.
“And well she might fire to make
her come to, your honor for the Gaspy
has kept so far to the westward that she
has placed the channel shoal between
her and the brig; and though it a'nt
more nor a mile across, she'll have to
run down three miles or come back two
before she can get round it to reach
her. This shows why she fited as soon
as she saw her standing up to'ards the
Head; and it shows also they didn't
expect to fall in with the brig till they
got at least as far down as where the
channel shoal ends.”
“You are right, Finch. You must
be right.”
“I knows I am, your honor. I
know every fathom of the channel as
well as I know the way to my own locker.
The Gaspee's takin' the west
channel down, has saved the brig, if
that was the brig we saw.”
“I am sure it was, though I could
see only her main-mast as she went in
under the curve of the shore below the
Rock. I trust, if it is as you say, that
the schooner can't get at her without
going down the bay a league, and then
coming up this side of the shoal, that
the Free-Trader won't heed a few shots,
but stand on.”
“Cap'n Benbow is not a man to fear
on, your honor.”
“I know his courage well. He must
be aware from my telegraphic communication,
ordering him off till night,
that something is in the wind, as you
would say, Finch. But he will be surprised
at being fired into by a strange
vessel in this way. Pull on fast. Let
us lose no time, and once on board the
brig I shall know how to proceed.—
Give way, strong.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the mate,
and the two oarsmen sent the little boat
along at a rate that ploughed up the
foam ahead of her and tossed the spray
over the merchant. But he heeded it
not, nor cared for the wetting of his
powdered curls; but standing up in the
boat with his eyes keenly watching the
schooner, which it was evident had
hove to, he urged them to their task.
“There again,” he suddenly cried,
as the Gaspee's bow-port once more
shot out a column of flame that illumined
the horizon for a mile around her,
showing the dark line of the shore, and
the bold bluff of Indian Rock in dark
relief. The next instant all was pitchy
darkness from the contrast with the previous
brilliancy.
“The brig was not visible, Finch,”
said the merchant, with animation.
“She was hid by the rock, your honor;
no doubt she is coming round in the
curve where the channel runs, and will
soon show her nose coming out beyond
the head; for you know the channel
takes a bend in there for half a milecurve,
so that from where we are a vessel
would be invisible till she came out
again.”
“She won't come out; but anchor
there as I telegraphed her to do; yet
this firing may either drive her back to
sea, or lead Captain Benbo to try to
run up to Newport without heeding my
signal.”
“There is one thing sartain, your
honor, and that is that the Gaspy had
her fore-topsail a-back when she fired
that last gun. That means something.”
“That she intends to fire upon the
brig, and cripple her till she will come
to.”
“It may be so; but I'm rather thinking,
sir, she has laid to to send her
boats out to board the brig. For as
she can't get across the shore to her,
and as she'd have to go too far round to
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
catch her, she'll just send her boats
across and take possession of her.”
“If that is her purpose, she shall be
defeated if human power can do it,”
exclaimed the merchant. A rocket
was now sent up by the schooner which
showed her boats just putting off.—
“Lose not a foot's way, but row for
life and death. Pompey, a sovereign
shall be your reward if we reach the
brig before the Gaspee's boat. Master
Finch, all depends now upon your exertions.
Put me on board the Free-Trader
and an ounce of gold shall be
yours.”
Mr. Frankland had caught a glimpse
by the light of the rocket, as it expanded
high in the air, of the brig just emerging
from the headland, behind which
she had been hidden by the curve in
the shore, for the last ten minutes. He
saw that she was crowding on all sail,
and evidently resolved to reach her port
in spite of the firing directed upon her.
The merchant was calm and self-possessed,
but his sparkling glance showed
the stern resolution of his spirit. The
distance of the boat from the brig was
less than that of the schooner, and he
felt that he should reach it first, especially
as the Free-Trader was each moment
coming nearer and lessening the
space that the mate and Pompey had to
row over.
“We are like to have a warm affair,
your honor,” quietly remarked Finch,
as he dipped his oar deeply and strong.
“I trust not. They have no right to
fire into a colonial vessel; and less to
board her. Their boats shall be resisted!”
“And that will not be done without
some fighting, your honor; and that's
what I love. I ha'n't had a hand in
any affair this four years, since we beat
off them Spanish pirates in the Indies,
where I got that bullet in my leg, that
never'll let me stand watch in bad weather,
without giving me the rheumatis';
otherwise, you wouldn't see me doing
so much shore duty.”
“Look along the water! Do you
see the boats?” asked the merchant.
“I see something beaming this way,
about three points off my starboard rolock.”
“That is what I see. It must be the
boats; if so, we shall keep the lead of
them. The brig is coming nearer and
nearer. I can already distinguish her
head sails.”
“She an't more nor a quarter of a
mile, your honor. Captain Benbow is
determined to run in. We'll soon be
aboard on her, your honor.”
Captain Benbow, so frequently mentioned,
was standing on the deck of his
brig, with a spy-glass in his hand, with
which he was intently watching the
schooner.
“I should like to know what the fellow
means?” he said, in a tone of anger
and obstinacy. “If it is a king's
vessel, why don't he show his signal,
and not fire into me in this fashion;
and now sending his boats to board me,
as if I was a pirate, or he was one. Can
you understand this, Mr. Coffin?” he
asked of his mate, who had just reported
that he had obeyed his last order, and
set the fore-topmast studding-sail.
“I can't tell, sir; unless it is that the
revenue laws that was talked so much
about three months ago, are now the
law o' the land, and this a king's revenue
cruiser, wanting to overhaul us to
see what we've got aboard as pays duties.”
“That is what struck me when I
saw the telegraph signal, ordering me
out till night-fall, and then to run in
and anchor on Indian Head here. But
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
I can't stop now; I must run for it;
for while I command this brig, no man
shall bring me to, without showing better
reason than iron balls! Keep a
sharp look-out for the boats, and have
the pistols and boarding-pikes all ready;
for, by the beard of the Pope, I will not
let any man come on board till he shows
his authority, and—I approve of it!”
“He seems to have done firing, sir,”
remarked the mate. “That second gun
like to have done us a mischief.”
“If it is a king's schooner, all the
mischief they had done should have been
paid back to the owners from the king's
coffers, or there would have been a fuss
among the colonies! Is all her canvass
on that will draw, Mr. Coffin?”
“Yes, sir. She is going full six knots
by the log! Do you see the schooner's
boats?”
“No, hardly. I wish they'd be kind
enough to send up another rocket, and
let me have a glimpse at them and their
numbers. In my opinion, it is a regular
revenue cruiser, and the law is down
upon all owners ashore; and I have no
right to let 'em take possession of the
brig, without Mr. Frankland's leave.—
He gave me command of her, and I'll
keep her and her cargo for him, or die
on her deck! There is my mind, Mr.
Coffin!”
“And I and the men will stand up to
you, sir!”
“I know they would!—”
“Boat dead ahead, sir!” called the
look-out on the bows.
“How many?” cried the captain, as
the mate sprang forward.
“But one, sir!”
“Brig, ahoy”' came loudly on the
water in the stern tones of Mate Finch's
boatswain-like voice.
“Ahoy!” responded the mate, ri
valing his hail in the deep base of its
note.
“Is that the Free-Trader?”
“Aye, aye!”
“Fling us a rope. Here is Mr.
Frankland, the owner, wants to board
ye!” responded the mate, as the boat
shot past the brig's bows.
CHAPTER IX.
Captain Benbow, who, at the report
of a boat ahead, had seized his pistols,
supposing it to be one of those he had
seen put off from the schooner, determined
to resist, at the head of his men
any attempt to board him in a hostile
manner. But no sooner did he recognise
the well-known voice of Finch,
than he replaced his pistols upon the
capstan, and said, joyfully—
“Here is the owner, thank Heaven!
Now I shall be released from the responsibility.
Stand by and catch the
boat and not let it drift past!” he called,
in a loud and eager voice, at the same
time springing to the gang-way.
The mate of the brig was already
there with the slack of the fore-topsail
brace, which he dexterously cast into
the boat as it came abreast of the forechains.
Finch, dropping his oar as
dexterously, caught it and took a turn
round the centre thwart, and holding it
for a moment till the boat came round,
then firmly secured it. Mr. Frankland
was the next moment assisted to the
deck, by the hand of the captain, who
gladly welcomed him.
“Shall I drop the boat astern, sir, to
tow,” asked the mate of the merchant.
“Yes, Mr. Coffin. I shall remain in
the brig till I see her safe in port!”
“Mr. Frankland, you have come on
board in good time, and welcome,”
said Captain Benbow, shaking the
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
merchant heartily by the hand. “I have
been the last ten minutes wishing to see
you, for I hardly knew how to act; for
I have been twice fired into without any
ceremony, by a schooner about a mile
here to windward, and now she is sending
a couple of boats to board me, I
fancy; for I saw them put off from her
ten minutes ago. Can you tell me what
it means? Your signal on shore, which
I obeyed, leads me to think there is
something in the wind; but deuce take
me, if I know what it is. I would have
anchored below here, near the Indian
Head, but for the guns this chap gave
me; for I had given the orders to clear
away the best-bower to anchor, when
his shot came whizzing over my mainyard,
which was the first intimation I
had of having such a warlike neighbor.
Can you tell me why you telegraphed
me, and what this schooner means?”
“It is the Gaspee revenue cruiser,
Captain Benbow. She has just left
Newport, no doubt, for the purpose of
intercepting you; for you were seen to
put back down the bay. I have news
to tell you; there is a sloop-of-war in
Newport, and there to enforce the new
revenue duties.”
“Then they are imposed, are they?”
exclaimed the captain. “The mate
guessed so; but I couldn't believe the
ministry, foolish as they are, could have
been so mad as to try to enforce these
laws. It is the worst thing they could
have done to make us hate old England
from big to little. How long is it since
they began to put the duties on?”
“But six days. No vessel has arrived
since the commissioners were put
in office, save the sloop of-war and Gaspee
schooner. You are the first merchantman;
and the Free-Trader shall
be first to try the new law. I am
glad you were so fortunate as to discov
er and make out my telegraphing; as if
you had come up much farther you
would have got under the Bixley's guns,
and would have had to keep on. But I
did not expect that you would be so
soon followed down the bay by the
cruiser. You have done right to stand
on and not anchor.”
“I thought you would bear me out
in it, Mr. Frankland, though I always
like to obey orders to the letter; but I
saw there was mischief, and so resolved
to push on for the port. Look sharp
there to the windward. I thought I
heard the noise of an oar rattling in a
row-lock. Do you see anything of the
boats, Mr. Coffin?” he asked of the
mate, who had gone into the fore-top
with the spy-glass.
“I can see them now, sir,” he answered,
in an eager tone. They are
just for'ard o' the beam, sir, and not
two cables length off.”
“I see 'em,” answered the captain
in a resolute tone.
“Which way, Captain?” asked Mr.
Frankland. “Oh, I have them, now!”
“And hear them, too. Call all the
men to to weather gang-way and give
them their pikes and pistols!” cried the
captain. “You mean we shall resist
them, Mr. Frankland?”
“Yes, if they attempt to come on
board with violence, or there should be
a king's Commissioner with them, for I
learnt just as I was leaving my home
that Mr. Riverton, the chief officer of the
revenue had gone on board the Bexley.
In that case he may have come down in
the schooner and be in the boats, for he
is very officious in his new office. If
we let a commissioner touch the deck,
the duties are the king's from that moment.
My purpose is not to let one of
them on board till the cargo is safely
out.”
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“But if there is no commissioner
in the boats, shall I let them come
alongside?” asked the stout captain, as
he grasped his trumpet and leaped into
the main rigging ready to hail.
“We can't very well get possession
of the brig again, and they will keep
her till they put a custom-house officer
on board, so I think we had best, in order
to secure the cargo, to refuse to let
the boats come alongside.”
“As we are running now at full six
knot, if the boats were a little further
off, we should drop them astern; as it
is, they will just about meet us.”
“They come on very fast,” remarked
the merchant. “Can you tell if there
are many men in them?”
“They seem to be crowded. Luff a
little, helmsman! Mr. Frankland, I
can run over them, I think, if you say
the word.”
“No, that won't do. Let there be
no loss of life, if possible.”
“Steady as you are! Now I will
hail.”
But he had not got the mouth of the
trumpet to his lips before was heard the
deep, stern challenge of the officer in
command of the leading boat, which
was now distantly seen fifty yards off,
black with men, and pulling swiftly
towards the brig.
“Ho, the brig.”
“Aye, aye,” responded Captain Benbow.
Stand by, Mr. Coffin, and have
the men already to repel boarders; and
if the boat gets under the gang-way cut
away the lashings of the spar. But
wait for my orders first.”
“Why don't you heave to, you infernal
Yankee skipper. Back your top-sails
and let me come alongside.”
“I don't choose to heave to for every
thing that I meet,” responded Captain
Benbow. “What have you been firing
at me for without provocation?”
“Give way, men,” shouted the officer,
in a voice hoarse with rage. “Run
them aboard.”
“You had better keep away. You
have not told me who you are? How
do I know but what you are pirates?”
“We are from His Majesty's armed
schooner, Gaspee, that lies to windward,
and I command you, on pain of
being sunk by her guns, to heave to.”
“What do you want with me?”
“That I will let you know. Pull
hard, men. He wants to run past us.
Stand by, boarders, to spring away. We
will teach these confounded Yankees to
resist a king's officer.”
The boats which were now close upon
the brig, and every instant being
thrown sternward by her onward motion;
for the captain still crowded sail
and made a simultaneous dash for the
gang-way. The officers threatened and
encouraged the seamen, and the men
shouted and rose to their feet at every
stroke of their oars, while the two boats
ploughed through the water with a loud
roar of the water about the bows.—
Lieutenant Arling was seen standing up
in the stern of the leading boat waving
his sword, and making gestures of fierce
impatience as the boats rushed onward.
“You had best keep your distance
now,” called out Captain Benbow, in a
stern and decided tone. “It will not
do for you to attempt to board a colonial
merchant vessel as if she was a
Frenchman. We are determined to resist.
I have no wish to kill any of your
men; but as sure as there is a king in
England, I will be the death of some of
you if you touch the gang-way ladder.”
“We had best hold back, and let the
schooner's guns sink her,” said the officer
of the second boat.
“No. Board her!” shouted Arling
in a resolute voice.
“It may not be the Free-Trader,”
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
resumed the other, his words being distinctly
heard on the deck of the brig, as
the boats came up.
“This is the Free-Trader,” answered
Captain Benbow, in a firm voice;
“and you will come along side in a hostile
manner at your peril. I repeat, we
are prepared for you. Stand by to cut
away that spar.”
“Stern, all!” cried Arling, alarmed
at the firm voice of the captain, and in
the darkness unable to see what preparations
had been made for his reception.
He thought it better, therefore,
to use moderation, rather than sacrifice
his men, for whose lives he would have
to answer to his superiors.
“Stern all!” repeated the junior officer,
in command of the other boat, and
their motion was instantly checked,
while not more than thirty feet from the
brig's side.
“Do you mean I shall come on board
without resistance?” now demanded
the officer, with difficulty repressing his
rage, at the decision of the Yankee captain.
“I do not, sir. My brig is in her lawful
trade and sailing on her proper
course. The first thing I have about
my ears is a shot from your schooner
and then another; and because I do
not choose to back my topsail, you send
boats to board me, as if I were a buccanier.
Until I know whether it is
safe to let you come on board, I shall
defend my brig.”
“I wish to put a king's officer o
the customs on board.”
“I can't take him. I know no such
officer, who has any business here.—
Keep away a couple of points, helmsman.
Let us drop these boats astern.
They are too near our gang-way.”
The boats all this while were fast
falling astern, though the men kept dipping
their oars to keep them a-beam.
“You had best let me come on board
in a peaceable manner, Captain Benbow,”
called out Mr. Riverton. “The
law will sustain me and condemn you.
Lieutenant Arling says, if you will let
him put me on board he will draw off
his boats.”
“I would rather be deprived of the
honor of your company, Mr. Riverton,
than take you as passenger even for
the three or four miles up to town.—
Anything else in the world, but this.”
“Your merchant, Mr. Frankland,
would be very much incensed with you
if he knew you refused a king's officer
in this way. He will not bear you out
in this conduct.”
“Then I will bear myself out, good
Mr. Commissioner.”
“Give way, men, all. We are going
astern, while this Yankee traitor is
bandying words with us. Give way!
and board all! Come, my men, the
brig is a king's prize. Hurrah for
prize money.”
“They are coming now in earnest,
Mr. Frankland,” said Captain Benbow;
“if the wind hadn't lulled so, as it has
the last five minutes, we should have
left them a cable's length astern by this
time. They'll come to it now. Shall
we fight?”
“Let them not come on board,” answered
the merchant, quietly.
“That is enough. We are in all,
with the cook, eleven good men. We
ought to be taken and pressed, every
soul of us, if we can't prevent these two
boats' crew from coming a-board.—
Stand by, all, and keep the gang-way.
Cut down or shoot down the first man
that shows his head above the bulwarks!”
The next moment, the leading boat
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
was heard to strike heavily against the
brig's side, while the men in them filled
the air with shouts of
“Ho, for prize money! Down with
the Yankees.”
The resolution of the merchant,
even at this crisis, did not give way.—
He was perfectly calm. He had fortified
his mind with the consciousness
of being the defender of a principle,
the resister of oppression. If it came
to that, he was ready even, to yield his
fortune and life to the cause of the liberty
of the colonies. He felt that unless
brave men resisted the crown, the
colonies would soon become a land of
slaves. To admit the commissioner,
would be to acknowledge his right to
board his vessel; and he firmly determined,
that he would oppose to the
death his crossing the gang-way of his
vessel, and the entrance of those who
came with him.
CHAPTER X.
The lieutenant of the Gaspee, now
loudly cheered on his men to reach the
gang-way, and the better to show them
where to strike the brig, and to enable
him to ascertain what force and defences
the vessel had, he discharged a pistol,
the flash of which revealed the
captain and his crew armed, ready to
oppose him.
“This is likely to prove serious work,
but we must not be out-done by these
colonists in their opposition,” he said,
to the officer in charge of the other
boat.
“Did you see that spar suspended
over the brig's side?” cried the younger
officer. “They mean to cut it away to
fall upon us. I had best board by the
main chains.”
“Any way so that you get on board.
I shall board by the gang-way myself!
Oars! Seize your arms!” he cried, at
the same moment, as the men raised
their oars and dropped them lengthwise
of the boat, as her bow struck the
brig's waist.
The men were on their feet in a moment,
and the lieutenant, leaping forward,
seized the side-rope with one
hand to draw himself up, while he
brandished his cutlass in the other.—
But he had hardly thrown his weight upon
the rope, ere it parted at the top and
he fell over the side into the water. At
the same moment the lashings of the
spare top-mast, which Captain Benbow
had suspended over the side, were cut
by the mate.
The heavy spar fell with all its
weight upon the boat, and striking it
with its end upon the quarter, stove it
so that it immediately filled. The crew,
with cries and execrations, were plunged
into the flood, while the boat sank beneath
them, leaving them to swim for
their lives. Some of them grasped at
the iron supporters beneath the main
chains, and others seized the gunwale of
the other boat, into which Arling had
already been drawn and which had got
a hold upon the shroud with a boat
hook. Others were carried past the
brig which was still moving on under
press of sail, and struck for the shore,
which was but a cable's length distant.
The destruction of his boat in such a
summary manner with his own immersion
filled the breast of the commander
of the Gaspee with fury. He ordered
the men in the boat to board by the
chains and spring forward to lead them
where the boat-hook, which alone kept
the boat by the brig's side, was broken
in the hands of the man who held it, by
the force with which the Free-Trader
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
dragged her through the water with her
additional weight of men hanging upon
her gunwales.
The boat instantly fell astern and the
brig shot ahead of them beyond recovery.
Lieutenant Arling fired two pistols
after her in his furious disappointment,
and as he gave orders to row
shoreward, to land the men that were
clinging to the boat's sides, he swore
that the brig should not be twenty-four
hours longer afloat; and that if he
could lay hands on the captain of her
he should swing for it at the yard-arm
of the Gaspee.
“They have showed a pretty determined
resistance to begin with, against
the revenue law,” said the young officer.
“I hardly thought they would
dare to prevent a king's boat landing.”
“Pull hard, men, and land these
swimmers that are such a dead weight.
We must back on board the Gaspee
without delay. You lads that can swim
cast off and strike for the shore.”
Two of the eight men that were
clinging to the sides of the boat, let go
their hold and swam alone shoreward.
The boat soon after reached water shoal
enough for the rest to strike bottom,
when they were cast off, and the lieutenant,
saying he would send a boat for
them, put about and ordered the oarsmen
to row with all speed to the Gaspee.
This vessel was just visible, about a
mile off, but her position was distinctly
pointed out by a lantern in her rigging,
suspended there as a guide to the boats.
It would be difficult to give a true
picture of the deep, cutting disappointment
which filled the breast of the young
English commander, at being defeated
as he had been, in an attempt to board
an unarmed merchant-brig.
“If it had been,” he muttered, as his
boat bounded swiftly back to his schooner,
“if it had been a buccanier or an
armed vessel it would have been endurable;
but to be beaten off and one of
my boats sunk by a mere trader's crew,
is enough to make me pistol myself;
for I shall never hear the last of it. A
fine report I shall have to make to Captain
Petty, that with two boats and twenty-four
men, I was unable to board the
Yankee brig he sent me to look after.”
“We did all we could do, sir,” remarked
the passed midshipman; “if
Sir William had been in command of
the boats he would have fared precisely
as we have fared. But I cautioned you
against that confounded spar. By the
light of your pistol I saw that it was not
a fender, as you supposed it to be, but
had been hung over the side to be cut
away and fall upon our boats. Yet I
did not believe they would have gone so
far in opposing us.”
“Gone so far. Unless the king has
some score or two of those leading colonists
hanged, they will go so far
by and by, as to shut their ports to the
king's ships, and take the colonies into
their own hands.”
“England could crush them with a
blow,” answered the young man.
“I will crush this infernal Yankee
captain. As soon as I touch the deck
of the schooner I will open my broad-sides
upon him. Give way bravely,
men. Let not the villain get out of
reach of our guns before we can avenge
ourselves. A few strokes more and we
shall be on board. I am glad we lost no
men, or the matter would have been
more serious.”
“All got ashore safely, sir; only
Frost, had his head bruised by the spar
as it came down. The men only saved
themselves by leaping overboard, or others
would have been hurt. The wind
seems to freshen.”
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
“I dare say—to help this brig along;
but I will chase her till I blow her out
of the water; and if she escapes me,
the Bexley 'll finish her.”
“If she knows what the matter is!
But she will hardly know. We can't
telegraph her in the night.”
“Petty will understand that some
thing is on the tapis! and hearing the
firing and seeing the brig, if she is not
sunk by our guns, before she gets up to
the port, he will be sure to board her—if
he can. Nothing would please me so
much as to have him attempt it and be
beaten off as I have been. It would
make me the happiest man in the service.
But they won't be likely to expect
him, for they must be ignorant that
the sloop is up the bay, or they would
hardly keep on so steadily. See how
the fellow crowds sail. He seems to be
afraid of our vengeance.”
“Ho, the boat!” suddenly hailed
the officer of the watch on the deck of
the Gaspee, which they had now got
close aboard of.
“Gaspee!” responded Midshipman
Carrol. “Where is the first cutter,
with the Captain?”
Before any answer was given the
boat was alongside, and Arling sprang
on board.
“Here is the Captain,” he answered
in a bitter tone; “but the first cutter is
in the bottom of the Bay! Send the third
cutter with four oars to the main board
at once, Mr. Carroll, and bring the crew
on board!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“What has happened, sir?” asked
the second lieutenant, who had charge
of the schooner. “I heard pistols discharged
and thought something was
going wrong!”
“Wrong! all went wrong! In a
word, sir, the Yankee resisted us,
cut away a spar, and sunk our boat
alongside with it, and we were worsted,
with half my men in the water. But
they shall be paid! Pipe to quarters!
Fill away and storm up the bay again!
we must chase, and if we can't catch
her, we must sink her!”
All was now excitement on board the
cruiser. The shrill whistle of the
boatswain and the creaking of cordage
and blocks, the noise of guns wheeled
upon their coinings and of shot rolled
across the deck as they were brough
up from below by the powder-boys,
combined with the rapid orders of the
commander, which were echoed by the
other officers, produced a scene of noise
and confusion only to be seen on board
an armed vessel just preparing to engage.
The schooner was soon under sail
again, standing northward on the same
course, steered by the brig, which was
still obscurely seen about a mile and a
quarter, bearing N. N. East. The
third cutter was despatched to the
main, and ordered to pull after the
schooner as soon as the men had
been taken from the shore. Seeing
the Gaspee at length fairly under canvass,
and sailing at the rate of five-and-a-half
knots, Arling gave orders to open
his fire upon the brig, commencing
with the bow gun, and firing aft each
gun in rapid succession.
The loud thunder of his cannon
awoke the echoes of the shores, and
heard at Newport, four or five miles
distant, startled the citizens anew, for
the two guns which he had fired at the
brig an hour before to bring her to, hap
been heard by the towns-people, and
surprised them not a little; for it was
not known that the Gaspee had gone
down after night-fall. This second
cannonading, which Arling kept up for
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
about ten minutes very actively, until
he had discharged four broadsides,
filled them with apprehension and curiosity.
The whole town was alarmed
and agitated, and each one seeking information
of his neighbor touching the
heavy firing in the Bay below.
“Master Kerrick,” said Arling at
length to the quarter-master, who acted
as pilot to the Gaspee, being familiar
with the channel; “are we far below
the deep water at the head of this shoal
that separates me from the brig, which
seems to have charmed spars!”
“About two cable's length, sir, I
should think; but we had best stand up
pretty well before we attempt to stretch
across, as there is a strong ebb tide,
and we might be drifted, as the wind is
light, upon the head of the shoal; and
we should have to lay there till next
tide!”
“Keep a sharp watch, sir, and let me
know just when we head the shoal; for
I am in no humor, with an enemy under
my lee, to run on this course a fathom
farther than I have need to, to double the
shoal, which I heartily wish was in the
bottom of the Red Sea! Keep the lead
going, sir, and be certain!”
“The lead is going, sir; but the shoal
shifts, and sometimes is twenty fathoms
farther up than it is at others!”
“You are the schooner's pilot, and
ought to know your duty, so that you
report when the vessel heads the shoal.”
“I will do it, sir,” answered the master
with a respectful manner; but he
began to grumble as he walked away.
“Mr. Carrol!”
“Sir?”
“I see you have your spy-glass at
your eye. Have our shot done any mischief
to the brig's top-hawser?”
“She seems to carry everything aloft,
sir, as before. But I can't see distinctly,
as she is blended with the shore.”
“She creeps in as far as she can, to
keep out of the way of my guns. But
it won't avail her. Cease firing, there,
forward. Boatswain, wait my orders
again. I am not to be laughed at also
for firing a dozen broad-sides into a yankee
skipper without touching a ropeyarn.
We shall soon head this accursed
shoal at the rate we are moving, and
then we shall have the game in our own
hands. The brig cannot escape us, let
the Gaspee's nose once get pointed round
this sand-bar, for we out-sail her three
to two.”
“Quar-ter-less-five,” sung out the
leads-man from the fore-chains.
“You keep away too much. Luff a
point—we are shoaling!” said the pilot
to the steersman. “We are near the
head of the shoal, sir.”
“Thank Heaven and the saints for
that news!” answered Arling with fierce
joy.
“Six fathoms deep.”
“That is better; are we high enough
up to hall up and strike across?”
“We are just at the head of the shoal,
sir, but we must keep in a cable's length
farther to get deep water enough for leeway.
“Are we ahead of the shoal, sir? I
want a short answer?” demanded Arling
with haughty importance.
“Yes, sir—but—”
“Then brace up and haul aft fore
and main sheets!” shouted Arling in a
voice that rang through the schooner.
CHAPTER XI.
The stern, impetuous orders given by
the commander of the Gaspee, were
obeyed by the officers and men, and the
schooner changing her course from N.
W. by North, braced up and stretched
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
across the bay in a direction N. N. East
directly for the brig.
In vain the pilot warned him that, although
the schooner had headed the
shoal, yet on account of the strong seaward
tide, it would be safer to stand on
a few hundred yards before crowding
after the brig. The impetuosity and
anger of Arling were too great for him
to listen merely to any means of caution.
He saw the channel open and
his enemy as it were within his grasp.
He therefore resolved to risk falling
upon the upper angle of the shoal, for
each moment's delay diminished his
hopes of avenging himself in his own
way upon the daring Free-Trader.—
Nevertheless, he did not wholly intermit
proper care of his vessel, for on her
safe passage across to the eastern channel,
depended his hopes of punishing
the brig. He therefore stood by the
helmsman and carefully watched his
steering, while he kept the lead constantly
going.
“Keep her away a little! More up,
man!” he said repeatedly as the leadman's
cry showed that the water was at
times shoaling.
“Four fathom lar-r-ge!” sung the
helmsman, a moment after reporting six
fathom less quarter.
“Captain Arling,” said the pilot,
very much agitated, “I am no longer
pilot of the schooner, and resign to
you my office.”
“Very well. I will find one who is
not so timid as you are, sir, to take
your place,” responded Arling scornfully.
“Go below, sir, and consider
yourself under arrest.”
“Very well, sir. But first I beg of
you to keep the schooner dead away before
the wind, as she was before, for a
little while, the current just here, sir, is
running like a mill-race, and I —
Hear that, sir!” he cried, as the leads-man
in a clear startling tone proclaimed,
“Three fathoms and half short!”
“I hear it and heed it,” answered
Arling in a tone that sounded as if he
was now satisfied that he placed his vessel
in peril. “All hands to the sheets
and braces! Let everything fly! Hard
a lee! Keep her away dead before the
wind!” he shouted in a voice of thunder.
The schooner began to head off rapidly,
and all was confusion and alarm,
for the cry of the leadsman was now,
“Three fathoms less!”
The schooner drew eleven feet large,
and every man felt that only a miracle
could save her from striking upon the
shoal, the head of which they knew to
be close under their counter.
There was a moment of anxious suspense,
each one pausing to see if the
schooner would counteract the force of
the tide and stand up before the wind,
to which her yards were now squared in
order to force her away from the shoal.
It was a moment of the most painful
solicitude to Arling, for he saw that
if the schooner struck, the brig would
escape the fate he destined for her.—
When the leadsman for the last time
cried out that there was but two fathoms
and a quarter, he saw that the
schooner was fast drifting upon the
shoal, and that nothing could save her.
Yet he was about to order his boats
ahead to aid her by towing, when there
was a shock that nearly threw every
man to the deck, the topsails flapped
against the masts, which bent and
sprung back like rods, and the Gaspee
keeling over on her weather side, remained
stationary. She had struck aft
near the rudder, which was forced a
foot out of its sockets, and swinging
round lay with her beam hard against
the head of the shoals.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
No sooner did Arling find his vessel
had touched the ground, than uttering
a volley of oaths, he dashed his speaking-trumpet
upon the deck, and paced
to and fro like a madman. The
seamen in the meanwhile had been
sent aloft by the second officer, to
furl the two topsails and fore royal,
for the idea of forcing her off was
not harbored for a moment in the
force of so strong a current, and it was
necessary to ease the masts, which in
clined at a sharp angle over the waters,
and there was some danger, as the
schooner was at all times crank, that
she would go over.
“It was your fault, sir, your fault!
I will have you court-martialed! A
pretty pilot!” said Arling furiously to
the master.
“I warned you, sir,” answered the
quarter-master firmly.
“You should have taken me out by
the other channel, sir. Then we should
have met the brig as she came in, and
not have been on this bank, which may
he devils confound! It is your fault.
Here, sir, we shall have to lay till the
next tide, if we get off at all! If you
had known your duty, you would have
taken us out by the same way the brig
came in.”
“I did not expect she would come in,
sir, as we had supposed she run down
he coast of the bay to land her cargo
in the night. And these vessels with a
leading breeze like this, usually come
up by this passage. It is unusual for a
vessel to go up that side of the shoal
after dark.”
“You might have known that a vessel
that wanted to smuggle her cargo
in, would take the most unfrequented
channel.”
“I take no blame upon myself, Lieutenant
Arling; I warned you not to
cross too soon, but give the outward
tide a fair field; and when I found you
would strike across, I resigned my position
as pilot of the vessel.”
“You shall not have the honor of
resigning. You shall be broken, sir.
See what a place we are in, sir; and
yonder brig walking off with plenty of
water under her keel, and her infernal
Yankee captain laughing at us.”
“Lieutenant Arling was right in his
conjecture. Capt. Benbow was laughing
at him, exulting in the accident
which enabled him to escape his pursuer.
With his night-glass he had been
watching her, and when he saw her
brace up to cross ahead of the shoal, he
looked to see her strike upon it every
moment.
“She has braced up too soon, Captain
Benbow,” said Finch, who was
also watching her. “She will hardly
clear the top o' the sand bar on this
course! The pilot o' that craft ought
to go to school!”
The next moment, when they saw
her heel over and become stationary,
the announcement was received by all
on board with a shout of joy, and no
one was more pleased than Mr. Frankland.
“We will escape her now! She
must lie there till the next flood!” said
Captain Benbow to the merchant.
“By that time I think we shall have
the last part of the brig's cargo safely
stored in my store-house. It has been
on exciting evening to us thus far.”
“It is now eight and-a-half o'clock,”
said the captain, stooping down to examine
his watch, which hung in the
lighted binnacle. “We will reach town
in less than half an hour; and then there
will be eight good working hours.”
“With your crew and the crew of
the New Englander, which is at the
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
wharf ready to sail, we can unlade tonight.”
“I fear you will be imprisoned, sir;
and your brig seized as well as your
cargo.”
“Be it so! The news will go on the
wings of the wind from one end of the
colonies to the other, that a free-born
American has been cast into bonds, and
his goods taken, for asserting his birthright,
and resisting the tyranny of the
crown. I shall have the free, fiery
thoughts of thousands of patriots for my
chains, and the rich wealth of their sympathies
instead of my goods. I have resolved
from the beginning that the justice
of this revenue law should be tested.
I have wished it should be; and I, being
the first who receives a laden ship under
it, will not shrink, though I lose ship
and life.”
“If all men thought as you do, sir,”
responded Captain Benbow, “those colonies
would, in five years from now, be
free of the crown, an independent empire
in its own right.”
“The day will come when this thing
will be, my friend,” responded the merchant
with emphasis; “it may not be
while you or I live, yet something in
public events and feeling tells me the
time cannot be far distant.”
“God grant, sir, I may live to see it,”
answered the stout Captain warmly.
“The schooner is like to stay on the
shoal, sir,” said the mate, coming near
where they stood. They have had to
furl their topsails, she lists so heavily.
She must be heavy aloft, with her two
topsail yards; it is the first schooner I
ever saw with two regular top-sails on
fore and main too. Isn't it a marvel
that only one of her shot struck us, sir,
and that just knocking off the figure-head.”
“It is, when so many shot flew whiz
zing over and around us,” answered
Mr. Frankland.
“It is not easy to hit a vessel in the
night, Mr. Frankland. They did well
with their guns. I am thankful none of
us were hurt.”
“It is very ominous, sir,” said Finch
venturing to put in a word.
“What is ominous, Master Mate?”
“The hittin' that figure-head, and
knockin' it into a cocked hat.”
“Well, it is odd,” said the Captain;
“for it was a bust of King George III,
you know, sir!”
“It would have been more in keeping
with a true omen, if you had knocked
it off of one of the king's vessels with a
shot,” answered Mr. Frankland; “still
we must look upon it as a sign that the
assiduity of the crown officers to execute
the decrees of the king will result
in his destruction, or rather that of his
power in his colonies!”
“A fair interpretation, sir! That is
the meaning of it, you may be sure!
How is the lead?” added Captain Benbow
walking forward, for they were
now rapidly approaching the town, and
were near a portion of the channel
where the navigation was intricate.
“Ten fathom, sir!” answered the
leadsman in the fore chains, as he
gathered up his dripping line in small
coils in his hand, ready for another cast
of the heavy lead.
“We are out far enough, Mr. Coffin.
Now have all the light sail taken in one
by one, and without noise, for we want
to get up to town as quietly as possible!”
“You need not think, Captain, we
shall slip into the dock without being
seen by the sloop of war! Do you see
that light vessel with the water just
forward of the fore-tack?”
“Yes, I have seen it for some seconds
past!'
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“Master Finch says it is the sloop's
light, sir!”
“Ah, then we will keep in with the
shore as closely as the water will give
us depth of channel!”
“We can run within two topsail
yards' length of the shore, sir, after we
get on a little further!”
“Take the helm, yourself; or rather
give it to Finch; for he is the best
pilot in the Bay! Master Finch, will
you take the brig up if Mr. Frankland
says so?”
“I do say so. Take the helm, Finch!
If the brig grounds, Captain Benbow,
while he is there, I will bear the
blame! He knows not only the channel
well, but the exact bearing of the
sloop of war!”
“That is everything, sir! We are
now within about a mile of her, and
see! there open upon us one after
another, the lights of the town. Now
let every man do his duty promptly,
and keep silence, as if he were running
through an enemy's blockading fleet!
CHAPTER XII.
The lieutenant of the watch on board
the Bexley was slowly walking up and
down on the starboard side of the quarter-deck,
with a small spy-glass in his
hand, which he occasionally placed at
his eye and scanned the town and the
dark shores adjacent, and the bay below.
He would then resume his walk,
whiling away the hour by humming the
national air of “Rule Brittania,” in an
under key. On the larboard side of the
deck walked a midshipman and the purser,
at a rapid exercising pace, and talking
about familiar and dearly-remembered
scenes in old England. The
quarter-master, with his long telescope
beneath his arm was in the waist level
ing his glass at two or three fishermen's
boats, as he made them out to be, that
were putting off to return across the bay
whence they had come in the morning,
laden with fish for the market.
There was a knot of two or three
young officers gathered about the greyheaded
purser, who was seated astride
the gun next to the entering port, entertaining
them with his adventures in foreign
lands, for the purser was a famous
hand at shooting the long-bow. In the
waist, walked in parties of three or four,
several of the non-commissioned officers
and their mates, with one or two forward
old seamen; and these were discussing
the chances which the schooner
was likely to have in overhauling the
brig that she had gone down the bay
after, and gravely questioning whether,
if she was seized by her, the officers and
crew of the Bexley would be likely to
got a share of the prize money. Upon
this subject there was a division, about
an equal number giving it as their opinion
that the sloop would share equally,
as the Gaspee had gone under Captain
Petty's orders; while the other half were
very sure that all would go to the Gaspee's
crew.
Farther forward the watch were assembled
in knots about the windlass and
bitts, some listening to long yarns told
in the good old-fashioned man-of-war-fashion;
others singing interminable seasongs
to a lack-a-daisical tune, and others
lay at length upon the deck in quiet
repose, or paced the fore-castle with
folded arms, and short pipes in their
mouths. One or two were engaged in
winding and greasing and putting in order
one another's pig-tails, for at that
period all tars wore queus. Just forward
of the larboard entering-port, half
a dozen marines in undress uniform
were engaged in cleaning their muskets
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
and whitening their belts by the light of
a small iron lamp with oakum for a wick.
The ship being at anchor and all the
canvass furled, there was no active duties
to attend to; and thus this state of
quiet and idle pastime reigned throughout
the ship.
It was almost three quarters of an
hour after the departure of the Gaspee
from her moorings, and there was no
expectation that she would be heard
from again that night. Nevertheless,
Captain Petty had given very particular
orders before going into his cabin that
the closest watch must be kept on the
entrance to the harbor from the bay below,
lest the brig, or some other merchant
vessel might slip in unobserved.
With giving the command, Sir William
Petty left the deck, and exchanging
his uniform coat for a dressing gown,
he east himself upon a settee, and commenced
reading for the tenth time his
last London paper, which was dated
three months back.
He had been occupied about ten minutes
in trying to get through a speech of
a noble Lord against the colonies, recommending
a standing army to keep
them in submission, and had just got to
dozing over it, in a state of half wakefulness,
when he was startled by the
report of the first gun fired by the schooner
at the Free-Trader. His cabin windows
being open to the cool breeze, and
this blowing from the south, the sound
was borne with startling distinctness to
his ears, although the schooner was
more than four miles distant. He sprung
to his feet in surprise, for he well knew,
except what his own ship and the Gaspee
had, there was no ordnance in that
quarter of the colony. The same warlike
sound had reached the ears of officers
and men on deck, and caused no
little excitement and remark.
“A gun, which, from the sound, a
twelve pounder, has been heard from
down the bay, sir,” reported the officer
of the deck, opening the cabin door, as
Sir William was putting on his coat;
for he never appeared on deck except
in uniform.
“I heard it. How far distant was it,
think you, Mr. Welford?”
“I should think about four or five
miles, sir. It was a gun, the size of
those carried from the Gaspee!”
“It is possible she has fallen in with
the brig, or met another, and finding
her restive, has fired a shot over her to
bring her to.”
“That is what I think, sir.”
Sir William had no sooner come out
of his cabin and ascended to the poopdeck,
than he silently took his glass and
examined the bay below. While thus
occupied, a second gun was heard, and
the flash distinctly seen shining up the
sky, and showing between the black
outline of the irregular shores that hid
the schooner itself.
“This is very strange, indeed. That
is the Gaspee's firing, I think. But
she can't have met with an opponent!”
said Captain Petty.
“No doubt the vessel he is trying to
bring to has taken the alarm, and is
running away again to sea,” observed
the lieutenant.
“It is likely, or otherwise I could
not account for two guns. But I trust
Arling will be discreet, and not take
any rash steps.”
“There goes a rocket, sir!” exclaimed
three or four of the officers, as the
curving line of the ascending missile
flashed upon their vision; while the
next instant the whole horizon was lighted
up with the brilliant glare of its explosion,
which, however, did not reach
their ears.
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“Arling is in chace of some vessel,
without question,” said Sir William.—
“Go aloft with the glass, quarter-master,
and see if you can look over the
shoulder of land, and can discover any
thing below to report!”
“I can discover nothing, Sir William,”
answered the old seaman. “The land
looms up too much.”
“I was afraid it would. If I have
another gun, I shall send a boat down,
Mr. Welford. Have the second cutter
ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quarter-master, report if you see
any thing; and keep a sharp lookout
for the flash of another gun or rocket.
Send two good men, sharp-sighted lads,
aft here, to keep lookout along the water.
Mr. Welford, have your watch on the
alert; for you may yet discover something;
for whatever Arling is firing at,
is more likely, with this port-wind, to
be running up for the town, than standing
off. So keep a constant and sharp
lookout.”
“It shall be done, sir,” answered the
lieutenant, quite as earnest in the desire
to ascertain the cause and end of the
firing he had heard, as Sir William
himself; indeed, the excitement extended
throughout the ship, every man on
board partaking of it.
Martin Manwaring, the young seaman
whom we left in chains, bound to
one of the forward guns, had also heard
the firing. It had roused him from a
sweet reverie, in which his spirit was
wandering over the scenes of the past,
over the flowering days of his boyhood.
He had been thinking how often he had
rambled in the wild freedom of a child,
along the rocky shores and green fields,
which deepening twilight shut from his
view.
But in darkness and solitude as he
sat there, memory brought them back
with the fresh beauty of his youthful
years. It painted before him his mother's
cottage, a rural and picturesque
abode, overgrown with woodbine and
wild-rose, and the home of happiness and
love. It showed to him his mother, all
affection and tenderness, a fond mother
and wise friend. He remembered how
beautiful she was, and how her dark
eyes beamed upon him like stars full of
Heaven. He remembered her voice,
so musical and rich; and sweet as it
was in song, sweeter far it was when
addressed to himself. All this passed
before his mind's eye, as he sat there
between the dark cannon, in chains and
alone; and tears, at the recollection,
filled his eyes.
Memory still held the rein of his
thoughts, and held them to the past and
to his home; but it now brought the
time down to later years, when the boy
had become a youth, generous and impulsive,
loving his mother above all
earthly beings and fearing God, hating
a lie with scorn, and strong in the integrity
of truth and honesty. His
thoughts were thus employed when
suddenly the report of the Gaspee's
gun fell upon his ears, and roused him
to a sense of the present. At the same
moment the young officer, Althorp,
came up to him and said in an under
tone:
“How fares it now, Martin? Have
you used the key?”
“I have unlocked my fetters, sir,
and am free;” he answered with grateful
emotion. “You are very kind to
me, Mr. Althorp, especially when you
run such risks!”
“I have resolved to aid you in escaping.
The time is more than I supposed,
for this firing below, I see, has
set the ship's company occupied in
wondering about it!”
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“What is it, sir?”
“I can't tell; but it is no doubt the
Gaspee firing to bring some vessel to.
You must take advantage of the general
excitement on the deck to make your
escape; for at eight o'clock I cannot
tell how it may be; I may be ordered
off in the boat! for there is a second
gun! It is possible that the Bexley
may drop down the Bay to see what
this firing is! for I hear Sir William
Petty's voice on deck. This is your
best time, Manwaring!”
“I do not need any urging, sir, to
secure my liberty! My heart bounds
at the idea of being free! of once more
beholding my mother!”
“I trust you may find her alive and
well, Martin!”
“I pray heaven so, sir! It would be
a hard blow to find it—it—was otherwise!
It would be—” Here he
stopped with emotion.
“Never mind! You will, no doubt,
soon see her. Let us wait a few moments
till the men that are passing
along deck are put to something. Then
you must lower yourself out of the port
here, and trust to your skill in swiming!
Here is a line which I have
brought for you to fasten to the gun
carriage!” As the midshipman spoke,
he drew a coil of strong cord from beneath
his watch-coat, and cast it at the
captive's feet. There was still a good
deal of moving past the place where they
stood, but in the darkness Althorp was
unseen. The crew were grouping in
various quarters of the ship, talking
about the firing; and three or four men
were nearer the place where the young
sailor was confined than Althorp wished.
“You must be patient; I will go
and send these men to some other
place,” he said. “And when you see
them move, fasten your line, and dron
through the port. You had best, when
you reach the water, to swim along close
under the counter, and when you get
into the eddy stream, dive and swim
beneath the surface as far as your
breath will let you, so that the lieutenant
of the watch nor the quarter-master
may see you. Instead of making directly
for the land I would strike down
the river some distance till there was
no danger of being seen from the ship.”
“Yes, sir! I will do as you propose.
There, the men have moved away!
Shall I go now?”
“Yes, God bless you, Manwaring!”
said the midshipman, grasping his hand.
“I will go to the quarter-deck, and if
you are seen, try to turn aside suspicion.
Wait till I am there, and then
watch your opportunity and slip out of
the port into the water! Success to
you; and if you get safe ashore be
careful to keep out of the way until the
sloop has quit the port; for if you are
retaken, you will fare badly!”
“I do not love my chains well enough,
sir, to wish to return to them; but I
shall carry away with me one of the
irons upon my wrist, for in endeavouring
to unlock it the key broke, and I succeeded
in parting the chain; but the
manacle remains; and after I get on
shore I shall present it as a memorial of
British oppression! Good bye, Mr.
Althorp! I hope we shall meet again
under happier circumstances!”
“I trust so,” answered the midshipman;
and then leaving him, he hastened
to place himself upon the quarterdeck,
and near the lieutenant of the
watch, speaking to each officer as he
passed, that he might be seen by them
to be aft when the captive should effect
his escape.
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CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
The youthful prisoner waited after his
friend left him, until he thought he had
given him sufficient time to absent himself
from the spot, and then taking up
the cord he secured it by a double turn
around the gun, and then carefully,
without noise, let it down through the
port to the water. The part of the ship
where he had been chained was nearly
pitch dark, it being under the top gallant
forecastle, in which, near the open
part of the deck, hung a bottle-lantern,
which burned very dimly, and hardly
sent its rays to the forward gun: there
was also a stanchion near the lantern,
the shadow of which, widening with the
distance, completely cast the young
man into shadow. He was, therefore,
perfectly secure from observation while
he prepared to carry out his plan of escape,
unless some petty officer should
come along with a light, or some friendly
seaman come to talk with him to cheer
his solitude; for this had been done during
the day. But at that crisis, Martin
Manwaring did not wish even the sympathizing
presence of a friendly sailor.
Having found, by drawing upon it,
that the line was strong enough to bear
his weight; for if it should part and let
him with a splash into the water, he
knew the noise would betray him to the
watch; he, therefore, took pains to see
that every means for his safety was secured.
He was cool and self-possessed
as was characteristic of him in hours of
peril by storm, and in the uproar of
battle; for all men in the sloop admitted
that not a more courageous and
thoroughly brave spirit had ever trod
the deck of a king's ship than the impressed
young colonist.
He was well aware that he was about
to undertake an enterprise, failure in
which would cost him his life. He
very well knew that the penalty for desertion
from a king's ship was death;
and that if he were discovered in the
water, he would be fired upon by the
sentries; and if not killed swimming,
he would be hanged after being taken.
All this he was aware of; yet, having
freed himself from his chains and the
way open before him, he resolved even
at all these risks to make an effort for
liberty. He felt that he was unjustly
detained in the king's service, and had
been iniquitously brought into it by impressment,
and that he was doing his
duty in leaving it. Under his circumstances,
being a free-born colonist, he
felt that desertion was no disgrace; but
on the contrary honorable! Thus he
had well considered and carefully
weighed the subject; and he now proceeded
to carry out his resolute purpose,
with calm confidence in the justice
of his conduct, and a firm determination
to reach the shore or perish in
the attempt.
“Alive I will not be taken!” he said,
with quiet decision; “but I trust that
Heaven will protect me from my foes,
and bring me once more to behold and
embrace my beloved mother!”
With this filial prayer upon his lips,
he softly passed through the port, and
firmly grasping the line in both hands,
he rapidly descended into the water.—
Here he hung an instant, his body immersed
to his chin, to ascertain if his
descent had been observed by any one;
for there were three hundred men asleep
and awake within the dark bowels of
the huge ship. But all was quiet, or
rather every thing indicated ignorance
of his proceedings. He could hear
the tread of the officer of the deck as
he walked up and down, and the measured
pace of the marine who stood
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
sentinel above the entering port; and
the low murmur of voices of the men
in conversation in various parts of the
ship, about the firing and the rocket
they had seen, with here and there
snatches of a song reached his ears.—
This state of things gave him confidence,
and letting go the cord, he dove
beneath the surface. He swam thus
until he found he had got under the
sloop's rudder, when he rose and caught
hold of the iron band, and waited to
decide what course to take from the
vessel, wishing to choose that which
would be the least likely to expose him
to the glasses of those who were on deck.
The sloop lay about a mile off, and a
a little south of the town. The island
that intervened was but half a mile distant,
but to reach it he would have to
swim against the tide, he therefore
thought it best to follow Althorp's judicious
advice, and swim down stream directly
astern. He now distinctly overheard
Sir William giving orders to keep
a sharp lookout on the-bay below. This
showed him the danger he would be
exposed to by swimming down. Although
a good swimmer and possessing
confidence in his own skill and powers
of endurance, he feared that even if he
were not discovered as he should rise to
take breath, he might possibly give out,
especially as the receding of the shore
of the bay below, would, if he went down
far, give him at least a league to swim,
before he could get under the land.
While he was thus deliberating and
hesitating, his eye fell on the life buoy,
which was suspended within three feet
of the water over the starboard davit. It
was but the act of an instant for him
to climb the rudder and with his seaman's
knife sever the cord by which it
hung. He let it drop into the water
with a dashing sound, and delaying an
instant to let the tide bear it some yards
down, and long enough to hear the
quick alarm cry of the officer of the
deck, “What is overboard?” he commenced
swimming up the stream
towards the bows, close along by the
sloop's side, and reaching the bow, he
struck boldly out for the island, now
diving and swimming a dozen yards
under the surface, and now swimming
with his head above water, but only
long enough to take air. The noise of
the uproar the fall of the buoy had occasioned
on board, reached him, and
urged him onward to secure his escape,
aided by the ruse he had adopted; for
it had occurred to him, as he hung by
the rudder, that if he cut the buoy
adrift, which in the water would look
like a man swimming, the attention of
all on board would be directed towards
it, while he himself, if he struck out
from the bows shoreward, would be unnoticed,
especially if he swam a good
deal beneath the surface. He therefore
cut it away, as we have seen, a thing
which he would not have done if he believed
he could have got away from the
sloop without attracting the attention of
the officers, whom he heard enjoined
to keep a constant watch on the water
with their night glasses. This order
led him to apprehend a failure, whether
he swam down the river, or even
quietly across to the town. He therefore
adopted the bold expedient of giving
a false alarm to the ship in the outset.
The noise of the fall of the buoy
was heard on deck, as if a man had
plunged in, and the officer of the deck
while calling out to know what it was,
ran to the stern with others, and seeing
the buoy floating down and bobbing in
the rippling water, called out in a loud
voice:
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
“A man overboard! Man the cut
ter!”
“I suspect it is merely a log, sir,”
remarked Althorp quietly, though his
heart was throbbing with anxiety, for
he saw the buoy and believed it to be
Martin's head upon the surface. “It is
probably a bucket.”
“It is a man, sir,” cried the quarter-master,
after levelling his glass at it.
“No doubt a deserter!” said the
purser, who was drawn to the stern
with all the other officers.
“Spring away the first cutters!”
shouted Lieutenant Alford.
The boat was soon manned. All was
excitement throughout the ship, and
every man who could get a chance was
looking astern, while all were wondering
and asking who it was.
“Go forward, Mr. Althorp, and see
if it is not the prisoner, Manwaring.”
said the Lieutenant.
“He is chained, sir,” said the quarter-master,
“and—”
“The infernal Yankee, Martin, has
broke his chains, sir, and is off!” cried
the boatswain, who on hearing the cry
of “a man overboard,” bethought him
of the young man, and at once hastening
to the spot where he had left
him, found that he had disappeared.—
Without waiting to see how he had escaped,
he ran aft, giving the report to
his superiors. By this time the cutter
had shoved off with four men and a coxswain.
Althorp had volunteered to take
command of her, resolved to prevent the
boats finding his friend, but a young
lieutenan had preceded him, and got
into the boat first. He could therefore
only hope for the safety of the brave
youth, while with his spy-glass he kept
his eye upon the dark object upon the
water, as it was borne farther and farther
astern by the tide. He wondered
at the infatuation of Manwaring in keeping
his head so constantly exposed to
view, and was thus mentally censuring
him for his imprudence, which seemed
to him like bravado, when the boatswain
made his report. Althorp now felt that
there was no hope for his friend. The
lieutenant had no sooner heard that it was
the young captive, than he became highly
excited that a young colonist should
dare to escape from a king's ship.
“Bring up three or four rockets,
gunner,” he cried to this petty officer.
“Sergeant of marines march aft; have
some of your men, with their muskets,
without a moment's delay! He shall
be shot in the water, as he desires! To
dare to escape! How did he get away.
Boatswain?”
“I have just been to see, sir,” answered
the boatswain's mate, “and find
he has broken one of his bracelets at
the wrist, but the fetters are as good
as ever, and left on the deck. He
must have unlocked 'em some way;
and besides here is a piece o' the signal
halyard, sir, belayed to the gun and
hanging into the water!”
“Then he has had aid! We have
traitors on board! Mr. Quigley, you
should have placed a marine on guard
over him!”
“You did not order it, sir, and
besides, he was so heavily chained!”
“I will have this affair sifted! But
he will not escape! The boat is fast
coming up with him! Sergeant you
need not fire upon him! I wish him to
be taken alive!”
“That is best, Mr. Welford,” answered
Sir William, appearing on the
deck. “We can then learn who his
aiders and abettors are. We must
know what traitors are among us!”
“The boats are close upon him!
We shall soon have him on board
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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
again!” exclaimed the officer. “He
has taken his bath for nothing to-night.”
“How imprudent he was to make
such a splashing in the water,” thought
Althorp, vexed, and not a little alarmed
at the peril of his new position, if his
part in the affair should be discovered.
“But the more I look at this the more
suspicious I am that it is he! He could
not be so rash as to keep above water
in the face of such danger. It looks
more like defiance than discretion.
Yet Manwaring does not want the
latter. He is truly brave, but not a
bravado!”
“Now ignite the rocket, sir!” cried
the lieutenant of the watch; and as he
spoke the missile went hissing up into
the sky, and exploding, illumined even
the town, so that every house was visible
for a moment. By its light the boat
was seen about a cable's length astern,
and close up to the object supposed to
have been the head of the escaped
sailor. Even at the distance the sloop
was from it, it was easy to see that it
was a buoy, and there was no need of
the confirming shout of the lieutenant
in command of the boat, who called
out,
“It is only the life-buoy, sir!”
“And sure enough the life-buoy is
gone,” exclaimed Sir William, looking
over the stern to the place where it
usually hung. “This is a great alarm
about a small matter!” and thus speaking
he returned to his cabin, sarcastically
remarking, “You had best be
sure, the next time, Mr. Welford, that
your man is not a boy!”
The boat paddled slowly back, while
the officers and men laughed heartily,
when Lieutenant Welford said keenly.
“That was a buoy, it is true! but
where is the prisoner, Manwaring?
It is certain he is escaped from the
ship!”
“That is true,” remarked the officers,
recalled by his word to the positive
fact that a man had really escaped, and
within twenty minutes past; for within
that time the carpenter and gunner's
mate asseverated that they had seen
him chained between the guns.
Excitement was thereupon alive
again; and the officer in the cutter, as
it came alongsitle towing the buoy, said
the rope had been cut with a knife,
and thus roused the curiosity of all
anew.
“Pull round the ship, sir,” commanded
Lieutenant Welford, in a stern
voice; “now close and examine the
sides under the channels and bows and
rudder. He may be hanging by some
part of the vessel. It will be a disgrace
to every man in the ship if he gets off!”
CHAPTER XIV.
There was one man on board the
ship who saw the head of the swimmer
twice rise and disappear beneath
the surface. It was by mere accident
that he looked shoreward, in the
direction in which Martin was swimming,
when all other eyes were directed
astern at the buoy.
He watched for a moment closely,
till he saw the dark head disppear and
reappear twice, with intervals of eight
or ten yards between the two points,
before he felt sure that he was the only
man in the ship who really knew
which way the prisoner was directing
his escape.
He, however, felt no disposition to
betray his discovery, although he was
a firm friend to his king, and to the
service, in which he had sailed thirty
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
years. He was the gunner's mate, and
was considered one of the staunchest
men for his country in the ship. But
he had been sick, four months before,
in the West Indies, and came near
death, but Manwaring so faithfully attended
him, that he recovered, and
every one said that he owed his recovery
to the unremitting kindness and attention
of the youthful sailor. The
gunner's mate felt that all men spoke
the truth, and he became strongly attached
to his generous benefactor. Between
them in the long night-watches,
there recently had arisen a good deal
of warm but friendly discussion, touching
the impressment of the colonists, and
the oppressive rule of the king over his
colonies. Bunter, though not quite convinced
by his young friend's arguments,
felt a ready sympathy in his own impressment,
but nevertheless, gave him
his advice, and recommended him to
submission, and the quiet service of the
king, now that he was fairly in for it.
Manwaring, however, did not hesitate
to declare to him that the law under
which he was detained was unjust, and
that he should the first opportunity
leave the ship and the service.
When, therefore, old Bunter's quick
eye caught sight of the appearing and
disappearing head, he merely shook his
and muttered:
“The lad's off! He has given them
the slip this time, and while they are
all chasing a buoy or log, he is safely
striking out for shore. Well, I hope he
may get there safe, and not be caught
again. It may be my duty to report
what I see, but if younger eyes and
those whose duty it is to look-out don't
see him, I have no business to see better
than they do. They won't put me under
arrest for it; so to make all safe,
I'll let em find out themselves. But
he is got out of sight now. Even their
glasses wouldn't make him out now.
I am glad to see the luffs over-done
once. His escape 'll make 'em sore.
Well, bless the brave lad! He has a
hear as big as a whale, and I only wish
him safe into port.”
The officers of the sloop after search-about
the channels and bows of their
ship for the escaped bird, and examining
every square yard of the water
around with their glasses, came to the
conclusion that he had drowned in his attempt
to get off. This opinion was
more flattering to their pride than that
they should believe he had succeeded
in effecting his purpose securely.
The cutter after rowing about this
way and that, at the orders of Lieutenant
Welford, returned to the ship, having
been engaged in her fruitless search
full half an hour. The sloop-of-war had
once more settled into comparative
quiet, and an hour elapsed without any
occurrence to disturb the repose of the
decks, or to alarm the watch as they
lounged about or paced to and fro in
various parts of the ship. The lieutenants
had talked over the affair and
though vexed at having been foiled,
they did not refuse to laugh at the spirted
chase of the life buoy. With the
true love of betting, characteristic of
Englishmen, they speculated on the
chances whether he had reached the
shore or not, and laid bets upon them.
Lieutenant Welford would gladly have
distributed all three of the cutters at
different points to watch the shore, but
Sir William objected to it, giving as
a reason that the boats might be needed.
Althorp was delighted to find that the
proposal of the officer was rejected by
the captain, for being sure that Manwaring
must be making the best of his
way to the land in some quarter, he
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
feared that he might be captured, if the
boats were all ordered out. But Sir
Willaim had had enough of the buoy
for one night, and did not wish his crew
to bring any farther ridicule upon the
Bexley, by giving chase to any other
phantom.
How Martin could have got away
from the ship, Althorp was at a loss to
conceive; but that he had something
to do with cutting the line of the life-buoy,
he was very certain, but why he
should cut it, and then not avail himself
of it to help float, he could not conceive;
for the idea that he should have severed
it for any other object, did not occur to
him.
He was walking the deck, thinking
upon the matter, and trusting that the
young colonist would effectually elude
all pursnit, when he was startled, as well
as all others on board by the opening of
the first broadside of the Gaspee upon
the Free-Trader.
“There is something going on now
down below!” cried the quarter-master,
with an oath of surprise. “Hear
that, my masters.”
“It is a regular cannonading. Five,
six, seven guns in succession!” said
Lieutenant Welford. “It must be the
Gaspee engaged.”
He was about to go to the cabin door
to report the firing, which was very
spirited and lighted up the sky almost
incessantly, when Sir William Petty appeared
in his dressing-gown and slippers,
in too great a hurry to don his uniform
coat.
“What is all this, Mr. Welford?”
he exclaimed in amazement, as the
flashes of the Gaspee's guns illumined
the heavens, and the quick report of the
discharge reached his ears.
“It is impossible to tell, sir.”
“There is an engagement certainly.”
“It sounds as if the firing was all on
one side, sir,” remarked the quarter-master.
“There is no mixed or confused
discharges. I should think it was
the Gaspee delivering three or four
broadsides.”
“But at what?” demanded the lieutenant.
“That is the question,” observed
Sir Willaim. “But we will soon answer
it. Pipe away the crews of the
two cutters, and let the men take their
cutlasses, and have a dozen pistols put
into the stern of each boat.”
“Aye, sir,” responded the officer of
the deck, and the shrill whistle of the
boatswain already rang through the
ship, and all was excitement and motion
on board.
“We have enough to keep all hands
stirring for one watch,” said the purser,
addressing Althorp. “It is nothing
but alarms since we have been anchored
in this confounded Newport.
I shall be glad when we leave it.”
“Let four marines be taken in each
boat, and four seamen beside the oarsmen,”
commanded Sir William. “Mr.
Welford, you will take charge of the
boats, and pull down the bay and try and
make out what this firing is about.—
You must be cautious, too, for there
may be an enemy there, though no
Dutch veesel would dare to venture
alone up this narrow bay, knowing we
have so many cruisers about. Be cautious,
and yet pull on till you learn the
cause of the firing. If the Gaspee is in
trouble, you will use your discretion
about advancing to her aid. Return or
send back a boat and report to me as
soon as you can find out anything.”
The firing continued for a few moments
longer, and then ceased, for the
Gaspee had grounded. The boats were
nevertheless ordered to proceed, and
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
pulled away one after the other down
the bay. Sir William, with his spy-glass
at his eye, watched them until
they were lost in the darkness, and
then speculated with his officers about
him, upon the causes of the cannonading.
It was the opinion of the purser
and quarter-master that the Gaspee had
been firing into some vessel that refused
to heave to.
“I cannot believe,” answered Captain
Petty, “that Arling would open
such a fire upon a colonial vessel merely
for not heaving to in the night. Yet
from the firing of two guns an hour ago,
and this heavy cannonading, I fear that
he has done so. He is very headstrong
at times.”
“We shall soon learn, sir, all about
it,” answered the officer of the deck.
“The boats seem to be going down with
the tide very fast as they left us.”
The two cutters after leaving the
ship, pulled down the bay at a rapid
rate, the officer in command being desirous
of coming upon the scene of
the late firing with as little delay as
possible. As the sloop lay out pretty
well and they kept a straight course from
her, they did not approach the eastern
shore near enough to distinguish the
Free-Trader, which was making her
way up the stream close in under the
land, and about half a mile distant from
the boats. Lieutenant Welford was too
eagerly looking down the bay, to give
his attention to objects in shore and the
brig had passed him so as to be moving
on her way off his quarter, ere a lad of
a midshipmnn, who was in the second
cutter, and who had very sharp eyes
which were always wandering restlessly
about, caught sight of the brig.
“Sail ho!” he shouted.
“Where away?” demanded the lieutenant,
in a quick tone.
“Three points abaft the beam, sir.”
“I see her,” answered Mr. Welford,
as he caught her with his glass. “It is
a square-rigged brig standing close in
shore. How is it that she could have
passed us?”
“It is more than likely she can tell
us something us about the firing, sir,”
remarked the officer in charge of the
second cutter which had now come up
with the leading boat.
“It is possible, sir. But we are too
far below her now to reach her with this
tide running against us. They will see
her in the sloop and take care of her, if
she is disposed to be refractory. We
will row down for a league farther, at
least, till we come to the place where
the cannonading seemed to be. We
shall probably fall in with the Gaspee
on the way, for if this brig be running
from her we must not be far behind the
chase. Keep a sharp lookout on all
sides, my men. A French crown-piece
to the man that first discovers the
Gaspee!”
Mr. Welford was not a little vexed
that the brig he had discovered, should
have been passed unseen by him, but
he did not like to display his annoyance
to his officers and crew, and so passed
the matter over lightly as he did. But
he felt that the brig ought to have been
boarded by him, for in his own mind he
was quite well assured that it was she
that had drawn the heavy fire of the
schooner, for there was no doubt that
the cannonading was from her, the calibre
of the guns precisely answering to
those carried by the Gaspee. He bit
his lip almost through in his vexation at
the brig's passing up with impunity, but
he saw that it would be impossible to
reach her against the tide before she
would come to anchor in the harbor,
and then, as she would be under the
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Bexley's guns, he trusted that she would
be boarded by her at once, and his own
negligence redeemed.
The boats pulled on about a mile
farther, when, as Lieutenant Welford
had his glass at his eye, he discovered
a boat coming up. At first, he could
not distinctly decide what it was, but
by silencing the bars of his own boats,
there was distinctly heard the fall of distant
oars.
“It is a man-of-war's stroke, sir,”
said the young reefer.
“It is the Gaspee's boat then, without
doubt. Something must have happened
to her. Give way, men, all!
Let us meet them.”
The distance between the descending
and ascending boats lessened each intant,
and Mr. Welford standing up in the
boat, was able to see that it contained
six men, four at the oars, and two in
the stern-sheets.
“Boat ahoy!”
“Ho, the boats ahoy!” simultaneously
hailed both parties.
“Bexley's?” answered Welford.—
“Is that you, Arling?”
“Yes, and glad am I to see you,”
answered Arling, as his boat came up.
“Have you seen the brig?” he demanded,
in an eager voice.
CHAPTER XV.
The earnest, fiery inquiry of Arling
convinced Lieutenant Welford that the
vessel he had suffered to pass him was
a fugitive from the Gaspee, and the
object of her cannonading; and for a
moment he was too deeply mortified
and angry with himself, that he did
not reply. At length he answered,
“We saw a brig in shore twenty
minutes ago, but did not discover her in
the darkness till she was three points
abaft the beam. But if she has been at
any mischief, Sir William will look
after her, for we are all awake aboard
the sloop; for we have had all sorts of
disturbances! What has happened?
We have heard a heavy firing, and are
on our way down to see what is the
cause of it! Sir William was fearful
you had got into trouble. Was it your
firing?”
“Yes, and I wish that I had sunk
the infernal Yankee skipper. It was
the Gaspee's guns you heard! So the
fellow even got up past you! Well, I
am rejoiced at it from my heart! I don't
feel half so badly as I did! It is some
comfort to have you made a fool of by
him as well as myself, Welford! Now
I have got such good company in my
bad luck as you are, I can look Sir
William in the face without flinching;
for in his eye, Welford, you are a pattern
officer.”
“Why, what has occurred? Why
do I meet you here in your boat?
Where is the Gaspee?”
“To answer your last question first,
Welford,” answered Arling, as his boat
remained stationary by the side
of the cutter, “the schooner is
aground on the head of a shoal, a mile
or two below here! and I am on my
way up to get the Bexley to stop the
brig; but, nevertheless, I am glad she
got-by you; for I shall not be blamed
so much! All will be laid now to the
cuteness of this resolute Yankee skipper,
for he has got the wind of us all tonight!”
“Did you board him, or has he returned
your fire, that you opened your
broadsides upon him?”
“It was in this way, for I shall never
forget it as long as I live. Sir William
ordered me to run out after the brig he
had seen tack and stand off just befor
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
dark, as he suspected she intended to
run down the coast to land her cargo!”
“And no doubt she would have
done so, if you had not followed her,”
remarked Welford.
“Not she! It seems she only stood
out to run in again at night; for I had
not got down four miles before I discovered
her about a mile distant, just
forward the beam, and standing in,
under press of sail. I was not sure
that it was the same brig, but still I
resolved to bring her to. My pilot
Bunter, took me down on the west of
the shoal that divides the two channels,
and I now found I could not reach the
brig without doubling the shoal, and
making a long chase of it. So I fired
a shot across her bows to bring her to!
But she didn't mind it, and I let her
have another point blank! But she
kept on, and I then sent up a rocket to
learn exactly her position, and see if she
was really a merchant brig, for I didn't
know but what she might be of one of
our own brigs of war by her sauciness.
The rocket showed her to be a brightsided
merchant vessel, and the same, I
had no doubt, that I had been ordered
to pursue. So I hove the schooner to,
and manned my boats, and pulled across
the shoal to intercept her and board her.
But when we got within hail, the fellow
refused to come to, and threatened to
defend his brig if we attempted to
board! You know I am not the sort of
man, Welford, to take a menace of that
kind quietly. I ordered my two boats
to pull for the gangway, and we
dashed towards the brig with loud
shouts. But I had no sooner touched
her sides than the villains cut loose a
spare top-mast that they had previously
hung over the side! It came thundering
down upon us, stove my boat, and
pitched all my men into the water,
when I had got before them; for as I
grasped on the man-rope to help myself
upon her deck, it parted, no doubt half
cut through for this end, and let me
down into the water. This, no doubt,
saved my life; for if I had not fallen,
the spar would have struck me on the
head!”
“This is a most extraordinary resistance!”
exclaimed Lieutenant Welford.
“I did not believe any of the
colonist captains would dare to take
such a stand against a king's boat!
How did you escape?”
“You may well call it escape, for
we were thoroughly worsted, which
makes me so much gratified that the
brig went by you as she has! I succeeded
in getting into the other boat,
and all my men either reached her or
swam ashore! But they did not resist
so much a king's boat as the reception
of the commissioner; for when I told
them I would be satisfied to put Mr.
Riverton on board, they then replied,
showing how systematic and deliberate
was their resistance, that they had no
objection to receiving the king's boat,
and letting me come on board alone,
but they would defend their vessel with
their lives before they would receive the
officer of customs.”
“That, then, was the secret of their
resistance! The colonists seem to be
resolved on this matter! and what did
you do with Mr. Riverton?”
“That I can't say! In the excitement
of our boat's sinking and making
our escape, and getting the men to land,
I never thought of him; nor till we
got back to the schooner, (for we had to
let the brig go,) he never once entered
my mind, when all at once it occurred
to me that we had not seen him since
the boat was stove!”
“I hope he was not drowned!”
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“It is possible he swam ashore!
But he had been among us so short a
time, and I thinking only of my men
and officers in the general confusion,
and they only of each other, he was
forgotten. I hope the poor man reached
the land!”
“What was the distance?”
“A cables' length!”
“He may have swam to it! But he
was fat and unwieldy, and I fear little
skilled in taking care of himself with no
ground under his feet! Sir William
will regret this much!”
“I can't help it, Welford! It was
confounded luck all round. The Yankee
has got the best of it; and he must pay
for his sport! After I got on board the
schooner in my remaining boat, I opened
my broadside upon him, resolved to
sink him, and gave chase to head him;
but the Gaspee went upon the shoal
while under full canvass, and there she
lays; while he has run up safely, and
even passed you! I am now on my
way to see Sir William, and get his
permission to board the brig, and place
the captain and his crew under arrest!”
“Of course! It is singular that he
should have been so daring as to have
resisted, well knowing he could not escape
ultimately!”
“Perhaps the fellow thinks the towns-people
will protect him and his vessel
against us!”
“They would, no doubt, very willingly
do it, if they could do it safely,”
responded Lieutenant Welford; “but
the presence of the Bexley will be sufficient
to overawe them. The Free-Trader
is ours, most certainly; and
there is no question but that Sir William
will put under arrest the captain, if not
even send him to England on his trial.
For his offence is a grievous one against
the crown, and if he is not made an ex
ample of in the outset, there will be no
end to the difficulties we shall have with
the Yankee skippers that choose to follow
in his footsteps!”
“As your errand down this way is
finished,” said Arling, “turn back with
me! I want to have this matter ended
before sun-rise, or I shall be ashamed to
look at it. I have sworn that I will not
sleep till the master of that brig is in my
hands! The Gaspee will have to lay
where she is till the flood tide, for she
is driven hard on. Give way, my men!
We are drifting ourselves here three
knots!”
The order to turn back was given by
Welford, and the next moment the
three boats were pulling against the
stream in the direction of the sloop of
war, from which they were about one
mile and a half distant, the twinkling of
her stern-light being just visible.
“Sir William will probably order us
at once, as soon as we report to him, to
take possession of her,” shouted Arling
to the lieutenant; “and in that case I
now claim of you the lead in the expedition!
It is my right after I have suffered
so much!”
“You shall have it, Arling!” answered
he officer, who was his superior
in naval rank, although the former was
for the time being in command of the
schooner.
Leaving the three boats pulling with
all their strength in the direction of
the sloop of war, we now return to the
brig, which we left just entering the
harbor, and within half a mile of the
town.
The two boats had been seen by
Captain Benbow through his glass, and,
as he knew the Bexley to be at anchor
above, he suspected them to be her
boats sent down the bay to learn the
cause of the firing.
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“That will be all in our favor,” said
Mr. Frankland; “for the fewer boats
the sloop of war has the better for us!
But they are probably only fishermen
rowing down to corly on their fishing
ground.”
“No, sir! They are man-of-war
boats, I can see that, and full of men;
and they are pulling at a slashing pace
down the bay. That is the reason they
don't see us; and then we are so close
under the land, that probably we are
blended with it! Mr. Coffin, send up
and have the royals furled!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“And then clue up the topgallant
sails! We are standing up now, Mr.
Frankland, pretty well towards the
town!”
“Yes, sir,” answered the merchant,
who was walking the deck with his
hands behind him, and maturing his plan
of conduct. “Keep as far away from
the sloop of war as you can, safely, with
the depth of water!”
“Do you wish me to steer the brig
into the dock, sir, south of your wharf?'
asked Master Finch, who was at the
helm.
Mr. Frankland deliberated a moment,
and then replied with firmness.
“Yes, Master Finch! There is no
other course if I would carry out my
resistance to the imposition of duties!”
“You won't, then, come to anchor off
the pier?” asked Captain Benbow.
“No, but run directly into the dock,
between the wharves, and lay along-side
my store-house.”
“Very well, sir! Shorten sail as
fast as you can, Mr. Coffin, for we are
running close in! Furl the topsails,
and haul up the fore-course! We will
run in with only the jib and try-sail set;
these will give us way enough!”
The brig had now got up opposite
the town, and close in with the wharves
towards which she was standing, under
just canvass enough to give her headway.
The town, with its lights in its
windows here and there, seemed perfectly
quiet, and wholly unsuspicious of
the brig's arrival; but as they drew
nearer the docks, Captain Benbow, with
his spy-glass at his eye, reported that
there was certainly a large number of
persons on the end of the pier.
“You are right,” said Mr. Frankland,
“I can see them distinctly. Be
assured they are my friends! It was
understood between myself and four or
five of my friends, that if they saw the
brig coming in they were to take possession
of the wharf, with as many
friendly persons as they saw fit to give
me aid! They were to close the gate
at the head of the wharf to keep out
enemies, but especially the deputy officers
of customs; for if one should get
his foot on board, the duties are the
king's; for we could not well throw him
overboard or hang him!”
“Good evening, Mr. Frankland! I
am really glad to find myself once more
safely back to Newport! It has been
quite a pleasant sail up!”
If the deck had opened beneath his
feet, and the ghost of one who had long
been dead had appeared before him, the
merchant could not have been more confounded
and amazed than he was, on
turning and beholding standing before
him the commissioner of customs! He
started back, and gazed upon him as
the light from the companion-way shone
full upon him, with feelings that it
would be difficult to analyse. He
could hardly believe his eyes, nor could
Captain Benbow either, to whom Mr.
Riverton was well known. But there
he was, in his proper bodily presence,
smiling and bowing, and looking quite
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
as much pleased as they looked disconcerted.
He was a little worse for
his immersion, his nicely powdered wig
hanging damp about his ears, and his
whole wardrobe rather forlorn and halfdrowned.
“Is it possible, Mr. Riverton, that it
is you I see on board here?” at length
exclaimed the merchant.
“It is, neighbor Frankland,” responded
the commissioner. “It is my
own proper person!”
“And where, in the devil's name
did you come from?” demanded Mr.
Frankland, for the first time in his life
using an expression strongly verging
upon an oath.
CHAPTER XVI.
The commissioner, after enjoying for
a moment the surprise which his presence
on deck had created, and feeling
too much over-joyed at having secured
his position on board of, the Free-Trader,
to fear the consequences that
might follow his showing himself, thus
replied to the amazed inquiry of the
merchant,
“There is no miracle, sir, about it,
unless it is a miracle that I was not
drowned! When the boat which you
sunk so unceremoniously, as if men's
lives were of no more value than
kitten's, wont down, I was thrown into
the water with the rest, and should certainly
have been drowned if I had
known how to swim a little, for then I
should have tried to have made the
shore, and should certainly have gone
to the bottom before I get on soundings.
But not swimming, I had no
sooner risen to the surface than I
tried to grasp hold of the brig's side;
but could get nothing to cling to,
and was going under again when I saw
the rudder, and I scrampled towards it
some how and grasped it! There was
an iron ring in it, which was the best
friend ever I had. I held on to it, and
after collecting myself a little, I found
that if I exerted myself I could
climb up into the cabin windows. I
did for a moment think of calling to
those in the boat to tell them I was
there, and asking them to come for me;
but the moment I thought of the cabin
windows I changed my mind; for, said I
to myself, here I am, having fairly
effected a lodgment upon the brig, and I
mean to make it sure, if I die for it! So
I resolved to watch my time and crawl
into the window of the cabin; for after
having ran so many dangers to get on
board, I did not feel like giving up the
hope of finally ensconcing myself between
decks. So, after all was quiet,
I crept up into the cabin window and
safely landed myself within; and there
I have remained in a berth till three
minutes ago, when hearing by your conversation
that we were near the wharf,
I thought I would present myself, as
this is about the place in the harbour
where a vessel coming in should take an
officer of the customs on board!”
“Shall I pinion him, Mr. Frankland?”
asked the captain, in an under
tone, and evidently chagrined, “I will
deeply pinion him if you say so, and keep
him prisoner below till the cargo is stored.
No one knows he is on board, and no
doubt the officers of the boat suppose
him to be drowned! Give me the
word, and I'll take care he don't trouble
us till the brig is clear of the wines and
sugars, the only dutiable articles!”
“I have nothing to say against any
course you pursue, Captain Benbow,”
responded Mr. Frankland, in the same
tone.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“Then heave a-head! All is safe.
Come with me into the cabin, Mr.
Riverton, and let me show you my
manifest; and give you also a glass of
brandy and water; for your wetting may
give you a bad cold. I am very glad
you were not drowned! I should have
regretted it very much; and trust that
none of the seamen were lost or hurt!
Come, sir, now you are on board we
must take care of you as hospitably as
we can.
“I am glad you have thought better
of it, Captain Benbow. I hope it won't
go hard with you about resisting the
boats, for we have been friends and
neighbours in our day! I do think a
little brandy wouldn't hurt me! It is
rather chilly being so long in wet
clothes! Come, neighbor Frankland,
suppose you join us, and drink the
king's health.”
“I have no objection to drinking
my king's health, Mr. Riverton, nor of
yielding proper obedience to his laws;
but I cannot submit to be treated as a
serf, and as serfs the king is pleased to
treat his faithful colonists. We have
fought his battles against the French in
Canada, taken for him Louisburg, and
always shown ourselves loyal and true
subjects. I never will refuse to drink
his majesty's health; for though I love
not his laws I respect his person!”
“Come, Mr. Riverton, I can't be
very long absent from the deck!” said
the captain.
“True. I will just look at your
manifest, and see what you have got,
and drink a glass and be on deck
again. I am glad this matter, friend
Franklin, has ended so quietly. The
king will have his duties on your cargo,
and you will sleep with a good conscience
after paying them!”
With these words the commissioner,
little suspecting the trap that the angry
captain was laying for him, followed
him down into the cabin.
“Here is where I keep my wines,
Mr. Riverton,” said the captain, opening
a locker beneath the companion-stairs.
Just look in and see what a cool
place!”
The commissioner stooped to comply,
when Captain Benbow, with a strong
grasp upon his two shoulders pushed
him into the closet, and clapping to the
door locked it, and rolled a half pipe of
wine against the door.
“There, you will be safe there, my
man, till I choose to let you out again!”
muttered the captain, with an emphatic
manner.
“For the love of mercy! Help!
help! Murder! help! Treason!
Let me out! Oh, murder!” were cries
that proceeded from the terrified and
surprised officer of customs.
“Silence, or I will blow you up with
a cask of powder that is close by your
door!” cried Captain Benbow. “So
let me not hear your voice till I am
ready to let you out! You came on
board without my consent, and you
must stay here without your own.
Keep quiet, is all the caution I give you,
master Riverton!”
With these words of menace, the
captain left him, and hastened on deck.
“What have you done with him,”
asked Mr. Frankland eagerly.
“Locked him up! He is safe
enough, and frightened out of his wits!
Now I am ready, sir, to attend to your
directions!”
“Only to bring the brig alongside
the pier as expeditiously as possible,
and when she is secured to open your
hatches and break bulk. It looks odd
to see a merchant compelled to steal his
own goods out of his own vessel, to save
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being robbed of them by the king! I
am conscientious in what I am doing,
Captain Benbow!”
“We are pretty well in now! another
cable's length and we shall be abreast
of the end of the pier! What is that,
Mr. Coffin?”
“A boat, sir, coming from the wharf!
Ho! the boat!”
“Birchell, the tide-waiter! Throw
me a rope, for I'm coming aboard in the
king's name!”
“Here is another of them!” cried
Captain Benbow, “shall we sink him?”
“No, we have his principal here, and
that is enough,” annswered the merchant.
“But he must be prevented if
possible; but use no violence, or there
may be a commotion in the crowd who
are looking on! Let everything be
conducted as quietly as may be now!”
“We have no spare ropes, Master
Birchell,” responded the mate, as the
collector's boat, with but one person at
the stern-wheels and two oars, went
under the bows with a rapid movement.
“I must then get on board as I can,”
answered Birchell resolutely.
“Don't harm him, Mr Coffin, but
keep him from getting hold. He is a
hard-faced, resolute fellow, and will
prove a harder customer than the commissioner!”
While he was speaking there was
a cry of surprise forward, and
“He is aboard!” reached their ears.
“Yes, indeed, I am on board, and
I mean to stay here, Captain Benbow.
Glad to see you home again! I knew
the Free-Trader as soon as she began
to appear in sight, ten minutes ago!
Ah, Squire Frankland, your humble
servant, sir! I am happy to be the first
man on board the first craft that has
come into port under the new law! You
have plenty of sugars and wines, hey!”
“You are welcome, Birchell!” answered
the captain, not a little annoyed.
“If I ai'nt it is not my fault. I caught
the brig's martingale as she was passing
and throwing myself on her bowsprit,
was upon the forecastle in a jiffy. Did
you see anything of an armed schooner
below?” he asked significantly.
“Yes, we left one aground on the
shoal, four miles below! But walk
into the cabin, Mr. Birchell! I have
some capital brandy!”
“To be sure! Right from the fountain,
where it flows, in the West
Indies! I never refused a good offer,
yet. I'd like to take a bottle of it home
as a present, after I see the brig unloaded
and all your freight entered
to-morrow, 'cording to law!”
“Mr. Coffin, take the brig up to the
wharf, and get every thing snug al oft
and open the hatches. Mr. Frankland
will have men to help hoist out the cargo.
We have a hard night's work before
us, and you must be lively with the
men. I am going below to lock up this
blustering tide-waiter. Come, Birchell,”
he added in a louder tone of voice
to the deputy officer.
“I'm there, captain, I am,” responded
Birchell, and with a swaggering air,
for his successful boarding of the brig,
which certain people in town prophecied
he would never see the inside of until
she was unladen, had elated him, he
followed Captain Benbow into the cabin.
“Nice, comfortable cabin you have,
here, captain, real nice snug box, for a
single man,” said the tide-waiter, looking
about him. “How many days from
Madeira?”
“Forty, to-morrow.”
“Good passage, very. And how
many did you have from the Havana to
Madcira?”
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“Half as many,” answered Captain
Benbow politely, as he opened a case of
spirits and drew forth a square gilt bottle,
labelled “French Brandy,” in gold
lettering.
“Ah, that is the kind for weak eyes,
Benbow,” exclaimed Birchell, his eyes
snapping at the sight of the rich ruby
tint, as the captain held it up to the
light. “You have a taste in selecting
the best, Captain. How much duty
think the brig 'll pay the king on this
venture?”
“Well, we may have about thirty
thousand dollars in wines and sugars in
the hold,” answered Benbow, pouring
out half a tumbler of brandy into a glass,
into which unseen by the tide-master,
he had previously poured a large dose of
laudanum, enough to produce sound
and long sleep, but without danger.—
“There, Mr. Birchell, try that! You
will find some loaf sugar there before
you.”
“I never dilute, Captain. Here's to
his majesty's health, and a long life to
him. Your health, Captain Benbow,
and luck to your brig.” With this
miscellaneous sort of a toast, Birchell,
who was slightly tipsy when he came
on board, drunk off the potion.
“Capital brandy, but it seems to me
it has a taste of—of—what is it?”
“Perhaps there may have been a
taste of camphor in the tumbler.”
“That is it. Nevertheless, it was
capital liquor.”
“Take a clear glass and try some
that has no smell of camphor,” said
Captain Benbow drily.
“Well, I think I will,” responded
Birchell, as he received a second glass,
without any foreign mixture from the
captain. “But you don't drink.”
“I will pledge you sir.”
“Here's luck and a rich voyage
next time out,” said Birchell, as he
tossed off the brandy. “Ah, that is
the nectar! No camphor there, Capting,
I'm blessed if there is!” and with
an expression of very high satisfaction
upon his countenance, he replaced the
glass upon the transum.
“I suppose you would like to see my
manifest, Birchell?” asked Captain
Benbow closely watching his face to
see the effect of his stupefying draught.
“Yes, I don't mean you shall get
off without paying every penny of the
duty. I am a king's officer, I am, and
I must do my duty, and my duty is to
look after your duty, hey? Yes it is.
Your brandy is confounded strong, Benbow.
It is busty strong! Fourth proof
eh?” and Birchell's eyes looked heavy,
and he soon sank upon a camp stool.
“It begins to do it for him,” said
Captain Benbow o himself. “He will
soon be quiet enough.”
“B—B—Ben—bo—bow!”
“Well, Birchell.”
“I am a kin—kin—king's officer, I
am. Keep my eyes open for me!—
Strong br—br—brandy, Benbow, it is. I
say, Benbow, I say, I'm a ki-king's—”
Here the tide-waiter, whose senses
had been each moment yielding to the
influence of the laudanum, fell over and
rolled upon the cabin floor in a state of
stupefaction.
“There he will lie sound enough
until morning, when I will have the hog
hoisted ashore, and the king may take
him for duties.”
“Captain?” called a faint voice from
the locker, “Captain, I'm smothering.”
“There's plenty of air there, Master
Riverton. You must be quiet. Remember
my threat!” and with these
words Captain Benbow ascended to the
deck, locking both of the cabin doors,
and drawing the top of the companion
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way over, so as to prevent all intrusion
below.
CHAPTER XVII.
When the captain of the Free-Trader
reached the deck of his brig, he
found that she was close up to the
wharf, and that men were busily securing
her to the wharf posts. Above him
rose the walls of Mr. Frankland's store-house,
and the pier head was dark with
a crowd of not less than one hundred
men.
“He is dead drunk, sir, and fast
asleep. I've fixed him for to-night,”
were Captain Benbow's words, as he
passed the merchant, who was talking
with a citizen upon the wharf, who carried
a lanthorn in his hand.
“The people now on the wharf are
all our friends,” said the merchant to
Mr. Frankland. “We have had charge
of the gate above, and admitted none
others; and, indeed, the majority of the
town are on our side. But you can do
nothing, sir, with the Bexley at anchor
so near.”
“The Bexley will hardly open her
batteries upon us in the night, with the
town in range. If she sends her boats,
we must do the best we can with them.
We have already resisted successfully
an attempt of two boats from the Gaspee
to board us, and in return we were
cannonaded, but in the darkness escaped,
and have succeeded in reaching
port.”
“The whole town has been in a state
of excitement about the firing. Things
have come to a crisis at last. Where
is Birchell? Didn't he get on board?
He tried to come down on the wharf,
but couldn't pass the gate, and so went
round, and with a custom-house boat
pulled out to board you before you
should touch the pier. I thought I saw
him get on board.”
“He is here, but will hardly trouble
us,” answered Mr. Frankland. “How
many men have you on the wharf willing
to work in unloading the brig?”
“Every man of them, old and young,
I believe would turn to. But the Captain
is getting ready to go to work, I
see.”
“Off with the hatches, Mr. Coffin,”
cried Captain Benbow, “and rig the
tackle for hoisting out. We must be
lively.”
“You see we are resolved sir,” answered
Mr. Frankland.
“But the Bexley's boats will be here
ere long.”
“We shall continue to work till they
do come, and then we must keep them
out of the brig. There are men enough
our friends, to overawe any party that
would approach us from the sloop.”
“But are you really going to land
your cargo in the face of this ship-of-war,
Mr. Frankland?” cried another
merchant coming on board. “It is
madness!”
“I shall make the attempt. In landing
my cargo I am only doing what I
have a right to do.”
“But the consequences, sir.”
“I leave consequences to take care
of themselves. I am acting from a high
principle, sir.”
“The brig and cargo will be forfeited,
and you will be imprisoned!”
“I shall do all I can to prevent it.”
“I see lights moving quickly here and
there about the sloop's decks; you may
be sure they will send their armed
boats.”
“I do not fear them. There are at
least five hundred men on this and other
piers, if I can judge of numbers in
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the dark, and of these I know most are
opposed to the revenue laws, and will
see me out in any resistance I may
make.”
“Resistance without arms?” exclaimed
the merchant, with surprise and
doubt.
“Yes, sir. Do not be amazed, Mr.
Farly, the day is not far distant when
the colonies will fly to arms from the
north to the south to resist the oppression
of the crown, of which these laws are
but the beginning”
“You will lose your head, sir, to attempt
by force to oppose the king's
boats,” said the same person. “The
Bexley will be sure to open her broad-sides
upon the town, if any of the people
engage with you to resist their
boats.”
“Mr. Frankland, all is ready, sir, to
begin to hoist out the cargo,” said
Captain Benbow. “We only wait for
your store-house doors to be opened.”
“Which they shall be without delay,”
answered Mr. Frankland, leaving
the gentlemen, and stepping upon the
pier, upon which his stores stood.—
In a few moments he had unlocked the
doors, and when the people by the light
of the numerous lanthorns held by persons
in the crowd and hoisted in the
rigging, saw them open, they shouted
aloud, and filled the air with “Three
cheers for Mr. Frankland! Down with
the Revenue! Hurrah for the Free-Trader
and Captain Benbow.”
“I wonder where the officers of the
customs are?” observed the town clerk,
a warm tory, bustling about the deck in
his silver laced chapeau and gold headed
stick. I don't see either Mr. Riverton
nor even the tide-master. Things
have come to a pass! Stop, Captain
Benbow, I forbid in the king's name,
landing any of this cargo!”
“Mr. Clerk, I advise you to leave
my brig's deck, sir,” replied Captain
Benbow, resolutely. “You may happen
to get a cask of wine on your head,
or a box of sugar on your toes. You
will find safety in discretion to-night.”
“Out with him! Hussle him overboard!”
cried several rough voices.—
“We want no king's men here tonight!”
“Down with the tories! No king's
revenue for freemen!” shouted a hundred
voices on the wharf.
The crowd each moment increased,
and became more and more resolute
and patriotic in their hatred to the new
laws. The lanthorns, as they glowed
upon the masses of human faces, showed
men aged and gray-haired, leaning on
their staffs, middle aged men with stern
visages, armed with stones or bludgeons,
and some even with firelocks, and
lads even of tender age. Every face
bore an expression of resolute defiance,
and that earnest, enthusiastic look,
which can only proceed from the profoundest
excitement. It was a singular
and wild scene, and as Mr. Frankland
glanced his eye for an instant over
the glare illumined faces of six or seven
hundred persons all moved by one spirit,
and actuated by one feeling, and as his
ears caught the deep murmurs of approbation
that broke from them, as pipe
after pipe was hoisted from the hold
and swung by a score of strong and
willing arms into his store house, he
trembled at the power he had been instrumental
in setting in motion, while
at the same time he rejoiced in the love
of freedom so clearly manifested by
them at such a crisis. He turned to
the timid merchant who had been
speaking of the Bexley's boats and fearing
them.
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“Look at those men, old and young,
and see if you think I have anything to
fear from the Bexley, though she should
send all her boats with a hundred of her
men. There is a power in those masses
that they would not dare to provoke,
by attempting to board the brig.”
“True, Mr. Frankland, but though
you might prevent their coming on board
to-night, you will suffer to-morrow.—
The sloop will certainly open with her
guns upon your brig and store-house, for
these are all that will be in range of her
shot. You will certainly lose your
vessel, and perhaps your life. My advice
to you is, that if they come, you
let them place on board Mr. Riverton,
the commissioners, and—”
“And so virtually acknowledge the
right of the crown to take tribute of the
colonies! No, no, sir; and besides
Mr. Riverton is not on board the Bexley.”
“Heave-he-yeoh! Sing cheerily
ho yeo! All together, pull boys, yeo-heave-ho!”
Thus loudly rang the voices
of the men at work, and with astonishing
celerity pipe and cask, box and
bag were hoisted up and swung into the
large door of the store-house. Every
ten minutes the gangs were relieved,
for men rivalled each other in their desire
to show their patriotism and detestation
of the crown laws, by lending a
hand to the fall and assist. There
seemed a spirit of haughty defiance and
contemptuous indifference combined by
the near vicinage of the sloop-of-war!
The men who labored at the fall, appeared
to give out their voices as if
they desired that they should be heard
on board the Bexley, for all hopes of
performing the task of unlading the
brig, which Mr. Frankland had contemplated
in the outset, without noise
or observation, were out of the question;
inasmuch as all the town were alive,
and boats containing friends to the revenue
had no doubt put off to the sloop
to report the proceedings. So he made
no attempt to enforce silence; and in
his heart rejoiced that the English officers
could have now an opportunity of
seeing demonstrated the unpopularity
of the law with the people; for it had
been published in England that only a
few of the more opulent merchants
would oppose it, while the masses
would gladly see it imposed.
“The proceedings of this night,”
said Mr. Frankland, as he stood near
Captain Benbow watching the people
at work, “will show the ministry that
it is not safe to try the experiment of
seeing how free-born men will wear a
yoke. I do not shrink from any result
of my conduct, captain, and am ready
to stand in the breach. But with you
it is different, and your crew. Your
presence is no more needed on board,
and your family claim your attention.
You have faithfully served me and shall
have your reward. There is no doubt
that you will be aimed at particularly
for resisting the two boats!”
“I am willing to be the target then!”
answered the captain, stoutly.
“But I am not willing you should be.
You acted under my orders; but it is
not known I was on board at the time,
save by the commissioner, and I will
risk his report. My wish and advice
is, for you to take the brig's yawl and
put into it what you wish to take home,
and take all your crew with you, not
leaving a man for the English captain
to inflict vengeance upon. In four or
five hours, at least by sunrise, you can
reach Bristol. There remain secretly
with your family till you hear from me.
I do not wish evil to come upon you.
Your crew are now no longer wanted,
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as their place is taken in discharging
the cargo, by my patriotic townsmen,
as you see; volunteers from whom are
so numerous, that they are even in each
other's way! No objections, for I will
not hear them!”
“But it looks so like skulking!!'
“It is my command! you must obey
it. No one would ever question your
courage, captain. You owe it to your
men to try and save them. I and my
friends here can look after the brig's
safety. As soon as it will be safe for
you to return to Newport, I will send
you word. A few days, at the most,
will put an end to the merits of this
present affair. In a week's time, perhaps,
certain the worst will be known
that is to be. Now order the yawl
round at once; for the Bexley's boats
may be here and blockade you!”
“I expected them to be here before
this, sir; and therefore I am positive
it was them I saw pulling down the bay
toward the Gaspee!”
“So much the better for us! I have
spoken to Mr. Coffin, who is ready to
second my wishes and go with you.—
He is now collecting the crew!”
“Well, Mr. Frankland, I have no
more to say. I dare say it is the best
course for me; and, as you say, I can
be of no more service on board, now
that the brig is at the wharf and you
are here to superintend. So I'll be off;
for, to tell you the truth, I shall be very
glad to see my wife and children! I
must go into the cabin to get my clothes
and some little presents I have got for
the little folks at home: and some other
things I wish you would have taken out
by some men you can trust and put in
your counting-room to keep for me;
for if they should take the brig, I would
not like to lose them!”
“I will see to them all!”
“And I leave Birchell, also to your
care. I gave him at least half a
wine-glass of Iaudanum in his brandy.
The liquor will keep it from hurting
him; but he will not wake for one
while. I would let him lie where he is.
Then there is the commissioner in the
locker!”
“I'll take care that he does n't get
out,” answered Mr. Frankland, smiling
at the manner in which the captain
made these communications.
Captain Benbow then went into his
cabin, where he found the tide-waiter,
Birchell, still upon the floor in deep
sleep. He did not disturb him, but
packing up the articles he wished to
take with him, he placed them within
reach of the cabin window.
“Captain, my dear Captain Benbow!”
called out the commissioner from his
hiding-place, “I am nearly perished
for air and room to move my limbs!”
“You should not have made yourself
so officious, Master Riverton! Good
night. When the cargo is out you shall
be let out, not before!”
With these comforting words, Captain
Benbow returned to the deck; and
in five minutes afterwards he had got
into his boat with his mate and eight
men, and with what bundles they could
make up on the spur of the moment.
Taking leave of Mr. Frankland, he
dropped astern, and delaying but for an
instant under the cabin windows to
take into the boat the parcels he had
placed there, he gave orders to push
off and row up against the stream past
the town.
The night was starry, and a seaman
could make out a boat on the water,
even at the distance of the Bexley; but
nothing met the eye of the captain, as
he keenly surveyed the space between
his boat and the sloop, to indicate any
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movement on her part towards ascertaining
the cause of the excitement in
the town; for he was certain the numerous
lanterns on the pier, and the shouts
of the people must have been noticed
on board, even if the brig herself had
not been seen to arrive and enter the
dock. He could only account for their
apparent indifference from the fact
that her boats had been sent down the
bay; and thus he was confirmed in his
affirmation that those which he had seen
were men-of-war barges, though pronounced
by the less practised eye of Mr.
Frankland to be fishermen.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Leaving Captain Benbow and his
boats' crew pulling up the bay towards
Bristol, to avoid the consequences that
might follow the firm and bold resistance
he had made to the Gaspee's barges,
and leaving the brig in the hands of
the towns-people, who are discharging
her eargo with such patriotic zeal, we
will return to the youthful seaman,
Martin Manwaring, whom we left swimming
for the shore after his escape
from the sloop of war.
We have seen with what success his
perilous and bold ruse was crowned, securing
his safety by what at first seemed
to threaten it.
Finding that the whole attention of
the officers and men were directed astern
to the buoy, which he had, with
great self-possession cut loose, he felt
that he should escape without being discovered.
With strong arms and much
skill he combatted the current, endeavoring
so to direct his course as to reach
the island, and there rest and take
breath before he proceeded to the main-land.
But he found the tide too strong
for him to swim against without exhausting
the strength which it became him to
husband; for he had a long and arduous
swim before him.
Therefore, he gave up the idea of
reaching the island by stemming the
tide, and resolved to strike out at his
ease, and rather with the current than
against it, trusting he should at least
reach the shore not a great ways below
the town.
The sloop at which he had been a
prisoner was fast blending its masts and
yards with the darkness as he swam on,
and soon he could only faintly discern
the dark mass of her hull resting in the
water like a huge rock. He at length
could only tell her position by the lights
on her deck. The explosion of the
rocket had alarmed him for his safety;
for he felt convinced that if they threw
up several he would be likely to be discovered.
He, consequently, swam a
great deal beneath the surface; till at
length he began to experience great fatigue.
Upon this he ceased his exertions,
and throwing himself flat upon
the water, he floated for many rods
with the current. He had to resort to
this method of resting himself four or
five times, which caused the tide to take
him down the bay almost as fast as he
swam landward. At length he rejoiced
to find himself near the shore, for he
began to feel that if it were very far distant
he should be unable to reach it.—
His arms had now become so tired that
he began to think he had undertaken too
much in attempting to reach the land
from the ship; but inspired with the
hope of liberty, and above all with the
hope of once more seeing his mother,
he took heart and pressed manfully
onward towards the shore, on which he
could discern even the trees and shrubs
relieved against the star-lit sky.
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“I shall soon be there,” he said, as
he swam onward with all his remaining
strength; “I shall soon behold my
mother! Courage! The shore is not
far!” And again he pressed onward;
for he saw that he was now just above
a projection of the shore, and that if he
drifted past it he should hardly gain the
land; for below the point the shores receded.
But ere he got near it his
strength was almost gone. He could
no longer move his arms with the confident
sweep and athletic form with which
he started from the ship. He found his
head submerged several times from exhaustion,
and at length he found that
he could scarcely keep his head above
water. Still he struggled on, sometimes
breathing heavily above the surface, at
others lost beneath it. It was at each
moment becoming a struggle between
life and death. The shores seemed to
be within his grasp when he lost sight
of them and found that he had not
strength left to raise himself again to
the top of the water. He felt himself
descending, and was about to surrender
himself to his fate, when he felt his feet
touch the bottom. With reserved hope
and strength he once more renewed his
exertions, and partly by swimming and
partly by clambering over the slimy
rocks below the water, he emerged
where it was shoal enough for him to
stand. He tottered forward to a flat
rock a few feet from him close to the
verge of the beach, and casting his
weary frame upon it, he thanked heaven
for his preservation. But he was almost
insensible from what he had gone
through, and after one or two attempts
to rise and climb the rocks he sank
back, saying faintly,
“I had best rest here for a few minutes!
I am completely exhausted!—
Welcome, liberty! welcome, my be
loved native shore! I would rather perish
here on thy naked rocks than reign
upon the throne of England. If I die
here, thank God I die upon the rocks
where in childhood and boyhood my
feet have trod in happy buoyancy —
From this very rock I have fished, and
it was here I met the little beautiful
girl who—”
Here his voice fell, and overpowered
by drowsiness he sank into a heavy
sleep, the effect of his exposure in the
water combined with weariness of the
body.
Leaving him here to its restorative
influence we will go and follow the fortunes
for this eventful evening of our
story, of the fair maiden whom we introduced
into its opening chapter, the beautiful
Barbara Frankland.
We last left her accompanied by her
father, in the act of descending Signal
Hill towards her home, he himself hastening
thither to make preparations to
go down to meet his brig, an enterprize,
the result of which thus far, we have
witnessed.
Upon her father's departure from the
house to go to the cave, where he was
to meet Finch with the boat, she insisted
on accompanying him, to see him
embark, saying that she was not afraid
to return alone. He, however, permitted
her to attend him only as far as the
path which led round the foot of the
hill, when he took leave of her, saying
that he should return the next day.
He then hastened on along the beach
until he met his boat and embarked
down the bay as we have seen. But
Barbara, instead of returning immediately
homeward, seeing a light sparkling
in the window of poor Margaret's
hut, went towards it; for she felt like
asking her more questions, touching her
singular explanation of her three-fold
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dream. From the hour that she had
quitted her her words had been upon
her mind, and she could not forbear giving
to them more weight than she felt
they deserved; indeed she felt ashamed
at giving any credence whatever to what
she had said to her. She tried to laugh
off the impression, and to bring to aid
reason and religion, as both hostile to
anything like supernatural revelations
of this kind from such a source.
It was, therefore, partly to see dame
Margaret a second time, as well as a desire
to see her father depart in the boat
and receive his “good night,” that she
accompanied him. The place where
he had taken boat was about a quarter
of a mile below the hut, and the spot
where he took leave of her urging her
return home at once, was about one
yard above, or rather in the rear of the
hut.
“I will certainly take this opportunity
to say one word more to Margaret,”
she said, “and I can then reach home
safely. It is a retired path from this
home and no one is ever to be met upon
it. The light that glimmers in her
window seems to invite me! I know
it is very foolish and perhaps very wrong
for me to consult her, and then to let
what she chooses to reveal, or call revelations,
make such an impression upon
me. But I can't resist it! Her words
have raised my curiosity to know more.
But can she tell me more? At least I
will learn from her all that she professes
to know.”
Then as if willing to silence all other
objections she hurried forward, and
was in a few moments at the door of
the hut, at which she rapped loudly;
for the darkness and solitude of the
place began already to create in her bosom
emotions of fear.
Who comes? Good or Evil, who
knocks at this hour at the mad woman's
door?”
“A friend! It is me, Margaret.”
“Friends are angels that one hears
much of but never sees. But I should
know the voice; for it is a pleasant
one!”
“It is Barbara Frankland.”
“And Barbara Frankland is always
welcome beneath my roof,” answered
the woman, coming to the door, which
he previously unbolted, and holding a
light in her hand, by which her tall, majestic
figure, and wild, yet noble countenance,
were seen to striking advantage.
Barbara shrank back a step with
awe, and an inward feeling of reverence.
“Margaret, I came to accompany
my father to the cove, where he has taken
a boat to go down the bay to meet
a brig he expects up; and I thought I
would call in and see you, and invite
you to go up to the house with me. I
have some things that I wish to give
you.”
“That may be, lady, for you are always
generous, thou and thy father,
and Heaven bless you! But it is not to
ask me to go home with thee that thou
art here. But come in, and tell me
thy errand,” she said, as she closed the
door. “It is over late for a young girl
like thee to be abroad unattended, and
on so lonely a path; and when thou
goest I will go with thee to protect thee.
Mad Margaret can walk any where and
no man dare insult me! Hast thou
eaten thy evening meal? Poor as I am
I do not forget hospitality. I was at my
humble fare when you came in. It is
but a cake of brown bread and a fish,
with a cup of tea.”
“You are favored, Margaret, in having
such a luxury as tea,” said Barbara,
smiling.
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“Yes; but there is a captain, who
never returns to port, that he does not
make a present of a few pounds of tea
and sugar; for he loved my dear boy,
and for his sake he is kind and dear to
me! Come, maiden, sit down. I have
another cup you see; for I don't know
how it is, but I always set that cup and
plate there. I sometimes think he
might sit there again as he used to do,
and — but I shall be a child to cry!
Let the boy pass!” she cried, sternly
and suddenly, as if she felt too proud to
grieve. “Sit there in his place. None
could so well occupy it! No one has
sat there since he—”
“Nay, do not speak of him, Margaret!
I will gladly remain and drink a
cup of tea with thee, if as thou hast
promised, thou wilt walk home with
me!”
With these words, Barbara seated
herself upon a straw-bottomed chair,
by the table, which was about three feet
square, covered with a coarse but white
cloth, and garnished with a black teapot;
a couple of delf plates, two cups
and saucers of the same kind of ware,
and a plate of brown bread, and another
of dried fish. The maiden had already
taken supper with her father, but
she did not wish to wound Margaret's
sensitiveness touching hospitality, and
she therefore condescended to take a
seat at her homely board.
“And where can the merchant be
gone to night, that he takes boat so
late?” asked Margaret, as she poured
out a cup of fragrant tea, the agreeable
odor of which, would have excited the
thirst of a Chinese mandarin.
“He expects a brig in, I believe, and
wishes to meet her before she comes up
to town.”
“There, Miss Barbara, is your tea. I
have none but the brown sugar; and I
have no cream.”
“It is very good as it is, Margaret,”
answered the maiden. “How lonely
you must be here to be always alone.”
“I am never alone. I have with me
the memory of my boy, and then there
is One who is always present!” she added,
looking upward with reverence.—
“But we we will talk of something else.
My heart will swell yet when I speak
of my noble lad! I can't forget him!
I live only with the hope of seeing him
in a better world! They say, I am
crazed, that the loss of my boy crazed
me! Perhaps I am, for I know I am
not as I was when he was with me. I
have been a different person since.—
Sometimes, I have been many weeks,
and could not tell at the end what I was
doing all the while or where I was!—
But people said I wandered by the sea,
and lived on shells and sat upon the
rocks and sang about my boy; and called
sometimes to the waves to give him
back to me. Perhaps I did, perhaps I
did; for I cannot recollect! I know that
sometimes I see only five or six days of
a month; the rest go and I know nothing
of them. I remember it was one
Sunday morning I was seated in my
door listening to God's bells ring his
people to worship him, and the next
thing I remembered I was twenty miles
away down the bay; and people told
me I had been there two weeks; but I
know not how I got there! Perhaps I
am crazy! perhaps I am!” she said,
sadly, and placing her hand to her forehead.
“They tell me I have told a
great many fortunes at such times, and
they became true; but I remember it
not, Barbara! So your father has gone
down to meet his brig. He is a rich
and good man. You are his only child,
and will be rich! Take care of thy
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heart, maiden! Love not for riches, for
thou hast enough of thy own, but for
merit, though it come to thee in rags.”
“I have independence enough to do
it, Margaret,” responded the young girl,
with a smile of resolution.
CHAPTER XIX.
Margaret looked steadily through her
large dark eyes upon the maiden, as she
replied to her in the decided manner
that she did, and then said impressively,
“I know it, lady! I know thou art
not one of those who desire to add
silver to gold, but dost reverence worth
more than rank or wealth. I have
marked thee in thy daily walk and conversation,
and I know the goodness and
truth that is in thee! I see before thee
happiness and peace!”
“Thanks for these words, for I found
evil from the interpretation of my dream,
Margaret!”
“Said I so? Oh, no! I said the
dream foretold danger, but that thou
shouldst be-delivered from it!”
“Will you tell me what kind of
danger, and from whom?”
“That is not best for you to know,
lady! But I will tell thee that thou
art destined to make some deserving
young man happy. The cage in which
he kept thee as a bird, shows that he
is very poor, and can furnish thee no
house of more value than a cage. But
he will love thee, and the love of his
heart will be to thee instead of riches
that he hath not! But I can tell thee no
more!”
“Tell me my fortune, Margaret, as
thou hast those of other maidens in the
town!”
“That was when the dark spirit was
upon me! in the hours when I walked
in the body as if I was not in it, for I
knew not whither my feet wandered,
nor what my eyes saw, or my lips
spoke! Come to me, then, and I will
tell thee!”
“Nay, but now, Margaret,” persevered
Barbara, “Here is my tea-cup,
and the grounds, as I turn it up, form
themselves into strange shapes. Look
at them, and see what thou canst make
of them!”
“No, no! I cannot now! The
spirit of madness is not upon me now!”
she said sadly; “and Heaven be thanked
that it has passed for a while!”
“But you have just foretold things
for me!”
“No, not foretold, lady! I have but
interpreted thy dream. Thou didst give
me the text, and I gave thee but my
comments. See, first if the future
prove my words, ere thou givest me
credit for wisdom and cunning. I
think they will come to pass; but the
future no mortal knoweth! Dreams are
nearer the opening of the future than
anything else we know of on earth.
All scenery of dreams lies more or less
in the future! One that notes them
well can soon learn to interpret their
language. I have dreamed every night
since my poor boy went! and I have
studied my dreams to know what was
in them revealed touching him; and so
I am skilled in them! It is no more!
Yet I believe what I have said to thee
will take place. Danger and rescue;
love and loveliness! and the end peace
Hark! There is a heavy cannon fired!
The sound is down the bay!”
“My dear father! I hope he is not
in danger!” exclaimed Barbara, looking
from the window.
“No one can tell! There is a
second gun! There must be some
difficulty down the bay! I saw, just
after dark, the schooner of war that
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came up this afternoon, go down past;
and, doubtless, she has fallen in with
some vessel!”
“And fired upon her! I pray not,
for it may be the Free-Trader, with
my father on board!”
“Hope for the best, maiden! There
are other ships in the bay, no doubt;
And why should the schooner fire into
thy father's vessel?”
“You know the late laws the Parliament
has established, compelling all
merchants to pay heavy duties to the
crown!”
“Yes; it is in all men's mouths!”
“The merchants, with my father at
their head, have called a meeting, binding
themselves to resist the execution of
this law! The Free-Trader, one of my
father's ships, is below, and he has gone
down for the purpose of getting her
into port during the night, so that he
may not be compelled to pay the imposts;
for he thinks, and so do I, that he
owes it to the liberty and rights of the
colonies, now being trampled upon by
the king, in the most lawless and oppressive
mnnner, to resist and evade this
law!”
“He is right! The merchants and
men of the colonies are right! Heaven
will sustain them! Ah, proud George
of Hanover, thou art playing a losing
game with thy kingly cards!” she cried
with the air and the gestures of a prophetess.
“Thou wilt press the weak
till they turn upon thee, and smite the
crown from thy brow, and break thy
sceptre! This people, which thou art
trying to crush, and humble, and oppress,
fearing their might and power,
will become too great, they are freemen!
They know no lords but the
Lord above! There is not a serf
among them! Every man is the owner
of the soil he tills, and with the sweat
of his brow he eats his own bread, yes,
not for lords does he dig and delve, nor
will he be a king's slave! Resist, men
of the New World, the yoke of the Old!
Do ye not know that your destiny is
onward, and that these colonies shall
grow into an Empire that shall give
laws to half the world!”
“There goes a rocket into the sky!”
exclaimed Barbara, who had listened
with surprise to the thrilling words of
Margaret. “I fear some evil will
befal my dear father!”
“Nay, he is safe! A man who so
loves his country and hates oppression,
will not die at a time when brave men
are needed?”
“Can you tell what can be the meaning
of that rocket?”
“It must be to light the water that
they may see! Do not fear for the
good man, your father! Wilt thou go
home now? Perhaps in the town I
may learn for thee what this means.
Ere you came in I beheld a rocket go
up from the sloop-of-war, and glare the
sky wide and far; and for an instant it
was noon day!”
“I did not see it! It must have been
before my father and I left the house!
I am ready to return; but I do not fear
to go alone! Still I would rather have
you accompany me, as you can learn
from some persons in town their supposed
cause for the firing. I trust it is
not owing to the presence of the Free-Trader!”
The maiden left the cabin and waited
a moment outside for Margaret to secure
her door.
“I have not much of value to tempt
a thief's hand, lady, but the least article
which once belonged to my boy, in this
house, is dearer to me than gold!”
“Margaret,” said Barbara, as they
walked side by side in the path that led
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up over the hill, for Margaret said
she would take this, it being better seen
in the night; “you have alluded this
evening often to your son! Will you
forgive me if I ask you to tell me how it
was you lost him! It may relieve
your heart to talk about him; for in
almost everything you say you name
him. Speak freely and relieve your
heart. You have never told me how
he was taken from you!”
“Few have been told, maiden;
for to speak of him has roused my
madness. Few have dared to ask me!
But you speak gently, and seem to
sympathise with me. I will try and
talk to thee of him; for I know if he had
grown up to manhood he would have
loved thee as I love thee! Oh, he was
very beautiful, my darling boy! I can
recollect his dark hazel eyes, sparkling
with affection, and his sweet but noble
smiles! Then his hair was the riches
brown and fell about his neck in ringlets,
which in the sunshine were as rich
as gold!”
“How old was he then?” asked
Barbara, as she picked her way along
the winding path.
“He was sixteen then, for I am telling
thee how he looked the last time I
saw him. Dost thou not remember
him?”
“I never saw him, Margaret!”
“But I think he saw thee one day,
not long ere he was stolen from me;
and therefore thou must have seen him!
Dost thou recollect meeting one day on
the pictured rock, just after you came
home from Boston, where you were
at school, a lad who was fishing, you
having a basket of pebbles and shells on
your arm!”
“Yes, indeed I recollect him!” exclaimed
Barbara, with cheeks that she
felt were warm with her heart's emo
tions; and she felt glad that the darkness
hid her blushes of pleased surprise;
for well did she recollect the handsome
youth, and to this day had loved to
think of him. Often had she wondered
who he was, and why she never met
him again; for she visited that part of
the shore often for weeks afterwards,
with the secret hope of meeting him, or
seeing him, not knowing that he had
two days after that first interview been
torn from his home. But he had carried
away in his heart the indelible
memorial of her sweet face and pleasant
voice; and as we have seen she loved
to remember him. Their interview
had lasted but for a few moments, but
it was a delightful one to him. She
came upon him while fishing from the
rock, all unexpectedly walking along
with her head down, looking for shells
and colored pebbles. But he had seen
her coming along, and watched her with
surprise and delight, for he thought he
had never seen any one so beautiful.
He let her approach till the rock interrupted
her advance, when she looked
up and beheld his fair eyes bent admiringly
upon her. With a start and
exclamation between alarm and maidenly
modesty, she stepped back,
while her cheeks glowed like roses, and
said with pretty embarrassment,
“I did not see you before!”
“Do not run away,” he said smiling;
“I have several beautiful shells
and pebbles hid here in the rock, that I
have picked up at different times. I
see you like such things, and will give
give them to you!”
And without waiting for a reply he
dropped his line, and springing to his
feet went to a hollow in the rock, from
which he took his two hands-full of
handsome shells and stones, and ran and
threw them into her basket!
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“How beautiful they are!” exclaimed
Barbara, her heart quite won
by his politeness, his handsome face,
and his disposition to oblige her; and
no person could have made her a
present that would have been the half so
acceptable to her. “But you should
not do so! You have robbed yourself:
and—”
“I don't want them! I don't care
about them!” he said warmly.
“I don't know that I ought to keep
them, but you have mixed them up so
with mine, I don't know how to separate
them again!”
“I hope you won't try! Keep them!
and if you like any more of them I will
search the beach for them; for I know
better than you where to find the prettiest!”
“You are so kind; but I shan't take
any more; and I don't like to take
these; but that I may make it equal
with you, take that! It is not much;
but my father has always told me never
to receive a gift without returning it by
another. So keep it!”
“If you will give it as a gift,” answered
the youth, hesitating, and looking
deep admiration into her lovely eyes.
“I will take it; but I can't receive it as
a pay for the shells!”
“If you will take it, you may have it
as a gift,” answered the young girl,
blushing; and she placed in his hand a
little brooch of small value.
He took it, and with a gallant air
placed it in his bosom, saying,
“I shall keep it to remember you
by!”
“But I don't know you,” she answered,
as she gazed on the neat but
humble attire of the youth, which marked
his position to be beneath her own;
“I don't know who you are!”
“My name is —”
Before he completed the sentence
she had darted away from him up the
path-way, and upon looking around he
saw that she had taken alarm at a
pirogue containing a white man and an
Indian, that silently came paddling by,
and was close upon them before it was
discovered. Although she was but
fourteen, the little maid had too keen a
sense of propriety to be seen by such
men, holding, as it were, a confidential
conversation with the handsome young
fisherman, and thus she took to flight.
“We have scared the pretty bird,
Martin,” said the man laughing, as he
paddled his boat past.
“She was gathering shells on the
beach, and I only gave her some I collected,”
he answered, deeply confused.
The boat passed on its way and disappeared,
and the maiden also was out
of sight. He would have gone to overtake
her and talk more with her, and
ask her her name; but recollecting how
she had fled from the place, he feared
he should offend her. So he sat down
upon the rock again, and resumed his
fishing lines; but he caught no more
fish that day, for his thoughts were absent
and upon the beautiful maiden,
whose presence seemed more
like a vision than a reality. When he
returned home he related to his mother
the adventure, and begged her to learn
who she was. This she promised, to
please him; but the next day he was
forcibly taken off by a press-gang.
CHAPTER XX.
Such, then, being the history of Barbara's
interview with the unknown youth
who had never since that time been
forgotten by her, but rather remembered
with pleasure, it is not surprising that
she started with surprise, and that her
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heart bounded with strange joy, when
Margaret said to her—“If you do not
know that you have met with my dear
boy, he has seen you; and if he lives
to this day,” she added, “he remembers
you! But let us sit here upon this
bank! I am fatigued. We will walk
on after we rest.”
“Do you say he met me upon the
Carved Rock?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, lady, he met thee then, and
thou didst smile upon him and speak so
kindly to him that his boyish heart was
won at once!”
“I never met but one person there,
and he was a youth of sixteen, but—”
“But you think it could not be my
boy! Yet it was he. He came home
and told me how he had seen you, and
that he poured into a basket which you
carried—”
“All his beautiful shells!—”
“Yes, and that you in return gave
him a small brooch—”
“Then it was, it must have been
been your son! Why did I not suspect
it before? Why did I not know it before?”
she cried, with sincere joy.
“He did not know you, and asked
me to find out who you were for him;
and I promised to do so; though from
his description I expected it was you!”
“And how did you ascertain?”
“By seeing the brooch, which he did not
show me nor speak of till the next day. I
knew it at once, for I had seen you wear
it, and noticed it as it had a dark-green
stone with red spots upon it! I knew
the brooch at once; but I did not tell
my boy who you were; for I did not
wish to make him unhappy; for I felt
that as soon as he learned you were so
rich and great, and so far above him, he
would pine and be low-hearted; and so
I did not tell him: but I might as well,
for the same night he was torn from
me!”
“My dear Margaret,” said Barbara,
after a few moments' silence, “I hardly
know how to explain to you my feelings
at this discovery. I will, however, be
frank with you, for it may please you,
now that your son is lost to you; but I
trust you will yet see him again! to
know that from that hour when he gave
me the shells, I have not ceased to think
of him with pleasure, and to wonder
who he was! I was impressed with
his politeness and modest diffidence,
and I could not but think a great deal
of him; and, I will tell you the truth,
went to the Carved Rock after that
more than once in hopes of meeting
with him; and I have recently began
to fancy, Margaret, that I might have
dreamed, or that he was a momentary
vision, as he never appeared again.—
But now all is cleared up. And it is
so strange that he should be your son!”
“I hope, lady,” said Margaret, with
something of pride and bitterness, “I
hope that you will not for this hate his
memory, which, till now, you have
seemed to cherish!”
“Hate him because thou art his
mother! Oh, no, Margaret! I rather
think of him the more kindly!”
“God bless you, maiden! You are
true and good as you are beautiful. I
see you have no pride in your heart.
But if he had remained and met you
again and again, children as you
were, my poor boy would have loved
only to despair. It is better that he
was taken as he was! Better for you
both!”
“No, no, Margaret!” answered Barbara,
with warmth of feeling as if her
generous spirit hastened to defend itself
from any such charge as Margaret's
words implied. “If he had remained
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and we had met often, and we had grown
up loving one another, as certainly I
think we should have done, had he not
been so cruelly carried away, his being
your son, his humble condition and
poverty, let me say without offence to
you, Margaret, would have had no weight
with me!”
“Even had he asked your hand, maiden,
when he came to manhood?”
“No, Margaret, no! For if it could
be that I loved him, he must have been
worthy of my love; for I could love no
one whom I did not feel was so. Believe
me, I grieve with you, now in your
loss; for I have thought so much about
him, that I have often resolved in my
secret heart, that I will never love any
one but that unknown youth!”
“And is this the reason, lady, that
thou hast refused the alliance with three
different suitors, all thy equals in rank
and in wealth?”
“Thou hast guessed it, Margaret.—
You may think me foolish, but with the
recollection of the handsome youth,
with his image engraven on my heart,
and a secret, half-formed hope that in
some way, my destiny would yet be united
with his, I could not give myself to
another!”
“Then it is true that thou lovest my
son, even now? How wonderful is all
this!”
“I do love him, Margaret; I have
loved him from that day, and with years
has that love grown in my heart, till
there is no more room for any other!”
“It is safe for you to speak thus
lady,” answered Margaret, who, from
the bank where they had seated them,
selves to rest, was gazing off upon the
waters of the bay as they mirrored the
sparkling stars, “it is safe for you to
confess this blessed news now, that my
boy is dead; but were he living, you
would shrink from confessing that you
loved the son of Margaret, the fisherman's
widow!”
“Never, Margaret; not if he should
appear to-morrow! At least, if he returned
without dishonor,” she added,
quickly; “but this could not be in one
with so noble an air and a look so pure
and generous as he had! Yet, even
should he return a guilty being, I should
still cherish my early love for him and
sorrow for his fall, though prudence
might lead me to withdraw from him!
But why speak thus of him!” she said,
sadly. “He is no doubt lost to us both.
If he should return, I feel that he will
return with honor, and be worthy of
the hopes I have so long cherished for
him!”
“I thank thee, I thank thee, maiden.
You do him only justice. Such words
are sweet to my ears. Heaven reward
you for them. How dear thou art to
me since this confession!”
“Now, Margaret, let our conversation,
I pray thee, be secret between us.”
“It shall be so, maiden. It is sacred.
Oh, thanks be to Heaven that I can
talk to thee of my lost one, knowing
thou wilt listen.”
“Will you tell me, Margaret—”
“Hist! What is that speaking in
the water?”
“I heard nothing.”
“Nay, it was but a fish jumping.—
What did you ask?”
“Will you tell me how it was he was
taken from you?”
“Ah, it was a dark, sad hour, that
hour I parted from my boy,” answered
Margaret, sadly, as she gloomily shook
her head. “But I will tell thee how it
was, for thou art now next to my son,
in my heart, for thou, too, lovest him.
I had just put supper on the table—it
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is now five years ago; for it was on the
twenty-first of May, in '67.”
“This is the twenty-first of May.”
“This?”
“Yes, Margaret.”
“Are you sure? for I lose not only
days of the month, but weeks often.”
“It is the twenty-first day, Margaret.”
“Then it is the anniversary of my
boy's loss. Oh, why have I not kept
fast and prayed this day as I have done
heretofore? But I will make to-morrow
a day of wailing and mourning.—
Five years ago this very day it was,
maiden. I was waiting for my boy to
come in to supper; for he had gone to
town on an errand for me. All at once
I heard shouting over by the hill-side,
here and there a gun was fired close
outside the cottage as it seemed, and
as I got up to run at the door, Martin
bounded into the room like a hunted
deer, his face covered with blood!
“`Hide me, mother!' he cried.—
`The press-gang I have fought till they
were too many for me!' These were
his words. I at once barred the door,
and he was helping me to take up a
board of the floor, under which to conceal
himself, when the door was assailed
and broken open by four armed men
with uniforms. `There he is, seize
him!' cried the leader. I stood before
them calling to Martin to fly by the
window; but seeing one of the men
thrusting me rudely aside, and another
strike me heavily, he flew to
my aid armed with a boat-hook. With
this he drove them across the room and
stood at bay like a lion; but he at
length became faint from a gun-shot
wound in his temple, (for they had fired
on him as he fled from them,) and staggering
fell into my arms. The demons
then tore him from my hold and struck
me senseless. When I recovered I was
alone! I rose and ran hither and thither
calling the name of my son. But
all was silent. I hastened to the town
and asked everywhere for my boy; and
was at length told he and three others had
been taken off to a frigate then in the harbor
and that there was no hope of recovering
him. It was a moonlight night,
and they pointed the frigate out to me
with her sails spread and going out of
the harbor. I did not wait to reflect:
I hastened back to my home, and, taking
Martin's boat, launched out into the
bay. The frigate passed and I pursued,
calling on the name of my child, now
imploring, now entreating, now cursing
those who tore him from me! But the
ship went on, the hearts of the men on
board as hard as the wood of the ship itself
and as senseless. When day dawned,
the ship was twenty miles down the bay,
and I was still pursuing. She was a
league from me at sunrise, and yet my
arm never wearied. I paddled without
rest, without weariness! As the sun
rose a storm arose, and as the waters
grew black with the shadows of the
storm-clouds, and the waves and winds
roared, and the thunder rolled overhead,
I laughed and clapped my hands and
shouted with the storm! I became mad
as it increased, and as the lightning flashed
I bared my bosom to their bolts and
called on the Almighty to strike, now
that my child was taken from me. I
have no further recollection of anything,
save coming to myself in the hut of the
light-house-keeper, many leagues below
this. From him and his family I learned
that I had been drifted in my boat
by the storm upon the head-land, that
he, seeing the boat tossed upon the
waves, hastened to the shore, but he
did not discover that it contained a human
being until a wave tossed it upon
the beach. He then beheld me lying
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in it insensible and he supposed dead.
He took me to his dwelling, and restored
me to consciousness, but never to
reason!”
“Yes, to reason, Margaret,” answered
Barbara, with generous emotion:
“you have your reason now! Surely
you talk with me perfectly yourself.”
“I may seem so at times, maiden;
but it is merely a suspension, an interval
of my disease of mind. I may the
next five minutes be the raving madwoman
you have beheld me. It is your
gentle presence and sympathy that makes
me calm now.”
“For my sake continue so, Margaret.”
“I will, child, I will, at least till the
demon possesses me again. This is
the first time I ever spoke of my boy so
calmly.”
“I hope you will try to speak of him
in the same mood, and learn to bear
his loss, and thus you may be restored
to yourself.”
“Hist, again! There is a splashing
in the water close by that jutting rock;
it sounds like a man swimming. Hark,
I hear a strong panting and a heavy
breathing!”
“I hear it!” cried Barbara, rising
with alarm and surprise; for the sound
was very near, the path in which they
were moving wound along at this place
very close to the water.
“It sounds like a man swimming and
struggling for his life! There! all is
still again!”
“Do you think it can be?” asked
the maiden, eagerly. “I see nothing.”
“There! Look! It is a head above
the water, but whether a dog, a horse,
or a man I cannot say. It is certainly
some living object; and it labors heavily
to reach the shore.”
“There, it has sunk again out of
sight!” cried Barbara
“And now it appears nearer the
shore. Hark, there is a groan of agony!
It is a man striving to reach the
shore!”
“Let us fly to his aid!” cried Barbara;
but Margaret had already anticipated
her words by bounding down the
shore side towards the water. Barbara
was following, when the former turned
back, saying—
“We can't reach the place where he
is trying to reach the shore by this way,
as there is a steep precipice. We must
go back a few rods and so down by the
path to the beach. Follow me. It is
a human life to be saved! He may
have strength to reach the rocks, but
perish for want of a helping hand!”
“It may be some deserter from the
English ship; perhaps some poor impressed
seaman striving to escape from
his bondage!” cried Barbara, as they
hastened to reach the water.
“Then in the name of my dear son let
us to his rescue! If he perish his blood
be upon my head!”
With these words, she ran forward in
the darkness with the firm and confident
step of noon-day.
CHAPTER XXI.
The familiarity of Margaret with the
way, and her greater speed of foot,
caused her to outstrip Barbara, and
leave her behind. The maiden, however,
pursued after her as rapidly as
possible, and soon found herself in sight
of the Carved Rock, a few yards above
on the beach. Here she saw Margaret
stop and utter an exclamation of surprise
and pity.
“It is a man, and he lies here
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senseless upon the rock,” she cried. “But
his pulse beats. Run for help, lady.”
But Barbara was already at her side,
and gazed with fear and amazement
upon the form of the young man as he
lay upon the rock. But whether he
was old or young she could not discern
for the darkness. She had the courage
to lay her hand upon his damp forehead:
“He is not dead, Margaret. It is
warm.”
“No, he is not dead,” answered Margaret,
as she raised his head and put
back the wet locks from his brow, while
she tried to discern the features. “He
is not insensible either. It seems to
me by his breathing that it is sleep.—
But will you hasten for aid. I will stay
with him alone till you come back. I
do not fear. He is a seaman by his
dress. Perhaps, as you said, an escaped
colonist who has been impressed.”
Barbara was about to leave the spot,
inspired by a desire to benefit and perhaps
save the life of a fellow-being,
when he moved, and said faintly,
“Who is here? Am I with friends,
and safe?”
“Friends, and safe,” answered Margaret,
with a voice that was tremulous
with joy at hearing him speak. “Stay,
Barbara, he may be able to walk soon.”
“I am better now. Women around
me. Thank God, then I have nothing
to fear,” said Martin, as he
raised himself up, and looked from one
to the other. “I shall be better soon.
Only fatigue. I have swam far. It
was a mercy I reached the shore as I
did. Yes, I shall be able to walk soon.
Thanks, good woman. I owe my restoration
to you. I can stand, you see.”
And he rose to his feet.
“No, sir,” said Margaret, “you recovered
of yourself. We did nothing.”
“I felt a soft warm hand laid upon
my temples, which brought me to consciousness.
How did you find me here?”
“We saw you swimming and struggling
in the water from the hill above
there, and hastened to your aid,” answered
Barbara.
“Thanks, thanks! I owe my life to
you. I need not fear to trust you, ladies,”
he added, “for I must still place
my safety in your hands; for I know
that I have no fear of being betrayed;
for you must be true friends of the colony.”
“We are not only the friends of the
colony, but the foes of England the Oppressor,”
responded Margaret, energetically.
“Then I am safe, and you shall know
who I am and why I am here. I was
an impressed seaman on board the sloop-of-war
Bexley, and the sight of my native
land inspired me with the hopes of
freedom and once more beholding the
dear friends of my childhood, so taking
advantage of the approach of night I
broke my chains, for I had been chained
to keep me from getting away from
the ship while in port, and dropping into
the water swam for the land; which,
after nearly drowning from fatigue, I
have at length reached.”
“And here you shall be safe,” answered
Margaret, who, at his recital
thought of her own boy, and her heart
bled for him, and yearned towards the
youthful sailor as if he were her own
son. As he stood up and they could
get a better view of his figure they could
see that he was a young man, which
the tones of his fine voice also bespoke
him to be. And as he looked from one
to the other of the ladies, he could see
that one was youthful and the other elderly,
though it was too dark to distinguish
features.
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Margaret was about to ask him who
his friends were, and his name, when
the cannonading which the Gaspee
opened upon the brig thundered upon
their ears, and at once drew their attention.
“What can it be? I fear my father
is in peril!” exclaimed Barbara, with
filial alarm.
“It is no doubt the schooner of war
that went down the bay just after sunset
firing at some vessel that tries to
elude her,” answered Martin.
“That vessel must be my father's!”
exclaimed Barbara.
“Fear nothing, maiden. He is safe
in the hands of One who is over us all.
Let us see that this youth is first cared
for; for there may be boats sent after
him. He must first be concealed.”
“And where?” asked Barbara,
shrinking from the heavy roar of the
cannon, which at the same time gave
her a momentary light by which she
saw that the stranger was not only young
but, though pale, very handsome; and
her interest in him became at once
deeper.
“In my own house,” answered Margaret.
“Nay, not there. He will not be
safe there, for it will be one of the first
places, being so near the shore, that
will be searched.”
“No, I have made a place there so
secret that no human eye can detect it.
Weeks,” she muttered, in an under
tone to herself, “weeks on weeks did I
labor at it after my boy was stolen, to
hide him in should he ever return. It
must now conceal this youth instead of
my son. But all is ordered right.—
Come, young man, follow me if you can
walk, and if you do not feel strong
enough, lean upon my arm and this
young maiden's.”
“No, thanks to you both, ladies, I
can walk well. It was only fatigue,
and I am strong again. You seem to me
to be two angels sent to my relief. Your
words of kindness, after so many years
of bondage and harsh language, deeply
affect me. It is gratitude and joy
rather than weakness, that agitates my
voice. I will go with you, if you can
take me to a place of security for a day
or two till I can escape up the bay.—
But if my presence is to endanger either
of you, I will not go with you a step
farther.”
“It is my command that you go with
us, young man,” answered Margaret,
kindly, but firmly. “Where I shall
hide you, a Sleuth-hound could not find
you out, though they should hunt you
with one, as they have done others.”
“He had best go to my father's for
security,” said Barbara. “They will
not think of searching his house, while
yours would be sure to be visited.”
“No, no. I will not let him leave
me. I must protect him for my boy's
sake. How do I know but that he has-seen
him ayond the seas, and has heard
him speak of me.”
“That voice becomes more and more
familiar. It must be she. Thou hast
a son then, away. Tell me what his
name is!” cried the young man, deeply
moved, while he impulsively grasped
her hand.
“Martin Manwaring!”
“My mother! my beloved mother,”
he cried, casting himself into her arms.
“I am thy son. I am Martin, so long
lost to thee. God has heard my prayer.”
“Thou art my son. I know thee
now. My heart has been yearning toward
thee. Now am I ready to die in
peace. Let me fold thee closer to my
heart, my child. Oh, it is thy kiss
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again. Now am I blessed indeed.—
Let us kneel here in silence, my son.—
Barbara kneel with us here. Let us
thank God ere we speak or move a step,
or word. This moment of reunion is
sacred and should be offered to God.”
Margaret knelt then upon the mosscovered
rock, and Martin still clasped to
her bosom sank also by her side. The
maiden knelt by them; and for a moment
the three were silent in a deep
heartfelt offering of gratitude to heaven
Barbara's heart was as full as theirs;
for she rejoiced for her rejoicing, and
his, and for herself; for a secret delight
took possession of her soul at the consciousness
that the youth so long cherished
in her remembrance knelt so close
to her.
“Now we have tbanked God, the giver
of all good, and the restorer of the
wanderer, let us rise and go forward to
a place of safety; for we have, indeed,
a treasure now to conceal. And I wish
to have a light to behold my son's face
once more. Joy! joy. I will hold thee
fast, my son, lest this should prove all a
dream. I will cling to thee, for thy presence
has given me back all my reason
and affection. I feel that I am human
again, that the storm of madness will no
more sweep over the placid ocean of my
being.”
“Madness, mother?”
“It is nothing; heed me not. I have
thee once more, and the past is to be buried.”
“Wonderful, that I should first be met
by thee, dear mother. I know not how
to express in words my joy. I am overpowered
with too much happiness.”
“You need not talk now. You are
safe and that is all I wish now to know.
We will talk when we reach home.”
“I am so rejoiced to find that your life
is preserved, my dear mother,” he said
as he walked on by her side, while Bar
bara walked on a little ways before them;
“for I have not heard from thee since
I was taken.”
“My dear, dear boy! nor I of thee!
I had long since numbered thee with the
dead; and now to meet thee and to be,
as it were thy preserver, is enough to
overthrow my reason had it not been
wrecked before; but it has restored it to
me; for I am now myself again. Dost
thou know this maiden?”
“I have wished to ask, mother.
“Not now. I will tell thee, if thou
dost not recognise her when we get to
the cottage.”
Barbara had hastened her steps as she
thought Margaret was about to divulge
her name, forgetting that he had never
heard it, and she was relieved when she
postponed the intelligence to ascertain if
he would recognize her.
“And I should like to see if he does,”
she thought; “for this will be proof to
me whether he has remembered me.”
She still kept some distance ahead and
they soon reached the hut, and upon
coming up to the door, Martin stopped
and seemed overcome with his feelings.
“How familiar all is here. I never
expected, my dear mother, to stand again
where I now stand.”
“And do not linger there now, my
dear boy. Danger may meance you
from without, and you forget that you
are wet through. But I will run in and
strike a light. I have not seen your
face yet, my boy.”
“I hope you will find that it is still that
of Martin, with all I have passed
through,” he answered. “Is it possible
I am here again?”
“Your happiness at once more returning
home,” said Barbara, with emotion;
“must be very great. I feel that I can
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sympathise with you fully in once more
beholding your mother.”
“I am too full of joy, lady. This
is the happiest moment of my existence.
An hour ago I was a prisoner in chains
on board a king's ship, and now I am
in the hands of friends and hear the
kind voice of my mother, a voice that
has not been heard by me save in
dreams, for five years. I thought as I
revived upon the rock and heard her
speaking over me, that it sounded like
my mother's voice; but I was afraid to
hope for so much bliss. The voice of
those we love we can never forget.”
“Now, my dear boy,” cried Margaret,
coming out of the hut whither she
had gone to light a lamp, “now come
and let me look on thee. Thou wilt find
me greatly changed, I fear, for I have
been sorrow's child since you were torn
from me.”
He hastened forward and entered the
hut, in which a lamp burned brightly upon
the table in the centre. As he came
in Margaret raised the lamp to his face
and gazed upon it, while Barbara with
curiosity came forward to see him.
“I should know thee in India, my
dear boy. The same eye, and smile,
and noble brow; but pale, as thou
oughtest to be afterthy fatigue in swimming
so far. And how tall, and handsome
you have grown. Behold him,
Barbara. Is there in the colony a handsomer
youth to look upon?”
Barbara dropped her eyes and deeply
blushed before the admiring, surprised,
and delighted gaze of the young man;
for she had hardly time to cast a look upon
him and recognize in the mould of
manly beauty, the features of the fisher's
boy, before she felt that she was recognized
by him and was compelled to
drop her eyes before his eager, earnest,
joy-bewildered gaze.
“Mother, dear mother, pardon me.—
But tell me—”
“Do you recognize her, Martin?”
interrupted Margaret, her eyes gleaming
with delight.
“The same I met and gave the shells
to, mother, only, if possible far more
beautiful in the bloom of maturity. It
is she. For I have never forgotten her,
and even believed I knew her voice, but
dared not hope for so much happiness
all at one time. I have waited with as
much impatience for the light to reveal
her countenance as you have for it to
look at me. But I am no doubt surprising
you, lady, by my words and
speaking of an event that you have long
forgotten.”
“I have not forgotten you,” answered
Barbara, with ingenuous frankness.
“But until this evening I knew not who
it was who was so generous as to fill up
my basket of shells with his own treasured
ones.”
“And from that hour I have loved to
think of you,” answered Martin, with
emotion; “and this little broach I have
preserved through all my vicissitudes as
the dearest jewel that earth could bestow
on me; for it was your gift.” As he
spoke he opened his jacket and displayed
appended to a steel chain the little
brooch she had so long before bestowed
upon him.
CHAPTER XXII.
Barbara Frankland was too little
skilled in the arts of coquetry, had too
little pride of wealth orstation, and possessed
too much genuine honest sincerity
to disguise the pleasure that the bold
but respectful words of the young man
gave her.
She betrayed her gratification in her
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looks, which Margaret closely watched
to see if the maiden, now that her son
had returned, was ready to abide by the
words she had uttered when both supposed
him lost.
“I am very happy to be remembered
by you,” she answered, when he had
done speaking, and looking more beautiful
from her pleased confusion than
she had ever looked in her life, “I
will be as frank as to say that I have
not only in my turn remembered you,
but I have preserved every one of the
shells you gave me with the greatest
care, but mark you,” she added, smiling
archly and feeling as if she had perhaps
confessed more than she ought to have
done, “but I say this to you because
you are Margaret's son, whom I greatly
esteem, for I should not speak so
freely to you were you a stranger.”
And she walked towards the door as if
to hide the beaming expression of her
face from him.
“I am most happy then, not to be
looked upon by you as a stranger,” he
answered with deep joy in his eyes.—
“I feel, lady, that I have been very
`bold, for I am but a seaman, and you-are,
I see, far superior in birth and station
to —”
“You have well guessed Martin,”
said his mother, interrupting him, “yet
she has no pride, as you see. But let
this pass, you will be friends, at least.”
“Mother, who is she?” asked Martin,
in a low tone. “Let me at least learn
the name of one whose image has been
engraven on my heart from the hour I
first met her.”
“She is Barbara Frankland, the
heiress.”
“Daughter of the rich merchant?”
“No less, my boy.”
“Then this meeting I would rather
had never taken place,” he answered
bitterly. “I have found her only to
lose her forever! This is a wretched
hour for me, my dear mother, even
with the joy of meeting you.”
“Nay, my son, courage and hope.
She is as generous and good as she is
rich. And I know loves—”
Here Margaret's words were interrupted
by Barbara, who being in the
door, saw the Free-Trader passing up
close to the shore under full sail, and
exclaimed:
“A ship!”
Both sprang to the door, and Martin,
after a moment's scrutiny, said:
“It is a brig.”
“Then it must be my father's,” said
Barbara. “I trust he is safe.”
“That is no doubt the vessel that this
Gaspee has been firing at, and she has
escaped her,” said Martin. “If so, I
rejoice from my heart, for this revenue
law should be resisted by all true men
of America, with their heart's best
blood if need be.”
“So speaks my father, Martin,” said
Barbara, with animation, “and I rejoice
to hear you utter the same sentiments.”
“My boy is a true colonist, maiden.
He is poor and lowly, but—”
“Speak not in this way of him, Margaret,
it is the same to me, whether he
be rich or poor. I esteem no one for
wealth or rank, thou art well apprised.
The brig is making rapidly towards the
town, I would that I knew my father
were safe.”
“Let me go and ascertain for you.
I know well the way, though it is so
long since I have walked the paths,”
cried Martin, moving forward. “I can
reach the wharves by the time the brig
does.”
“No, no, not to expose yourself to
danger. Your safety depends on
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concealment, for there will be parties in
search of you. We must not lose
you so soon, must we, Mrs. Manwaring,”
said Barbara, smiling.
“I would not consent for him to go,
save for you, Barbara,” answered the
mother, as she held him by the hand.
“But he shall go for thee, for I know
he would risk his life for you.”
“Indeed, Iwould!” answered Martin,
warmly.
“You must remain here then, and
please me by obedience, Mr. Manwaring,”
said she, with playful firmness.
“Your safety must first be consulted.
I will go home and send to the pier for
news of my father. Margaret, see that
he does not expose himself rashly.”
“I will at once conceal him!”
“Unless you are sure that he will be
perfectly secure from any searching
party, I think you had best come to my
father's, for there they would not look
for him.”
“No, he must be kept with me here
He will be safe.”
“Then I leave you with him,” she
answered, “and I will see you early in
the morning; but on no account leave
your house, for it might be searched in
your absence.”
“Miss Frankland, I do not know how
to express my emotions of gratitude
that you should manifest such an interest
in me.”
“Did we not show it in you when
we first discovered you, not knowing
who you were, or whether you were
old or young, gentle or simple,” she
answered, playfully.
“True,” he answered, “true. I
have presumed too much,” he added,
sadly.
“No, do not despair. We shall at
least be friends,” she said in a marked
and kind manner, as she took his hand
in passing him. “Let us both hope the
the best. Good night! To-morrow
early, Margaret, thou shalt either see
or hear from me.”
“Good night, maiden,” said Mrs.
Manwaring, who from the first moment
of the discovery of her son had manifested
entire restoration to her former
sane state of mind, at which Barbara,
who could not but see the sudden and
great change in her, was astonished,
while her heart was filled with the deepest
gratitude, for she felt how bitter
would have been to Martin the hour of
his meeting with his mother, if he had
found in her the “mad Margaret,” who
for five years past had been the wild
wanderer and the common fortune-teller
of the colony. But now that in her
words, her looks, her deportment,
she once more beheld her clothed
in her right mind, she could not refrain
from tears of joy; for the fact
that she had discovered in Margaret
the mother of the youth who had given
her the shells, had enlisted her warmest
interest in her, and led her to sympathise
in all that befel her, whether of
good or evil.
“Miss Frankland,” said Martin, advancing
from the door to overtake her,
after she had left it to proceed homeward,
her bosom filled with the liveliest
fears for her father's safety, “I cannot
consent to let you go on this lonely
road alone.”
“Nor can I consent for you to accompany
me,” she answered, firmly.
“There is more than one interested in
your safety, Mr. Manwaring.”
“More than one!” he repeated, with
trembling joy.
“Yes, but perhaps I have said more
than I should have done. Return and
let me hasten on my way.”
“I obey you,” he responded turning
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back, but he stopped and looked after her
till she disappeared, and then re-entering
his mother's hut, was once more
clasped to her maternal bosom.
“I have been trying to realise that
my child is restored to me,” she said,
with tears, “but I cannot. It seems
like a dream to me, Martin. But these
tears are real, and I have not shed a
tear since the day you left me. All the
past has been like a fearful night-mare!”
“Speak not of it, mother. I am restored
to you, and my happiness is increased
in finding you alive.”
“I have been as one dead, though,
Martin, my child. You ought to know,
and will hear it, so I will first tell thee
the worst. I have been a mad woman,
but heaven has restored my reason in
restoring you.”
“Mad?”
“Yes, your loss overturned my poor
brain, but you see I am well now.”
“Mad!” he repeated, “my mother
been mad!”
“Not now! It is passed. Did you
not know, I took the boat and followed
you in the ship?”
“I saw you not, but they told me
afterwards you did. I was cast into
the lowest part of the ship, and remained
there three days because I refused
to work. They told me you followed
me, dear mother.”
“For ten leagues, till a storm drove
me ashore, and I was picked up by some
humane persons, but my reason was
gone, they told me.”
“My poor mother!”
“And so I have been ever since.
Sometimes I would gain my right mind
for a few days, and go to church to
hear the sweet gospel, which always
soothed me, but then I would soon after
be worse than ever. So I have been.
People have proved kind to me, but I
know I have been the sport and mock
of the unfeeling. They called me
“Mad Margaret,” and came to me to
tell their fortunes. But do not look
so sorrowful, my boy. Your return
has restored me to myself. I feel that
I am well now. But I have told thee
this, that you may not hear it first from
others, and be shocked!”
“My dear mother! This has all
been suffered for me. But I hope, as
you say, it is passed. And Miss Frankland,
has she been kind?”
“Let us talk of her, for it is good to
talk of the good, my son. She has been
an angel to me in my affiction. She
has relieved my wants, and her father
has been most charitable to me!”
“God bless them both!” How
strange that you two, the only two I love,
on earth, should have met me to-night
so providentially.”
“Her father has gone down to meet
a vessel to-night, and she came to see
him to his boat, and called in upon me
on her way home, and I talked of you
to her as I was walking homeward with
her, and I learned from her that—”
“That—?” he gasped, eagerly.
“That she loved you.”
“Loved me—me. Heaven be
thanked! Oh! my dear mother, mock
not the sweet hopes and fears of my years
of wanderings. Tell me truly all!”
“I know that my words are true,
Martin. She told me that she had never
ceased to think of you, and yet she
knew not who you were, when she told
me this.”
“But now that she knows—”
“She knew before we saw you on
the rock, for I told her that the lad she
loved to remember so fondly was my
boy—my lost, (but now found) child.”
“And what said she then?”
“It bound her at once to me, like a
daughter to her mother.”
“Oh, sweet words.”
“She said that I was dear to her
from that moment.”
“Noble maiden! She did not despise
me, then. Even when she knew
was of poor and humble origin.”
“No, Martin, I thought she seemed
pleased to learn that it was my son she
had so long loved.”
“Loved? Your confident words
amaze and overpower me.”
“Yet the maiden loves thee, Martin,
and the only fear and the only doubt that
at this moment lies at her heart, is that
you may not requite that love.”
“I? I have assured her as far as I
dared to, that she was dearer to me than
my life.”
“Then she will be happy. You know
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not how deep and strong her love is for
you, Martin. She told me that she always
lived in the hope of one day seeing
you again, with whom she had had but
one interview, but in which one she
had lost to you her youthful heart.”
“Talk to me thus forever, my dear
mother.”
“Thus we were conversing, when I
heard you, my boy, swimming towards
the shore. Little did we suspect who
it was our sympathies were awakened
for, as we hastened to your relief.—
God rewarded our benevolence by giving
to me my son,—to the maiden, him
who had so long filled her heart.”
“Oh, what precious words drop from
your lips! I must dream, mother!—
This hour is too happy for waking life.
But I cannot dare hope. She will tomorrow
laugh at the sailor she has to-night
taken pity on, when he dares to
lift his eyes in devoted passion to her
face.”
“You know not of whom you speak,
Martin. Barbara Frankland has a soul
superior to every sordid consideration.
She loves you!”
“I am perfectly happy. I have
looked forward with wild dreams into
such a future as this; but never hoped
to realise it. How many an hour have
I passed in foreign seas, as I have paced
the deck in my lonely watch, framing
romances of love, of which the beautiful
shell-girl was the heroine; but this
hour surpasses them all. Dare I indeed
hope, my mother?”
“Hope, for she loves thee!”
“I dare not hope, till I learn from
her own lips my fate. It would be presumption
in me to hope—”
“Come with me, quickly! I hear a
shouting! Thy enemies may be upon
thee!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
The mother of the young seaman
hastened to hide him from the pursuit
of the enemies which she supposed,
from the loud shouts which had reached
her ears, to be close upon them. She
took him by the arm and led him to a
small inner room, or closet, the door of
which she closed behind her. Then
setting the light down upon the floor,
she removed two boards in the side of
the closet, and exposed a recess about
two feet deep and six feet in breadth,
large enough to contain two persons,
or one both to sit and lie down with
ease.
“Here, Martin, you will be safe,”
she said, thrusting him in. “I will
come back to you as soon as I find all is
quiet.”
She hastened to the outer door, her
fears for his safety greatly relieved by
a sense of his security in the hiding-place
in which she had left him, and
bent her ear to listen to the cries of new
and stranger sounds that reached her
from the town.
“There is something going on more
than usual,” she exclaimed, as a sudden
and louder shout than all was
borne to her ears. “I will see what it
is. They seem to be farther off than
they sounded at first. I will go up no
the hill-side, and see if I can make out
anything. My dear boy 'll be safe
where he is.”
Satisfied, after a few moments' survery,
that the voices and shouts which
her fears had led her to refer to enemies
in pursuit of the fugitive, proceeded
from the wharves and from the
towns-people, she resolved to hasten
forward to learn the cause.
“I will not be ten minutes away, and
my boy 'll be safe the while, for I
must needs know what all this means.
It may concern him and his safety for
me to know. No one will think of
coming after him in the short time I
am absent, and if they should, they will
never find him. Had I jewels and gold
untold, I would hide them there and feel
that they was safe. I suspect that the brig
is Mr. Frankland's, and that they are
landing the cargo without duty, but I
will soon learn, and be back to my boy
in a few minutes.”
Thus speaking, and hastening forward
as she spoke, Margaret Manwaring
hurried along the path which led
along the curve of the shore towards
the town. She soon entered the first
street of the suburb, and came upon
persons hurrying towards the pier;
while in the doors and windows stood
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women and children in much alarm
and excitement.
“What is all this, friends?” she
asked, addressing two men who were
just coming from a ship, with difficulty
tearing themselves from their terrified
wives.
“Ah, mad Margaret, now is the time
for spells and witchcraft,” said one of
the men. “Here is Mr. Frankland's
brig come in to the wharf, and is to be
unloaded to-night, they say, in spite of
the war-ships. Old Mr. Frankland 'll
give you a pound of silver, if you'll
spirit his goods into his store-house for
him.”
“Alas!” ejaculated Margaret, “I
shall always be held as mad! I must
with my boy, fly these scenes of the
past five years, if I would live in peace.”
And thus saying, she passed on her
way without speaking or taking any notice
of the remarks which had been
made by the man.
“Mag is in one of her sullen fits tonight,”
said as overgrown boy, who
was hastening past with others, towards
the scene of excitement on the wharf.
“I know what it is, and why need I
go farther, to be thus assailed, now
that I am in my right mind?” she said
with deep emotion. “I will return and
relieve the anxieties of my dear boy.
Mad Margaret! how this name that I
once could hear with indifference or
laughter, now grates upon my ears.
I will not remain in Newport, where my
son can hear these words. They would
break his noble heart.”
Thus speaking, she turned to retrace
her steps, when a person coming from
the direction in which she still heard the
shouts of the people brushed past.—
She instantly recognised him as the negro
slave of Miss Frankland. She advanced,
and caught him by the arm.
“Where is your master?” she cried,
in a quick, earnest tone.
“He board de brig. Don't stop me,
mad Margaret. Massa Frankland sent
me tell Missy Barbara not be frightened,
and stay at home till he comes up
to de house.”
“Are they unloading the brig?”
“Guess dey be! Got him cargo
mos' half out reddy! Nebber see ship
unload quarter so soon as de Free-Trader,
dis time. But don't stop me,
ma'am, coz I got to get massa's key
and carry to him, 'sides tellin' Missy
Barbara not to come down to de wharf
wid ebbery body else, coz dere is half
de town coming.”
“But your master is mad to attempt
to unload his brig. He will lose his
vessel.”
“Massa know what he 'bout. Me
hab seen fightin' to-night down the bay!
I nebber know how loud cannon go
afore! But don't keep me, coz massa
Frankland want de key ob his desk.”
“Stay! Did you hear anything
about any English boats coming on
shore after deserters?”
“Dey not come as I know! Dey
keep off, I guess, coz de town be fairly
up, an' too strong for 'em!”
With these words the negro broke
from her, and hastened on his way.
Margaret remained standing a moment
where he had left her, as if reflecting
as to the course of conduct she should
take, and then turning, followed him
with rapid strides.
Barbara Frankland, in the meanwhile,
after her departure from the
cottage, had reached home. During
her lonely and hurried walk in the
darkness, she had hardly leisure to
dwell upon the events which had just
passed; but when she had reached her
roem and began to reflect upon them,
she felt her heart overflowing, she
knew not wherefore, with joy; and
hopes altogether new, filled her bosom.
“Bless me, Miss Barbara,” said her
faithful maid, Edith, coming in a few
minutes after her mistress; “where
have you been out so late? I have been
into all the neighbors for you; and
was just going down to mad Margaret's
hut, to see if you had not gone there,
when the ostler said he saw you come
in by the garden! Where have you
been? and all this firing of cannon
too, down the bay, as if a terrible battle
was a-fighten! I am so rejoiced to
see you safe! But where is Mr.
Frankland? And how happy you look,
and so flushed! Dear me! Where
have you been? I know you have
seen mad Margaret, and she has told
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you some great good fortune! Did
you see her, as I advised you, and tell
her all the dream? And what did she
say it was?”
“What a tongue you have, Edith!
You can put more questions into one
speech than anybody I ever heard!”
“But I have been so frightened
about you, and so dark as it is!”
“Well, I have been safe. I went to
Margaret, or rather Mrs. Manwaring;
for she has recovered her reason in a
most extraordinary manner.”
“Got her senses back again! Dear
me!” exclaimed Edith, who was a
short, fat, good-natured little body, of
eight-and-twenty, with a great deal of
good sense, combined with credulity
and harmless superstition.
“Yes; and if you must know, I have
told her my dream, and—and—”
“The bird is yourself! Didn't she
say so?”
“You are as great a witch as she is,
Edith!”
“Then I guessed right! And the
young man with the cage is to be your
husband!”
“I don't know that! But one
thing is certain, that I have seen this
very night the very young man that
held the cage in the dream!”
“Seen him! Seen the young man
alive, and sure enough!”
“Yes, Edith.”
“Where? When? Do tell me,
Miss Barbara! You know you always
tell me all your secrets!”
“Well, it is very extraordinary, altogether!
I will tell you all I can!”
“No, no! I want to know all!”
“Well you shall know most all! I
went to the hut of Mrs. Manwaring, and
took tea with her, and—”
“Did she turn up the tea-cup, or did
you, to see the grounds?”
“Neither of us! But you must not
inte rrupt me!”
“Well, I won't; Oh, I am so impatient!
Seen the very young man!
Oh, how odd! It makes me afraid!
How was it? and where is he? Why
didn't—”
—“If you are going to ask so many
questions—”
—“Well, I am silent. Not another
word from my lips!” and Edith held
firmly two of her fingers upon her
mouth, to seal it.
“After tea Mrs. Manwaring—”
“Do you mean mad Margaret?”
“Don't call her so, Edith. She is
herself now since the extraordinary occurrences
of to-night!”
“Do let me hear?”
“She offered to walk homeward
with me; and on the way, as we were
passing round the rock where the three
pines grow, we heard a person swiming
towards the shore. It was dark,
but we could ascertain he was struggling
hard for his life. We hastened
to his aid; but we had to go round
some ways on account of the steep
rocks, and when we reached the place
where we expected him to land, we
saw him lying upon the Carved-Rock,
and nearly insensible. But he soon revived,
and told us that he was a pressed
sailor, who had made his escape from
the sloop of war.”
“Poor young man! I'll warrant
Margaret felt for him, on account of
her own son, and offered to take him
home!”
“She did! And especially when
she discovered that it was her own
son!”
“Her own son! What! Martin
Manwaring?”
“Yes. It was none other than he.”
“How wonderful! Where is he?”
“At her hut, as you may suppose.
The sight of him restored her to herself
completely.”
“I am so glad for her and for him!
He was a handsome, noble boy, I remember.
How strange he should have
swam ashore and been found by his
own mother!”
“But stranger, still, when I saw his
face by the light, I recognised in him
the very young man I had seen in my
dream!”
“Oh, when will wonders end!”
“The likeness flashed upon me so
suddenly, that it was with great difficulty
I could command my self-possession,
or keep from fainting with surprise.
But I succeeded in concealing
my emotion both from him and his
mother, who was too much overjoyed
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with having recovered him, that she
had eyes for no one else but him.”
“The very young man in the dream!
Was ever the like heard! Exactly?”
“Dress and features, and tone of
the voice! It was in fact the same,
only he had no cage in his hand,
and I was awake instead of dreaming.
Yet it seems almost like a dream.”
“And yet you don't seem to be
disappointed, Miss Barbara, that he
should turn out to be Margaret Manwaring's
son! For it stands to reason,
you know, that you will have to be his
wife!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Barbara, with
a stare of surprise, beneath which
played a half smile.
“Yes; you can't act contrary from
dreams and be lucky! What a pity!”
“What is a pity?”
“That it should turn out to be,
Margaret's son! Only a poor seaman
it may be.”
“Was he not in the dream only a
sailor?”
“That is true? I did not think of
that! But then it might have been a
prince or nobleman in disguise. That
is what I hoped.”
`I am content as it is, Edith,” answered
Barbara, quietly.
“Content! What, to marry Martin
Manwaring! Dear bless me! What
will happen next?”
“Edith,” said Barbara, in a low,
impressive tone, as if telling a great
secret, “do you know I have seen
grown to be a handsome young man,
the lad who gave me the shells?”
“There! I am silenced now! Tell
me next that the world is coming to an
end to-morrow, and I'll believe it! Is
it true?”
“Yes! You know I have said I
could never love any one else.”
“Yes. And as you say you have
seen him, you will have to marry him.
I hope he is, at least, one of the officers
of this war-ship.',
“It is none other,” she answered
with a a smile, “than the young sailor
of my dream, Martin Manwaring.”
The surprise of Edith at this revelation
had scarcely had time to express
itself in words of exclamation, when the
shouts of the people on the wharves
reached their ears. Barbara hastened
to the cupola of the house to see if
she could ascertain the cause; and beholding
the numerous lights moving,
and still hearing the noise and uproar
of voices, solicitous for her father's
safety, she resolved to go down and ascertain
what it meant. But before she
haad got many steps from the house, followed
by the trembling Edith, who
would have dissuaded her from going,
she fell in with several persons, who
told her that her father's brig had arrived,
and that the towns-people were resolved
to aid him in landing the cargo,
in spite of the British ship, or of the
Commissioners. Her anxiety now increased,
and coming to a group of women
and old people, who were gathered
at a point from which the brig and multitude
were visible, she paused to hear
their accounts of the matter; and being
entreated not to go nearer the scene, she
lingered with them, sending forward
two lads to ascertain where her father
was.
But they had not been gone many
minutes before the African slave came
past on his way to the house. He was
at once recognized by several persons
as he hurried by, and his name was
spoken out. Barbara called him to her
and said in a hurried voice that betrayed
her deep solicitude,
“Where is my father? Is he safe?”
“Ah, bress my soul! I grad to find
you Miss Barbara,” responded the negro,
taking off his hat as he approached her.
“Yis, massa safe, and in de brig! He
send me to tell you stay home and not
be alarmed for him; that all will be safe
in the end!”
“I trust so. Are they getting out
the cargo?”
“It most half out already! I nebber
see men work so in my life! Money
nebber make 'em work in dat a-way!—
but I can't stop here, Missus! Massa
wants me to bring him de key ob his
desk! He forget him!”
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[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“You know where it is! Hasten,
then, and take it to him; and beg him
to keep out of danger.”
“Dat I will, Missy. But we hab
been in danger enuff to-night.”
“Yes, the firing! What caused it?”
“A British schooner fired her big
guns at us to stop us. But we got up
and leff 'em behind us on a bar! Dey
no catch us.”
Thus saying, and ending his words
with a laugh, the negro proceeded on
his way, but he had gone but a few rods
when several persons cried “Here
comes Mad Margaret?” and at the same
moment she appeared; for as several of
the women held candles or lanterns in
their hands, her face was plainly visible.
Hearing herself spoken of in this manner
now became so painful to her, she
was passing on, when her eye fell upon
Barbara Frankland.
“Ah, maiden, are you here also?—
This is a stirring and eventful night.—
All the town, as far as I have been, is
up and in the doors, or in the street.”
“Where have you been, Mag?”
“How will the king take this night's
work, Margy?”
“Tell us whether the ship will fire
upon us?” were the questions put to
her by the thoughtless crowd.
“I can tell nothing, my friends,” she
said, calmly.
“Good people,” spoke Barbara aloud,
“it must be painful for this excellent
woman to be regarded in the light of a
fortune-teller as heretofore; for she has
been recently restored to her reason in
a most wonderful manner! Believe
me, that she is this night as much in
her right mind as any one of us. I
know you will rejoice to hear this.”
“We do! we do! Blessings on her
and long life to her!” cried several
persons. “But it is a strange thing!”
“It may seem a strange thing to you,
my towns-folk and neighbors,” said Margaret,
standing before them, and addressing
them in a tone of quiet dignity,
while her face and whole demeanor
bore testimony to the truth of the maiden's
words: “but when I tell you that
the same cause which deprived me of
my reason has restored it to me, and
that it is my son! You all know it
was his loss that made me what I have
been in five years past. He this night
came back to me, and has been folded
to my bosom a noble looking young
man! He escaped from the sloop-of-war
now anchored in the harbor, by swimming
ashore! He is now free as you
or I! But lest there may be foes to
him in this crowd, I will not tell you
where he is, only that he is safe where
the power of England's King can not
reach him!”
At these words, there was a general
exclamation from those around, and they
overwhelmed Margaret with congratulations
upon the happiness she had received.
In the midst of it she glided
away from them and hastened homeward.
She had not gone far before
Barbara was at her side.
“Margaret, where have you left him?”
she asked earnestly.
“Safe! I left him to come into the
town to know what all this uproar and
shouting meant. At first I feared it was
made by his enemies in searching for
him. I am now hastening back to him.
He will be impatient at my long absence.”
“I will go with you. I have sent
Edith home, and can go with you, as I
shall not see my father for some time.
Besides I wish to know that the brave
Martin is safely hidden from his foes.
I fear you were imprudent in making
known so publicly that he was on shore.
There may have been king's partisans
in the crowd. They will direct any
boat's crew to your house.”
“I could not help telling my joy to
them all. But they can never find
him!”
“My object in going with you now,
Margaret, is to have his safety cared
for, now that you have betrayed him unintentionally.
He must find an asylum
in my father's house. His pursuers
would not hesitate to set fire to your
cabin, if they suspected he was concealed
within it.”
“You are righ! A boat's crew
might land and he would fall into their
power or perish in the flames. Let us
hasten; my heart faints already lest he
should be in danger at this moment.—
You shall have charge of his safety; for
I know, maiden, his safety is dear to
you, poor and humble as he is by birth.”
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“I will not disguise from you my
true feelings, Margaret. His safety is
dear, very dear to me.”
“And thy own love for my noble boy
is responded to in every fibre of his
heart, maiden.”
“Hast thou talked with him?”
“Yes; and he loves thee with all his
being. But he fears and despairs, for
thou art rich and—”
“If I am rich it is to enrich him,
Margaret. If he thinks of me as you
say, I and all mine belong to him; for
where I have given my heart, I withhold
nothing that is of lesser value. Hist!
I hear oars.”
“It is a boat; let us hasten. It may
be coming for him.”
They soon reached the cabin. All
was quiet; but the boat was visible
rowing towards it. It seemed full of
men.
“I will get him out, and we will go up
round the hill with him, and so to your
house through the garden,” said Margaret.
“He will be safer there.”
With these words she entered the
hut and hastened to the hiding-place.—
In a low voice she called her son by
name, and receiving no reply, proceeded
in the darkness to feel for the boards
to remove them, when she found that
one of them was displaced. She quickly
put her arm in and felt all about the
closet for him, but found only vacancy.
She called his name repeatedly and in
accents of anguish.
“Speak, Martin! It is your mother
that calls. If you are here, answer me,
or I shall die.”
There was no reply. Barbara called
to him also, but received no answer.
“Strike a light, Margaret,” she said
earnestly, “for he may have fainted and
be lying near us.”
The light was soon made and the
closet and rooms examined. It was
evident to both, that he had left his place
of concealment voluntarily, or been
taken by enemies. In their surprise and
alarm they both forgot the approaching
boat; and while they were still wondering
at the cause of his absence, the door
of the hut was filled with rough men;
and two petty officers entered, armed
with swords. One of them was the
gunner of the Gaspee.
“Guard all the outlets, while we
search for him in the house,” he cried.
“So, who are you?” he added addressing
Margaret, behind whom Barbara
involuntarily shrunk.
“I am the owner of this house, and
demand to know the meaning of this intrusion?”
she answered firmly, and
with a secret joy; for she now knew
from the first words he had uttered that
her son was not yet re-taken as she had
feared.
“We come in the king's name for a
deserter, called Martin Manwaring;
and we have reason to believe he is
here.”
“He is not.”
“We will soon see. Search lads,
every locker and every hole. We'll
have him if he is to be found in this old
hulk here. Ah, what beauty is this?—
A lady, by the beard of Old Nep! Come,
young, mistress, where have you hid the
young larkee?”
“Don't address this young lady rudely,
sir,” said Margaret, sternly.—
“She is rich and high-born, the daughter
of Mr. Frankland.”
“The daughter of the owner of the
brig, Mr. Officer,” said a red faced
man, stepping up, “and you had best
take her on board as security for her
father's behavior.”
“A good thought,” answered the
gunner, “but who are you?”
“I am a citizen of the town, a butcher,
and a good friend to the king,” answered
the man. It was me that
hailed your boat five minutes ago, as
you were pulling up towards the town,
and told you if you wanted to catch a
deserter, to land in here. And I know
that he is here, for I heard his mother,
there not a quarter of an hour ago say
that she had seen him to-night. Don't
give up the search! But an't any of
the sloop's boats coming to see about
this brig's cargo, landing as is?”
“I don't know. Our boat belongs
to the Gaspee, and we are going up to
see what has become of a brig that got
by us, and to know the meaning of the
shouts. The Bexley's boats haven't yet
reached the ship from an expedition
down the bay. There is our Captain
Arling and ten men in the boat, besides
what is here, and when he heard your
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
hail, he put right in here, (for the Bexley's
boats told us about the deserter,)
and sent me up to catch the runaway;
for they mean to make an example of
him. Do you see any thing in that
room, lads? Have you searched it
through?”
“Not a kitten could escape us,” answered
one of the men.
The house was thoroughly searched,
and as no trace of the fugitive was discovered,
the party took its leave, the
boatswain following the advice of the
butcher, and taking captive with him
Barbara Frankland. She saw that resistance
would be vain, and believing
that the officer in the boat would order
her release as soon as he beheld her,
she bade Margaret not to rouse the
fierce anger of the men, by attempting
to defend her, but go and inform her
father the fate which had befallen her,
if she should be carried on board the
Bexley.
Margaret, filled with grief and rage,
at seeing the maiden led off by the gunner,
followed them to the boat. Here
Arling being told of the flight of the
deserter from the house, and the capture
of the daughter of Mr. Frankland, said:
“This fair prisoner will do better
than the other! Come, Miss Frankland,
you shall shall be my guest.—
Your father has proved himself traitor
to the crown, and we will have you as
a guarantee for his good behavior.”
In vain Barbara appealed to his humanity
and manliness. He drew her
by the hand into the boat, and forcing
Margaret back with the oars of his men,
ordered them to pull back to the Gaspee.
“To the Gaspee?” exclaimed the
midshipman, who acted as coxswain.
“Yes. Obey and ask no questions.”
The boat darted away from the shore
with her prow down the bay, and in
three quarters of an hour reached the
schooner. Arling, with a show of gallantry,
escorted his beautiful captive to
the cabin. Barbara saw that quiet submission
to her captivity was the only
judicious course. She believed that she
would soon be released, and while she
was indignant at the conduct of Arling
in taking her prisoner, she would not
let him see that she was alarmed at all.
On the way to the Gaspee, he had tried
to converse with her, but she invariably
preserved the stillest silence, replying
to no question. Yet all the while she
was wondering where she had heard
the voice. It was too dark to see his
face in the boat, but on entering the
lighted cabin, she turned quickly upon
him to gratify her curiosity, when she
was stupefied with surprise and displeasure.
“Lieutenant Arling!”
“Yes, Miss Frankland, your most
devoted admirer!” he answered, smiling.
“Little did I anticipate, two
hours ago, the happiness of having you
as my guest. Two years ago in Boston,
you disdained the offer of my hand:
now that fortune has thrown you into
my power, I will give you an opportunity
to change your mind.”
“Sir, this insult to a lady—”
“Nay, I treat you with the greatest
courtesy. This cabin is at your disposal.
I leave you here to reflect upon
the offer which I once more renew to
you Your father, if all I hear is true,
has forfeited his head by this night's
doings. You will need a protector. I
will be that one.”
“I cannot prevent you from saying
what you will, sir, but I shall act independently
and fearlessly, though a captain.
I now tell you, sir, you have even
less hope than ever. I despise and scorn
you.”
“Very well. I will give you a night
to think of it. I must now return to
the town, and also see Sir William
Petty!”
With these words he left her with an
elegant bow and a smile, and she soon
afterwards heard his boat rowing away
from the schooner.
Leaving Barbara Frankland in her
sudden and singular captivity, we will
now return to Martin Manwaring.
CHAPTER XXV.
After Margaret had left our youthful
hero in his concealment, the continued
and increased shouting which reached
his ears from the town excited his anxiety.
Finding that his mother's absence
was prolonged, and impatient at his
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confinement, and being of a spirit too brave
and daring to submit long to such a
mode of concealment to escape his foes,
he resolved to free himself from his hiding
place. After some difficulty, he
succeeded in removing one of the panels
and emerging into the cottage. Listening
and finding all about it still, though
he saw the lights and heard the hurrahs
in the town, he resolved to hasten thither.
For this purpose he threw on an
old cloak of his mother's, and a straw hat
that she had worn in her fortune-telling
wanderings, though he was not aware of
it. To avoid a meeting with her and
thus be stopped on his way, he followed
the steep hill-path, and coming round in
the rear of Mr. Manning's gardens, he
at length reached the streets of the town.
He walked on with a familiar step, and
soon came upon some people who were
talking together with much excitement.
From their conversation he learned the
cause of the agitation in the town, and
of the hurrahs, and of the crowd upon
the pier.
His heart bounded with joy, that there
was found one American merchant who
dared to set at defiance the unjust laws
of the crown; and he rejoiced that his
townsmen had patriotism enough in
their bosoms to aid him.
“I, too, will aid in unloading the
brig,” he said, as he left the group and
hastened to the wharf.
When he reached it, he could hardly
make his way to the vessel for the multitude.
Finding, from their exclamations
and questions as he passed, that
he was taken for his mother in her deranged
state, he took an opportunity to
throw aside the cloak and hat, saying,
“I need not fear arrest among so
many good patriots, even should the
Bexley's whole crew come on shore for
me!”
The next moment, bare-headed and
with his flowing locks scarcely dry
from the salt water in which they with
his dress had been saturated, he appeared
among the people, who, by the
light of a score of lanterns, placed in
the windows and doors of the store-house,
and held by men in the rigging
of the Free-Trader, were at work unlading
her. There were at least forty
men at work in their shirt-sleeves, some
in the hold breaking up the cargo, some
hooking it on to be hoisted others at the
fall, others rolling it across the deck to
men in the store-house. Such a scene
of excitement he had never before witnessed;
and burning with the wrongs he
had received from the English, his
heart was with them. He at once leaped
on board and took hold with them.
A sailor himself, he soon made himself
conspicuous among the townsmen
by his skill and adroitness.
“Who is that young man?” asked
Mr. Frankland. “He has given them
all new life by his example and words.
Who is he?”
No one could tell him. No one recognized
him. Yet he had not been
twenty minutes at work with them before
all yielded to him the direction of
the discharging.
The cargo had now nearly been hoisted
out when there was a cry.
“The sloop-of-war's boats are coming
full of men!”
At this, the timid and cautious fled,
and left only the bold.
“I want no blood shed, my friends,”
said Mr. Frankland. “There are only
two or three more pipes of wine left.—
Let them be; and all of you who have
done me and your country such good
service to-night, hasten to leave her,
that you may not be marked as being
engaged in the work! They may take
my vessel if they will!”
“We will have the three pipes upfirst,
my friends,” cried Martin. “We
will not leave them a single glass of
wine!”
The men sprang to the work, and
while they were hoisting, Mr. Frankland
was hailed from the leading boat;
for as soon as the sloop's boats reached
the ship from down the bay, Sir William
had arrived and sent them to the
town to cut out the brig; the unloading
of which by the town's-people he had
heard of in the beginning by one of the
crown's men who had gone off in a skiff
to report. Arling, instead of going
with the boats direct to the Bexley, turned
aside, as we have seen, to pull to the
brig, which he was desirous of being the
first to board; but which, after stopping
to arrest the deserter, he was willing to
forego for the greater gratification of
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conveying Barbara Frankland to his
vessel.
“Brig ahoy!” hailed the leading
boat.
“Well, the boats! What do you
wish?” returned the merchant, firmly.
“Is that the Free-Trader?”
“Yes.”
“Then I demand you to surrender
her to me in the King's name!”
“She makes no resistance to the
king, neither do I. Come on board
when you please, sir. But you will
take possession of her at the peril of
being answerable for all damages to my
property!”
“I'll take that look-out,” answered
the officer. “Pull away, men.”
Still the officer approached cautiously;
for there were visible, standing
quietly upon the wharf and shore, a
large number of people; and he did not
know but that he might yet get a hostile
reception. In the meanwhile the last
pipe had been hoisted and rolled across
the deck.
“My friends, a thousand thanks, and
you, young man, in particular,” said
the merchant. “Now lea ve quickly
and mingle with the crowd looking on.
Do not be seen on board. I will take
care of my own vessel!”
“If you wish to defend her, sir,” said
Martin, we will keep them off.”
“It would be useless, and cause bloodshed,
my brave young friend. They
will only put a guard on board, and let
her remain at the wharf. They have
no idea the dutiable goods are all on
shore, and will only board the brig to
keep them from being landed. You
have my thanks for what you have done.
Hasten on shore!”
“You must go also, Mr. Frankland,”
said Martin, with firmness, feeling
solicitous for the safety of the father of
Barbara. “The officers are irritative,
and will do violence to you. Come with
us, sir, and we will go. Your presence
alone on board will do no good! You
have others who are deeply interested
in your safety, sir.”
“True! I will go! I can do no good
by remaining. I have done my duty
thus far in resisting the unjust revenue
law! I will leave with you.”
Thus speaking, the merchant went to
the stern, from which the leading boa
was not three fathoms distant, and said,
“Mr. officer, I cannot defend my
brig, or I would do so. I leave her to
you and make you answerable. You
will find the commissioner of the crown
a prisoner in the cabin, and will do him
a favor to release him as early as convenient.
You will also find the tide-waiter
there!”
Mr. Frankland then crossed his brig's
deck and stepped on shore, followed by
Martin and two or three others who had
lingered behind. The next moment the
officer had boarded, sword in hand, as if
he expected resistance. But he found
the deck vacant. Ordering his men to
different points of the vessel to hold its
possession, he descended into the cabin,
and in a few minutes returned with the
commissioner who was eloquently re
counting his wrongs, to which the lieutenant
listened with much excitement-especially
when he heard of the Gas,
pee's boats.
“The vessel shall be taken from the
town and anchored under the Gaspee's
guns,” he exclaimed, fiercely.—
“She is a fair prize to the crown.—
To-morrow we will look up these rebels
who have now fled to the shore and
mixed with the crowd. Cast off the
hawsers fore and aft, and away aloft
there, some of you and loose the top
sails!” he shouted.
In a few minutes the brig was freed
from her fastenings to the pier, and under
her jib, topsail and tri-sail, slowly
moved away from the crowded wharf
and steered for the Bexley. All this
while the multitude looked on, but made
no effort to resist this movement, being
restrained by Mr. Frankland, who bade
them let the brig go; “for,” said he,
“they dare not keep her! The whole
province would be on fire! The king
would lose his colonies by such an act
of aggression; my conduct for this
night will be hailed with acclamation
throughout the land! Let the brig
go!”
The multitude, nevertheless, gave
vent to their feelings in groans and
jeers, and occasional shouts of derision
and defiance.'
Mr. Frankland, surrounded by his
more immediate friends, stood on the
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[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
pier and watched the receding brig
till it could be only indistinctly seen in
the distance.
“She has come to anchor, sir,” said
Martin, who stood close at his side, feeling,
for Barbara's sake, a regard for him
that partook of affection.
“You have good eyes, young man.”
“I can see that she has clued up her
topsails and swung round to the current.”
“Yes, that is true. I can make out
that. The brig is fairly in their power.
I may lose her, and her cargo, but, I
am willing to do so. I am able to bear
the loss, and am ready to bear it, for the
sake of showing my countrymen how
far the English will go in oppression;
and to show the English how far we
will go in resisting it.”
“But, sir, if you will give your consent,
the brig will not be long in their
hands,” said Martin. “We can rescue
her.”
“Who are you, brave young man?”
demanded the merchant, with surprise.
“I am but a poor Newport boy, sir,
was impressed five years ago by our tyrants.
This night I made my escape
from the Bexley by swimming on shore,
and I am thankful that it has been my
good fortune to be here at this time to
show my defiance of our oppressors.”
There was a loud shout of applause at
his words.
“What is his name? Who is it?”
demanded a score of voices.
“Yes, thy name, young gentleman,”
said the merchant, taking him by the
hand and looking him steadily in the
face.
Martin had not time to reply; for at
the same instant Margaret came foreing
her way and crying,
“The British have landed in a boat
and carried off thy daughter, Mr. Frankland.”
At this announcement there was a
general outcry of surprise and indignation.
Margaret briefly explained the
facts and made known to them that it
was the captain of the Gaspee, who had
gone down to his schooner, as she had
watched and seen, with his captive.
“Mother, tell me if this is true indeed?”
cried Martin, clasping her hands
in his, almost before she recognized him.
“Heaven be thanked! Here is my
son! Safe! Thou art safe.”
“Who knows where the Gaspee
lies?” cried Martin, in a voice that betrayed
the depth of his emotion.
“I do, Martin Manwaring,” answered
Mate Finch, “My friends, this
brave young sailor turns out to be Margaret's
son. Welcome him back.”
“Hurrah for Martin Manwaring.—
Long life to the brave Newport boy.”
“Who will volunteer to go with me
to the rescue of Mr. Frankland's daughter?”
he cried.
“I! I! I! I!” cried one after another,
till it seemed a hundred men responded
in the affirmative.
“My child! my poor child!” cried
the merchant, for the first time able to
speak, so overwhelmed had he been by
the intelligence; for he thought at once
that they had taken her as a hostage.
“Sir,” said Martin; “I am going to
receive her. She shall be restored to
your arms ere the sun again rise.”
“Heaven bless you and prosper you.”
“My friends, let as many boats as can
be got together in ten minutes be filled
with armed men and brought round to
the pier. We will first take the brig
from under the very guns of the Bexley,
and in her bear down upon the Gaspee,
which lays aground. This will be the
most sure and expeditious way; for they
will not be prepared to defend the brig.
If we fail in taking her as we pass, we
will row on and attack the Gaspee with
the boats. Let me know how many men
will go. As I count, respond.”
He counted up to one hundred and
seventy with a hearty-response at each
number.
“It is enough! Now to your boats.”
Those were soon obtained, for nearly
every citizen who dwelt near the shore
owned one or more. Within half an
hour, thirty boats, with full two hundred
men armed as they could be at such
short notice, gathered about the pierhead.
Into one of them Martin, Mr.
Frankland, who insisted upon going,
Mate Finch and ten othors, well armed,
embarked. To Martin, every man
with one consent, yielded the direction
of the enterprise.
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[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
In less than four minutes after she
was boarded, the Free-Trader was taken,
put under sail, and standing down the
bay, under a heavy fire from the sloop,
which, on discovering the movement,
opened her batteries; ihe brig having
been anchored forward of her beam,
she could only bring three or four of
her forward guns to bear upon her
without working round, and before she
effected the manæuvre, the brig was
beyond reach of her shot; nevertheless
she was hulled twice by the first fire,
and her main-topsail was shot from the
slings. Still Martin stood on; and
Mate Finch, keeping a sharp look-out
for the Gaspee, reported a boat coming
up, which as it came nearer and saw
the flotilla of boats about the brig, for
every boat of the thirty was alongside
with two or three men in it, put about,
Chase was given, but by superior
rowing and fleetness, it escaped to the
shore; and from the land, Arling, for
it was he, on his way up to the town,
beheld, by the light of her own guns,
the Gaspee attacked, boarded, and
captured; for the brig bore directly
down upon her, and laid her along-side,
and indifferent to her fire, poured
her two hundred men along her deck.
Martin found Barbara in the cabin, and
taking her hand, he led her to her
father, who embraced her with tears of
joy.
“Thank not me, my child, but this
noble and brave young man!” said her
father. “He has conducted this enterprise
and rescued you.”
“Father, I know not how to thank
him! If he will accept my poor hand,
it is his! Do not start, sir! We
have known each other and met before.
Our hearts have long been bound together.
We only ask your consent
that our hands man be united also.”
“You have it! I could give you
to no one more worthy of you. But I
am amazed! But you shall explain
all by and by. Mr. Manwaring, here
is my child. You have won her! She
says you love each other! Take her;
and my blessing with her!”
We will not dwell upon the happiness
and gratitude of the lovers.—
piness was soon called to the stern
duties of a conqueror and captor, and
gave orders to set the Gaspee on fire.
Mate Finch was the last to leave her,
lighting the train with his own hand
From the boats and the brig, which,
drawing two feet less water than the
schooner, safely floated, and was steered
away from the prize, with the
British crew prisoners on board, they
beheld the blaze seize upon the vessel,
and entwine like serpents about the
masts and cordage. After the masts
fell, she blew up with an explosion that
was heard, and a light that was seen for
thirty miles around.
Mate Finch now selected, at Mr.
Frankland's suggestion, a crew of ten
men from those on board and in the
boats; and made sail for some distant
port known only to himself and the
merchant: thus effectually putting the
brig beyond the reach of the British.—
The rest, with Martin, Mr. Frankland,
and Barbara, pulled for shore, and keeping
close in with it, in an hour reached
Newport, passing on their way, but too
far to be seen by her, the sloop-of-war
under full sail down the bay in chase of
the brig.
The marriage of Barbara Frankland
with the youthful hero of our story, took
placo four months after the events just
related, when the safety of the merchant
and of all concerned in the affair of the
Free-Trader was secured by a pardon
from the crown, and a modification of
the unjust revenue laws: for the ministry
saw in the resistance made in
Newport, and in the feeling of patriotic
sympathy which it awakened throughout
the provinces, that it would not be safe
to press free men too free; and that the
men of America were made of different
material than the willing serfs of Europe.
Nevertheless, the crown, soon
forgetting their lesson, began to enact
other oppressive laws, which, ere four
years expired, caused the thirteen colonies
to revolt and pronounce to the world
their independence to the mother country!
“Is it not thy dream all realized,
daughter?” said Margaret Manwaring,
as she smiled upon her blushing daughter-in-law
on the evening of her bridal.
THE END.
Back matter
Back matter
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[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
ISABEL OF BAVARIA: OR, THE CHRONICLES OF FRANCE FOR THE Reign of Charles the Sixth.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF
ALEXANDRE DUMAS,
AUTHOR OF “DIANA OF MERIDOR,” “MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN,” &c.
Price Fifty Cents, Complete.
It has been frequently remarked, that the romance of real life abounds wita events
infinitely more extraordinary and interesting than anything that has ever emanated
from the imagination of the poet or the novelist; and a persual of the following pages
will amply prove the truth of this assertion. After a careful examination of the sources
from which the author professes to have derived his materials, the Translator is satisfied
that every event recorded in these Chronicles is historically correct in all its most
important features, and that the characters here depicted are genuine representations
of the originals.
That vividness of style and those animated descriptions in which M. Dumas so
greatly excels, may not, in the translation, be found to possess all their original brilliance;
but the utmost care has been taken to preserve the many useful lessons that
may be derived from this diffuse yet minute sketch. Much vice is here portrayed,
without offending delicacy; and the description of those turbulent times of old—of bigotry
combined with loose morality—of unlimited power with impotent laws—may
induce us to congratulate ourselves that we live in an age when Christianity is something
more than a name, and the laws by which society are regulated and controlled
something more than a dry inefficient code.
A few notes, in addition to those in the original, have been appended by the translator;
and for these, which cannot be mistaken, he alone must be held responsible.
It is therefore at St. Denis, since we are there, that we will open the mysterious
archives of that singular reign, which passed, as says one of our poets, “between the
vision of an old man and that of a shepherdess; and which left, as the only memorial
of its duration—a bitter sarcasm on the destiny of empires and the fortune of men—a
pack of cards.”
For some fair pages that this book will contain, we shall meet many red with blood,
many dark with mourning; for providence willed that all here below should be tinged
with these three colors, when it instituted the heraldry of human life, and gave to it
for a device—innocence, passions, and death.
Let us now open this book, as God opens life, at its fair pages: we shall soon
enough arrive at its pages of blood and of mourning.
WILLIAMS BROTHERS, Publishers,
24 Ann-street, New York, and 6 Water-street, Boston.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1847], The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett bay (Williams Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf209].
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