The Wing-and-Wing by J. Fenimore Cooper (page 6)

my honor.”

“And all these honorable officers well know,” observed Raoul, ironically, “that a felucca-lugger and a lugger such as le Feu-Follet is understood to be are very different things. Now, Signore, you have never heard me say that I am a Frenchman?”

“Non–you have not been so weak as to confess that to one who hates the name of the Francese. Cospetto! If all the Grand Duke’s subjects detested his enemies as I do, he would be the most powerful prince in Italy!”

“No doubt, Signore; and now suffer me to inquire if you heard any other name for that felucca than ze Ving-and-Ving. Did I ever call her le Feu-Follet?”

“Non–always ze Ving-y-Ving; never anything else; but–“

“Your pardon, Signore; have the goodness to answer my questions. I called the felucca ze Ving-and-Ving; and I called myself le Capitaine Smeet; is it not true?”

“Si–Ving-y-Ving and il Capitano Smees–Sir Smees, a signore of an illustrious English family of that name, if I remember right.”

Raoul smiled, for he was confident this notion proceeded principally from the self-illusion of the two Italians themselves; the little he had said on the subject having been drawn out more by their suggestions than by any design on his part. Still he did not deem it prudent to contradict the podesta, who, as yet, had testified to nothing that could possibly criminate him.

“If a young man has the vanity to wish to be thought noble,” answered Raoul, calmly, “it may prove his folly, but it does not prove him a spy. You did not hear me confess myself a Frenchman, you say: now did you not hear me say I was born in Guernsey?”

“Si–the Signore did say that the family of Smees came from that island–as the vice-governatore calls it, though I acknowledge I never heard of such an island. There are Sicilia, Sardegna, Elba, Caprea, Ischia, Irlanda, Inghilterra, Scozia, Malta, Capraya, Pianosa, Gorgona, and America, with several more in the east; but I never heard of such an island as Guernsey. Si, Signore; we are humble people, and I hope modest people in the island of Elba, but we do know something of the rest of the world, notwithstanding. If you wish to hear these matters touched on ingeniously, however, you will do well to call in the vice-governatore for half an hour and invite him to open his stores of knowledge. San Antonio!–I doubt if Italy has his equal–at islands, in particular.”

“Good,” continued Raoul; “and now tell these officers, Signore Podesta, if you can say on your oath, that I had anything to do with that felucca, ze Ving-and-Ving, at all.”

“I cannot, Signore, except from your own words. You were dressed like one of these officers, here, in an English uniform, and said you commanded ze Ving-y-Ving. While speaking of islands, Signori, I forgot Palmavola and Ponza, both of which we passed in this ship on our voyage from Elba.”

“Good–it is always well to be particular under oath. Now, Signor Podesta, the result of all your evidence is, that you do not know that the felucca you mention was le Feu-Follet, that I am a Frenchman even, much less that I am Raoul Yvard, and that I told you that I was from Guernsey, and that my name was Jacques Smeet–is it not so?”

“Si–you did say your name was Giac Smees, and you did not say you were Raoul Yvard. But, Signore, I saw you firing your cannon at the boats of this frigate, with French colors flying, and that is some signs of an enemy, as we understand these matters in Porto Ferrajo.”

Raoul felt that this was a direct blow; still, it wanted the connecting link to make it testimony.

“But you did not see _me_ doing this?–You mean you saw ze Ving-and-Ving in a combat with the frigate’s boats.”

“Si–that was it–but you told me you were commander of ze Ving-y-Ving.”

“Let us understand you,” put in the Judge Advocate–“is it the intention of the prisoner to deny his being a Frenchman and an enemy?”

“It is my intention, sir, to deny everything that is not proved.”

“But your accent–your English–nay, your appearance show that you are a Frenchman?”

“Your pardon, sir. There are many nations that speak French which are not French to-day. All along the north frontier of France is French spoken by foreigners–Savoy, and Geneva, and Vaud–also the English have French subjects in the Canadas, besides Guernsey and Jersey. You will not hang a man because his accent is not from London?”

“We shall do you justice, prisoner,” observed Cuffe, “and you shall have the benefit of every doubt that makes in your favor. Still, it may be well to inform you that the impression of your being a Frenchman and Raoul Yvard is very strong; and if you can show to the contrary, you would do well to prove it by direct testimony.”

“How will this honorable court expect that to be done? I was taken in a boat last night and am tried this morning at a notice as short as that which was given to Caraccioli. Give me time to send for witnesses, and I will prove who and what I am.”

This was said coolly and with the air of a man assured of his own innocence, and it produced a slight effect on his judges; for an appeal to the unvarying principles of right seldom falls unheeded on the ear. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt in the minds of the officers of the Proserpine, in particular, either as to the character of the lugger or as to that of the prisoner; and men, under such circumstances, were not likely to allow an enemy who had done them so much injury to escape. The appeal only rendered them more cautious, and more determined to protect themselves against charges of unfair proceedings.

“Have you any further questions to put to the witness, prisoner?” inquired the president of the court.

“None at present, sir–we will go on, if you please, gentlemen.”

“Call Ithuel Bolt,” said the Judge Advocate, reading the new witness’s name from a list before him.

Raoul started, for the idea of the American’s being brought forward in this capacity had never occurred to him. In a minute Ithuel appeared, was sworn, and took his place at the foot of the table.

“Your name is Ithuel Bolt?” observed the Judge Advocate, holding his pen in readiness to record the answer.

“So they say aboard here,” answered the witness, coolly–“though, for my part, I’ve no answer to give to such a question.”

“Do you deny your name, sir?”

“I deny nothing–want to say nothing, or to have anything to do with this trial or this ship.”

Raoul breathed easier; for, to own the truth, he had not much confidence in Ithuel’s constancy or disinterestedness; and he apprehended that he had been purchased with the promise of a pardon for himself.

“You will remember that you are under oath, and may be punished for contumacy on refusing to answer.”

“I’ve some gineral idees of law,” answered Ithuel, passing his hand over his queue to make sure it was right, “for we all do a little at that in Ameriky. I practised some myself, when a young man, though it was only afore a justice-peace. _We_ used to hold that a witness needn’t answer ag’in himself.”

“Is it, then, on account of criminating yourself that you answer thus vaguely?”

“I decline answering that question,” answered Ithuel, with an air of dignity.

“Witness, have you any personal knowledge of the prisoner?”

“I decline answering that question, too.”

“Do you know anything of such a person as Raoul Yvard?”

“What if I do?–I’m a native American, and have a right to form acquaintances in foreign lands if I see it’s to my interest, or it’s agreeable to my feelin’s.”

“Have you never served on board His Majesty’s ships?”

“What majesty?–There’s no majesty in Ameriky, as I know, but the majesty of heaven.”

“Remember that your answers are all recorded, and may tell against you on some other occasion.”

“Not lawfully; a witness can’t be made to give answers that tell ag’in himself.”

“Certainly not _made_ to do it; still he may _do_ it of his own accord.”

“Then it’s the duty of the court to put him on his guard. I’ve heerd that ag’in and ag’in in Ameriky.”

“Did you ever see a vessel called le Feu-Follet?”

“How in natur’ is a mariner to tell all the vessels he may happen to see on the wide ocean!”

“Did you ever serve under the French flag?”

“I decline entering at all into my private affairs. Being free, I’m free to sarve where I please.”

“It is useless to ask this witness any further questions,” Cuffe quietly observed. “The man is well known in this ship, and his own trial will most probably take place as soon as this is ended.”

The Judge Advocate assented, and Ithuel was permitted to withdraw, his contumacy being treated with the indifference that power is apt to exhibit toward weakness. Still there was no legal proof on which to convict the prisoner. No one doubted his guilt, and there were the strongest reasons, short of a downright certainty, for supposing that he commanded the lugger which had so recently fought the boats of the very ship in which the court was sitting; but notwithstanding, supposition was not the evidence the laws required; and the recent execution of Caraccioli had made so much conversation that few would condemn without seeing their justification before them. Things were really getting to be seriously awkward, and the court was again cleared for the purpose of consultation. In the private discourse that followed, Cuffe stated all that had occurred, the manner in which Raoul had been identified, and the probabilities–nay, moral certainties–of the case. At the same time, he was forced to allow that he possessed no direct evidence that the lugger he had chased was a Frenchman at all, and least of all le Feu-Follet. It is true, she had worn the French flag, but she had also worn the English, and the Proserpine had done the same thing. To be sure, the lugger had _fought_ under the _drapeau tricolor_, which might be taken as a strong circumstance against her; but it was not absolutely conclusive, for the circumstances might possibly justify deception to the last moment; and he admitted that the frigate herself had _appeared_ to fire at the batteries under the same ensign. The case was allowed to be embarrassing; and, while no one really doubted the identity of Raoul, those who were behind the curtains greatly feared they might be compelled to adjourn the trial for want of evidence, instead of making an immediate sentence the means of getting possession of the lugger, as had been hoped. When all these points had been sufficiently discussed, and Cuffe had let his brethren into his view of the real state of the case, he pointed out a course that he still trusted would prove effectual. After a few minutes of further deliberation on this information, the doors were opened and the court resumed its public sitting, as before.

“Let a young woman who is known by the name of Ghita be brought in next,” said the Judge Advocate, consulting his notes.

Raoul started, and a shade of manly concern passed over his face; but he soon recovered and seemed unmoved. Ghita and her uncle had been taken from the cabin stateroom, and placed below, in order that the private consultation might be perfectly secret, and it was necessary to wait a few minutes until she could be summoned. These past, the door opened, and the girl entered the room. She cast a glance of tender concern at Raoul; but the novelty of her situation, and the awful character of an oath to one of her sensitive conscience and utter inexperience, soon drew her attention entirely to the scene more immediately before her. The Judge Advocate explained the nature of the oath she was required to take, and then he administered it. Had Ghita been taken less by surprise, or had she in the least foreseen the consequences, no human power could have induced her to submit to be sworn; but, ignorant of all this, she submitted passively, kissing the cross with reverence, and even offering to kneel as she made the solemn protestation. All this was painful to the prisoner, who distinctly foresaw the consequences. Still, so profound was his reverence for Ghita’s singleness of heart and mind, that he would not, by look or gesture, in any manner endeavor to undermine that sacred love of truth which he knew formed the very foundations of her character. She was accordingly sworn, without anything occurring to alarm her affectations, or to apprise her of what might be the sad result of the act.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Hic et ubique? Then we’ll shift our ground:– Come hither, gentlemen,
And lay your hands upon my sword: Swear by my sword.”

HAMLET.

“Your name is Ghita,” commenced the Judge Advocate, examining his memoranda–“Ghita what?”

“Ghita Caraccioli, Signore,” answered the girl, in a voice so gentle and sweet as to make a friend of every listener.

The name, however, was not heard without producing a general start, and looks of surprise were exchanged among all in the room; most of the officers of the ship who were not on duty being present as spectators.

“Caraccioli,” repeated the Judge Advocate, with emphasis. “That is a great name in Italy. Do you assume to belong to the illustrious house which bears this appellation?”

“Signore, I assume to own nothing that is illustrious, being merely an humble girl who lives with her uncle in the prince’s towers on Monte Argentaro.”

“How happens it, then, that you bear the distinguished name of Caraccioli, signorina?”

“I dare say, Mr. Medford,” observed Cuffe, in English, of course, “that the young woman doesn’t know herself whence she got the name. These matters are managed very loosely in Italy.”

“Signore,” resumed Ghita, earnestly, after waiting respectfully for the captain to get through, “I bear the name of my father, as is usual with children, but it is a name on which a heavy disgrace has fallen so lately as yesterday; _his_ father having been a sight for the thousands of Naples to gaze on, as his aged body hung at the yard of one of your ships.”

“And do you claim to be the grand-daughter of that unfortunate admiral?”

“So I have been taught to consider myself; may his soul rest in a peace that his foes would not grant to his body! That criminal, as you doubtless believe him, was my father’s father, though few knew it, when he was honored as a prince and a high officer of the king’s.”

A deep silence followed; the singularity of the circumstance, and the air of truth which pervaded the manner of the girl, uniting to produce a profound sensation.

“The admiral had the reputation of being childless,” observed Cuffe, in an undertone. “Doubtless this girl’s father has been the consequence of some irregular connection.”

“If there has been a promise or any words of recognition uttered before witnesses,” muttered Lyon, “accordin’ to the laws of Scotland, issue and a few pairtenant expressions will splice a couple as strongly as ye’ll be doing it in England before either of the archbishops.”

“As this is Italy, it is not probable that the same law rules here. Proceed, Mr. Judge Advocate.”

“Well, Ghita Caraccioli–if that be your name–I wish to know if you have any acquaintance with a certain Raoul Yvard, a Frenchman, and the commander of a private lugger-of-war, called le Feu-Follet? Remember, you are sworn to tell the truth, the _whole_ truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Ghita’s heart beat violently, and the color came into her face with the impetuosity of sensitive alarm. She had no knowledge of courts, and the object of the inquiry was unknown to her. Then followed the triumph of innocence; the purity of her mind and the quiet of her conscience reassuring her by bringing the strong conviction that she had no reason to blush for any sentiment she might happen to entertain.

“Signore,” she said, dropping her eyes to the floor, for the gaze of all the court was fastened on her face–“I _am_ aquainted with Raoul Yvard, the person you mention; this is he who sits between those two cannon. He is a Frenchman, and he _does_ command the lugger called the Feu-Follet.”

“I knew we should get it all by this witness!” exclaimed Cuffe, unable to suppress the relief he felt at obtaining the required testimony.

“You say that you know this of your own knowledge,” resumed the Judge Advocate–

“Messieurs,” said Raoul, rising, “will you grant me leave to speak? This is a cruel scene, and rather than endure it–rather than give this dear girl the cause for future pain that I know her answers will bring–I ask that you permit her to retire, when I promise to admit all that you can possibly prove by her means.”

A short consultation followed, when Ghita was told to withdraw. But the girl had taken the alarm from the countenance of Raoul, although she did not understand what passed in English; and she was reluctant to quit the place in ignorance.

“Have I said aught to injure thee, Raoul?” she anxiously asked–“I was sworn on the Word of God, and by the sacred cross–had I foreseen any harm to thee, the power of England would not have made me take so solemn an oath, and then I might have been silent.”

“It matters not, dearest–the fact must come out in some way or other, and in due time you shall know all. And now, Messieurs”–the door closing on Ghita–“there need be no further concealment between us. I am Raoul Yvard–the person you take me for, and the person that some of you must well know me to be. I fought your boats, Monsieur Cuffe–avoided your _brulot,_ and led you a merry chase round Elba. I deceived the Signor Barrofaldi and his friend the podesta, and all for the love of this beautiful and modest girl, who has just left the cabin; no other motive having carried me into Porto Ferrajo or into this Bay of Naples, on the honor of a Frenchman.”

“Umph!” muttered Lyon, “it must be admitted, Sir Frederick, that the prisoner appeals to a most eligible standard!”

On another occasion national antipathy and national prejudice might have caused the rest of the court to smile at this sally; but there was an earnestness and sincerity in the manner and countenance of Raoul, which, if they did not command entire belief, at least commanded respect. It was impossible to deride such a man; and long-cherished antipathies were rebuked by his spirited and manly declarations.

“There will be no further occasion for witnesses, Mr. Judge Advocate, if the prisoner be disposed to acknowledge the whole truth,” observed Cuffe. “It is proper, however, Monsieur Yvard, to apprise you of the possible consequences. You are on trial for your life; the charge being that of coming on board an English ship in disguise, or rather into the centre of an English fleet, you being an alien enemy, engaged in carrying on open warfare against His Majesty.”

“I am a Frenchman, Monsieur, and I serve my country,” answered Raoul, with dignity.

“Your right to serve your country no one will dispute; but you must know it is against the laws of civilized warfare to act the part of a spy. You are now on your guard and will decide for yourself. If you have anything to say, we will hear it.”

“Messieurs, there is little more to be said,” answered Raoul. “That I am _your_ enemy, as I am of all those who seek the downfall of France, I do not deny. You know _who_ I am and _what_ I am, and I have no excuses to make for being either. As brave Englishmen, you will know how to allow for the love a Frenchman bears his country. As for coming on board this ship, you cannot bring that as a charge against me, since it was at your own invitation I did it. The rites of hospitality are as sacred as they are general.”

The members of the court exchanged significant glances with each other, and there was a pause of more than a minute. Then the Judge Advocate resumed his duties saying;

“I wish you to understand, prisoner, the precise legal effect of your admissions; then I wish them to be made formally and deliberately; else we must proceed to the examination of other witnesses. You are said to be Raoul Yvard, an alien enemy, in arms against the king.”

“Monsieur, this I have already admitted; it cannot honorably be denied.”

“You are accused of coming on board His Majesty’s ship Proserpine disguised, and of calling yourself a boatman of Capri, when you were Raoul Yvard, an alien enemy, bearing arms against the king.”

“This is all true; but I was invited on board the ship, as I have just stated.”

“You are furthermore accused of rowing in among the ships of His Majesty, now lying in the Bay of Naples, and which ships are under the orders of Rear-Admiral Lord Nelson, Duke of Bronte, in Sicily, you being in the same disguise, though an alien enemy, with the intent to make your observations as a spy, and, doubtless, to avail yourself of information thus obtained, to the injury of His Majesty’s subjects, and to your own advantage and that of the nation you serve.”

“Monsieur, this is not so–_parole d’honneur_, I went into the bay in search of Ghita Caraccioli, who has my whole heart, and whom I would persuade to become my wife. Nothing else carried me into the bay; and I wore this dress because I might otherwise have been known and arrested.”

“This is an important fact, if you can prove it; for, though it might not technically acquit you, it would have its effect on the commander-in-chief, when he comes to decide on the sentence of this court.”

Raoul hesitated. He did not doubt that Ghita, she whose testimony had just proved so serious a matter against him, would testify that she _believed_ such was alone his motive; and this, too, in a way and with corroborative circumstances that would carry weight with the, more particularly as she could testify that he had done the same thing before, in the Island of Elba, and was even in the practice of paying her flying visits at Monte Argentaro. Nevertheless, Raoul felt a strong reluctance to have Ghita again brought before the court. With the jealous sensitiveness of true love, he was averse to subjecting its object to the gaze and comments of the rude of his own sex; then he knew his power over the feelings of the girl, and had too much sensibility not to enter into all the considerations that might influence a man on a point so delicate; and he could not relish the idea of publicly laying bare feelings that he wished to be as sacred to others as they were to himself.

“Can you prove what you have just averred, Raoul Yvard?” demanded the Judge Advocate.

“Monsieur–I fear it will not be in my power. There is one–but–I much fear it will not be in my power–unless, indeed, I am permitted to examine my companion; he who has already been before you.”

“You mean Ithuel Bolt, I presume. He has not yet been regularly before us, but you can produce him or any other witness; the court reserving to itself the right to decide afterward on the merits of the testimony.”

“Then, Monsieur, I could wish to have Etoo-ell here.”

The necessary directions were given, and Ithuel soon stood in the presence of his judges. The oath was tendered, and Ithuel took it like a man who had done such things before.

“Your name is Ithuel Bolt?” commenced the Judge Advocate.

“So they call me on board this ship–but if I am to be a witness, let me swear freely; I don’t wish to have words put into my mouth, or idees chained to me with iron.”

As this was said, Ithuel raised his arms and exhibited his handcuffs, which the master-at-arms had refused to remove, and the officers of the court had overlooked. A reproachful glance from Cuffe and a whisper from Yelverton disposed of the difficulty–Ithuel was released.

“Now I can answer more conscientiously,” continued the witness, grinning sardonically; “when iron is eating into the flesh, a man is apt to swear to what he thinks will be most agreeable to his masters. Go on, ‘squire, if you have anything to say.”

“You appear to be an Englishman.”

“Do I? Then I appear to be what I am not. I’m a native of the Granite State, in North America. My fathers went to that region in times long gone by to uphold their religious idees. The whole country thereabouts sets onaccountable store by their religious privileges.”

“Do you know the prisoner, Ithuel Bolt–the person who is called Raoul Yvard?”

Ithuel was a little at a loss exactly how to answer this question. Notwithstanding the high motive which had led his fathers into the wilderness, and his own peculiar estimate of his religious advantages, an oath had got to be a sort of convertible obligation with him ever since the day he had his first connection with a custom-house. A man who had sworn to so many false invoices was not likely to stick at a trifle in order to serve a friend; still, by denying the acquaintance, he might bring discredit on himself, and thus put it out of his power to be of use to Raoul on some more material point. As between himself and the Frenchman, there existed a remarkable moral discrepancy; for, while he who prided himself on his religious ancestry and pious education had a singularly pliable conscience, Raoul, almost an Atheist in opinion, would have scorned a simple lie when placed in a situation that touched his honor. In the way of warlike artifices, few men were more subtle or loved to practise them oftener than Raoul Yvard; but, the mask aside, or when he fell back on his own native dignity of mind, death itself could not have extorted an equivocation from him. On the other hand, Ithuel had an affection for a lie–more especially if it served himself, or injured his enemy; finding a mode of reconciling all this to his spirituality that is somewhat peculiar to fanaticism as it begins to grow threadbare. On the present occasion, he was ready to say whatever he thought would most conform to his shipmate’s wishes, and luckily he construed the expression of the other’s countenance aright.

“I _do_ know the prisoner, as you call him, ‘squire,” Ithuel answered, after the pause that was necessary to come to his conclusion–“I _do_ know him _well_; and a master crittur he is when he fairly gets into a current of your English trade. Had there been a Rule Yvard on board each of the Frenchmen at the Nile, over here in Egypt, Nelson would have found that his letter stood in need of some postscripts, I guess.”

“Confine your answers, witness, to the purport of the question,” put in Cuffe, with dignity.

Ithuel stood too much in habitual awe of the captain of his old ship to venture on an answer; but if looks could have done harm, that important functionary would not have escaped altogether uninjured. As he said nothing, the examination proceeded.

“You know him to be Raoul Yvard, the commander of the French privateer lugger, le Feu-Follet?” continued the Judge Advocate, deeming it prurient to fortify his record of the prisoner’s confession of identity with a little collateral evidence.

“Why–I _some_ think”–answered Ithuel, with a peculiar provincialism, that had a good deal of granite in it–“that is, I kind o’ conclude”–catching an assent from Raoul’s eye–“oh! yes–of _that_ there isn’t the smallest mite of doubt in the world. He’s the captain of the lugger, and a right down good one he is!”

“You were with him in disguise when he came, into the Bay of Naples yesterday?”

“I in disguise, ‘squire!–What have I got to disguise? I am an American of different callings, all of which I practyse as convenience demands; being a neutral, I’ve no need of disguises to go anywhere. I am never disguised except when my jib is a little bowsed out; and that, you know, is a come-over that befals most seafaring men at times.”

“You need answer nothing concerning yourself that will tend to criminate you. Do you know with what inducement, or on what business, Raoul Yvard came into the Bay of Naples yesterday?”

“To own to you the candid truth, ‘squire, I do not,” answered Ithuel, simply; for the nature of the tie which bound the young Frenchman so closely to Ghita was a profound mystery, in all that related to its more sacred feelings, to a being generally so obtuse on matters of pure sentiment.

“Captain Rule is a good deal given to prying about on the coast; and what particular eend he had in view in this expedition I cannot tell you. His a’r’n’ds in shore, I must own, be sometimes onaccountable!–Witness the island of Elby, gentlemen.”

Ithuel indulged in a small laugh as he made this allusion; for, in his own way, he had a humor in which he occasionally indulged, after a manner that belonged to the class of which he was a conspicuous member.

“Never mind what occurred at Elba. Prisoner, do you wish to question the witness?”

“Etuelle,” asked Raoul, “do you not know that I love Ghita Caraccioli?”

“Why, Captain Rule, I know you think so and say so–but I set down all these matters as somewhat various and onaccountable.”

“Have I not often landed on the enemy’s coast solely to see her and to be near her?”

By this time Ithuel, who was a little puzzled at first to understand what it all meant, had got his cue, and no witness could have acquitted himself better than he did from that moment.

“That you have,” he answered; “a hundred times at least; and right in the teeth of my advice.”

“Was not my sole object, in coming into the Bay yesterday, to find Ghita, and Ghita only?”

“Just so. Of that, gentlemen, there can be no more question than there is about Vesuvius standing up at the head of the Bay, smoking like a brick-kiln. That _was_ Captain Rule’s sole a’r’n’d.”

“I just understood ye to say, witness,” put in Lyon, “and that only a bit since, that ye did not know the prisoner’s motive in coming into the Bay of Naples. Ye called his behavior unaccountable.”

“Very true, sir, and so it is to _me_. I know’d all along that _love_ was at the bottom of it; but _I_ don’t call love a _motive_, while I do call it _unaccountable_. Love’s a feelin’ and not a nature. That’s the explanation on’t. Yes, I know’d it was _love_ for Miss Gyty, but then that’s not a motive in law.”

“Answer to the facts. The court will judge of the motive for itself. How do you know that love for the young woman you mention was Raoul Yvard’s only object in coming into the Bay?”

“One finds out such things by keeping company with a man. Captain Rule went first to look for the young woman up on the mountain yonder, where her aunt lives, and I went with him to talk English if it got to be necessary; and not finding Gyty at home, we got a boat and followed her over to Naples. Thus, you see, sir, that I have reason to know what craft he was in chase of the whole time.”

As all this was strictly true, Ithuel related it naturally and in a way to gain some credit.

“You say you accompanied Raoul Yvard, witness, in a visit to the aunt of the young woman called Ghita Caraccioli,” observed Cuffe, in a careless way that was intended to entrap Ithuel into an unwary answer–“where did you go from when you set out on your journey?”

“That would depend on the place one kept his reckoning from and the time of starting. Now, _I_ might say I started from Ameriky, which part of the world I left some years since; or I might say from Nantes, the port in which we fitted for sea. As for Captain Rule, he would probably say Nantes.”

“In what manner did you come from Nantes?” continued Cuffe, without betraying resentment at an answer that might be deemed impertinent; or surprise, as if he found it difficult to comprehend. “You did not make the journey on horseback, I should think?”

“Oh, I begin to understand you, Captain Cuffe. Why, if the truth must be said, we came in the lugger the Few-Folly.”

“I supposed as much. And when you went to visit this aunt where did you leave the lugger?”

“We didn’t leave her at all, sir; being under her canvas, our feet were no sooner in the boat and the line cast off than she left us as if we had been stuck up like a tree on dry ground.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Afloat, of course, Captain Cuffe; such a thing would hardly come to pass ashore.”

“All that I understand; but you say the prisoner left his vessel in order to visit an aunt of the young woman’s; thence he went into the Bay for the sole purpose of finding the young woman herself. Now, this is an important fact, as it concerns the prisoner’s motives and may affect his life. The court must act with all the facts before it; as a commencement, tell us where Raoul Yvard left his lugger to go on yonder headland.”

“I do not think, Captain Cuffe, you’ve got the story exactly right. Captain Rule didn’t go on the mountain, a’ter all, so much to see the aunt as to see the niece at the aunt’s dwelling; if one would eend right in a story, he must begin right.”

“I left le Feu-Follet, Monsieur le Capitaine,” Raoul calmly observed, “not two cables’ length from the very spot where your own ship is now lying; but it was at an hour of the night when the good people of Capri were asleep, and they knew nothing of our visit. You see the lugger is no longer here.”

“And do you confirm this story under the solemnity of your oath?” demanded Cuffe of Ithuel, little imagining how easy it was to the witness to confirm anything he saw fit in the way he mentioned.

“Sartain; every word is true, gentlemen,” answered Ithuel. “It was not more than a cable’s length from this very spot, according to my judgment.”

“And where is the lugger now?” asked Cuffe, betraying the drift of all his questions in his eagerness to learn more.

Ithuel was not to be led on so hurriedly or so blindly. Affecting a girlish sort of coyness, he answered, simpering:

“Why, Captain Cuffe, I cannot think of answering a question like that under the solemnity of an oath, as you call it. No one can know where the little Folly is but them that’s in her.”

Cuffe was a little disconcerted at the answer, while Lyon smiled ironically; the latter then took upon himself the office of cross-examining, with an opinion of his own penetration and shrewdness that at least ought to have made him quite equal to encountering one of Ithuel’s readiness in subterfuges.

“We do not expect you to tell us of your own knowledge, witness,” he said, “precisely the position by latitude and longitude, or by the points of the compass, at this identical instant, of the craft called by some the le Few-Folly, by others the Few-Follay, and, as it would now seem, by yourself, the Little Folly; for that, as ye’ve well obsairved, can be known only to those who are actually on board her; but ye’ll be remembering, perhaps, the place it was agreed on between you, where ye were to find the lugger at your return from this hazardous expedition that ye’ve been making amang ye, into the Bay of Naples?”

“I object to that question as contrary to law,” put in Ithuel, with a spirit and promptitude that caused the Judge Advocate to start, and the members of the court to look at each other in surprise.

“Nay, if ye object to the question on the ground that a true ainswer will be criminating yoursel’, ye’ll be justified in so doing, by reason and propriety; but then ye’ll consider well the consequences it may have on your own case, when that comes to be investigated.”

“I object on gin’ral principles,” said Ithuel. “Whatever Captain Rule may have said on the subject, admitting that he said anything, just to bear out the argument (by the way Ithuel called this word arg_oo_ment, a pronunciation against which we enter our solemn protest); admitting, _I,_ say, that _he_ said anything on the subject, it cannot be testimony, as _hear_say evidence is ag’in law all the world over.”

The members of the court looked at the Judge Advocate, who returned the glance with an air of suitable gravity; then, on a motion of Sir Frederick’s, the court was cleared to discuss the point in private.

“How’s this, Mr. Judge Advocate?” demanded Cuffe, as soon as the coast was clear; “it is of the last importance to find where that lugger is–do you hold that the question is contrary to law?”

“Its importance makes it pertinent, I think, sir, as for the legality, I do not see how it can be affected by the circumstance that the fact came up in discourse.”

“D’ye think so?” observed Sir Frederick, looking much more profound than was his wont. “Legality is the boast of English law, and I should dislike excessively to fail in that great essential. What is _said_ must be _heard_, to be _repeated_; and this seems very like _hearsay_ testimony. I believe it’s admitted all round we must reject _that_.”

“What is your opinion, Captain Lyon?” demanded the president.

“The case is somewhat knotty, but it may be untied,” returned the Scot, with a sneer on his hard features. “No need of Alexander and his sword to cut the rope, I’m thinking, when we bring common sense to bear on the point. What is the matter to be ascertained? Why, the place which was agreed on as the point of rendezvous between this Rawl Eevart and his people. Now, this arrangement must have been made orally, or in writing; if orally, testimony to the words uttered will not be hearsay, further than testimony to what a man has seen will be eyesight.”

“Quite true, Mr. President and gentlemen!” exclaimed the Judge Advocate, who was not a little relieved at finding a clue to lead him out of the difficulty. “If the agreement had been made in writing, then that writing would have to be produced, if possible, as the best evidence the case affords; but, being made in words, those words can be sworn to.”

Cuffe was much relieved by this opinion, and, as Sir Frederick did not seem disposed to push his dissent very far, the matter would have been determined on the spot, but for a love of disputation that formed part and parcel, to speak legally on a legal subject, of Lyon’s moral temperament.

“I’m agreeing with the Judge Advocate, as to his distinction about the admissibility of the testimony on the ground of its not being technically what is called hearsay evidence,” he observed; “but a difficulty suggests itself to my mind touching the pairtenency. A witness is sworn to speak to the point before the court; but he is not sworn to discuss all things in heaven and airth. Now, is it pairtenent to the fact of Rawl Eevart’s being a spy, that he made sairtain agreements to met this or that fellow-creature, in this or that place? Now, as I comprehend the law, it divides all questions into two great classes, the pairtenent and the impairtenent, of which the first are legal and the second illegal.”

“I think it would be a great piece of audacity,” said Sir Frederick, disdainfully, “for such a fellow as this Bolt to pretend to call any question we can put him, impertinent!”

“That’s no just the p’int, Sir Frederick; this being altogether a matter of law, while ye’ll be thinking of station and etiquette. Then, there’s two classes of the pairtenent, and two of the impairtenent; one being legal and logical, as it might be, and the other conventional and civil, as one may say. There’s a nice distinction, latent, between the two.”

“I believe the court is of opinion that the question may be put,” observed Cuffe, who was impatient of the Scotchman’s subtleties, bowing to Sir Frederick, to ask an acquiescence which he immediately received. “We will re-open the doors, and proceed in the examination.”

“The court is of opinion, witness,” resumed the Judge Advocate, when every one was in his place again, “that you must answer the question. In order that you may understand it, I will now repeat it. Where was it agreed between Raoul Yvard and his people, that they should meet again?”

“I do not think the people of the lugger had anything to say in the matter,” answered Ithuel, in the most unmoved manner. “If they had, I knew nothing on’t.”

The court felt embarrassed; but as it would never do to be thwarted in this manner, a look of determination was exchanged between the members, and the examination proceeded.

“If not the people, the officers, then. Where was it agreed between the prisoner and his _officers_, that the former should find the lugger, when he returned from his expedition into the Bay?”

“Well, now, gentlemen,” answered Ithuel, turning his quid from one cheek into the other, “I _some_ conclude you’ve no great acquaintance with Captain Rule, a’ter all. He is not apt to enter into any agreements at all. What he wants done, he orders; and what he orders, must be done.”

“What did he _order_, then, as respects the place where the lugger was to wait for his return?”

“I am sorry to be troublesome, please the court,” returned the witness, with admirable self-possession; “but law is law, all over the world, and I rather guess this question is ag’in it. In the Granite State, it is always held, when a thing can be proved by the person who said any particular words, that the question must be put to him, and not to a bystander.”

“Not if that person is a prisoner, and on his trial,” answered the Judge Advocate, staring to hear such a distinction from such a source; “though the remark is a good one, in the cases of witnesses purely. You must answer, therefore.”

“It is unnecessary,” again interposed Raoul. “I left my vessel here, where I have told you, and had I made a certain signal, the last night, from the heights of St. Agata, le Feu-Follet would have stood in near to the rocks of the Sirens, and taken me off again. As the hour is passed, and the signal is not likely to be made, it is probable my lieutenant has gone to another rendezvous, of which the witness knows nothing, and which, certainly, I shall never betray.”

There was so much manliness and quiet dignity in Raoul’s deportment, that whatever he said made an impression. His answer disposed of the matter, for the moment at least. The Judge Advocate, accordingly, turned to other inquiries. Little remained, however, to be done. The prisoner had admitted his identity; his capture, with all the attendant circumstances, was in proof; and his defence came next.

When Raoul rose to speak, he felt a choking emotion; but it soon left him, and he commenced in a steady, calm tone, his accent giving point and interest to many of his expressions.

“Messieurs,” said he, “I will not deny my name, my character, or my manner of life. I am a Frenchman, and the enemy of your country. I am also the enemy of the King of Naples, in whose territories you found me. I have destroyed his and your ships. Put me on board my lugger, and I should do both again. Whoever is the enemy of la France is the enemy of Raoul Yvard. Honorable seamen, like yourselves, Messieurs, can understand this. I am young. My heart is not made of rock; evil as it may be, it can love beauty and modesty and virtue in the other sex. Such has been my fate–I love Ghita Caraccioli; have endeavored to make her my wife for more than a year. She has not authorized me to say that my suit was favored–this I must acknowledge; but she is not the less admirable for that. We differ in our opinions of religion, and I fear she left Monte Argentaro because, refusing my hand, she thought it better, perhaps, that we should not meet again. It is so with maidens, as you must know, Messieurs. But it is not usual for us, who are less refined, to submit to such self-denial. I learned whither Ghita had come, and followed; my heart was a magnet, that her beauty drew after it, as our needles are drawn toward the pole. It was necessary to go into the Bay of Naples, among the vessels of enemies, to find her I loved; and this is a very different thing from engaging in the pitiful attempts of a spy. Which of you would not have done the same, Messieurs? You are braves Anglais, and I know you would not hesitate. Two of you are still youthful, like myself, and must still feel the power of beauty; even the Monsieur that is no longer a young man has had his moments of passion, like all that are born of woman. Messieurs, I have no more to say: you know the rest. If you condemn me, let it be as an unfortunate Frenchman, whose heart had its weaknesses–not as an ignominious and treacherous spy.”

The earnestness and nature with which Raoul spoke were not without effect. Could Sir Frederick have had his way, the prisoner would have been acquitted on the spot. But Lyon was skeptical as to the story of love, a sentiment about which he knew very little; and there was a spirit of opposition in him, too, that generally induced him to take the converse of most propositions that were started. The prisoner was dismissed, and the court closed its doors, to make up its decision by itself, in the usual form.

We should do injustice to Cuffe, if we did not say that he had some feeling in favor of the gallant foe who had so often foiled him. Could he have had his will at that moment, he would have given Raoul his lugger, allowed the latter a sufficient start, and then gladly have commenced a chase round the Mediterranean, to settle all questions between them. But it was too much to give up the lugger as well as the prisoner. Then his oath as a judge had its obligations also, and he felt himself bound to yield to the arguments of the Judge Advocate, who was a man of technicalities, and thought no more of sentiment than Lyon himself.

The result of the deliberation, which lasted an hour, was a finding against the prisoner. The court was opened, the record made up and read, the offender introduced, and the judgment delivered. The finding was, “that Raoul Yvard had been caught in disguise, in the midst of the allied fleets, and that he was guilty as a spy.” The sentence was, to suffer death the succeeding day by hanging at the yard-arm of such ship as the commander-in-chief might select, on approving of the sentence.

As Raoul expected little else, he heard his doom with steadiness, bowing with dignity and courtesy to the court, as he was led away to be placed in irons, as befitted one condemned.

CHAPTER XIX.

“The world’s all title-page; there’s no contents; The world’s all face; the man who shows his heart, Is hooted for his nudities, and scorned.”

_Night Thoughts_

Bolt had not been tried. His case had several serious difficulties, and the orders allowed of a discretion. The punishment could scarcely be less than death, and, in addition to the loss of a stout, sinewy man, it involved questions of natural right, that were not always pleasant to be considered. Although the impressment of American seamen into the British ships of war was probably one of the most serious moral as well as political wrongs that one independent nation ever received at the hands of another, viewed as a practice of a generation’s continuance it was not wholly without some relieving points. There was a portion of the British marine that disdained to practise it at all; leaving it to the coarser spirits of the profession to discharge a duty that they themselves found repugnant to their feelings and their habits. Thus, we remember to have heard an American seaman say, one who had been present on many occasions when his countrymen were torn from under their flag, that in no instance he ever witnessed was the officer who committed the wrong of an air and manner that he should describe as belonging to the class of gentlemen on shore. Whenever one of the latter boarded his vessel, the crew was permitted to pass unquestioned.

Let this be as it might, there is no question that a strong and generous feeling existed in the breasts of hundreds in the British navy, concerning the nature of the wrong that was done a foreign people, by the practice of impressing men from under their flag. Although Cuffe was too much of a martinet to carry his notions on the subject to a very refined point, he was too much of a man not to be reluctant to punish another for doing what he felt he would have done himself, under similar circumstances, and what he could not but know he would have had a perfect right to do. It was impossible to mistake one like Ithuel, who had so many of the Granite peculiarities about him, for anything but what he was; and so well was his national character established in the ship, that the _sobriquet_ of The Yankee had been applied to him by his shipmates from the very first. The fact, therefore, stood him so far in hand that Cuffe, after a consultation with Winchester, determined not to put the alleged deserter on trial; but, after letting him remain a short time in irons, to turn him to duty again, under a pretence that was often used on such occasions, viz., to give the man an opportunity of proving his American birth, if he were really what he so strenuously professed to be. Poor Ithuel was not the only one who was condemned to this equivocal servitude, hundreds passing weary years of probation, with the same dim ray of hope, for ever deferred, gleaming in the distance. It was determined, however, not to put Ithuel on his trial until the captain had conversed with the admiral on the subject, at least; and Nelson, removed from the influence of the siren by whom he was enthralled, was a man inclined to leniency, and of even chivalrous notions of justice. To such contradictions is even a great mind subject, when it loses sight of the polar star of its duties!

When the sentence on Raoul was pronounced, therefore, and the prisoner was removed, the court adjourned; a boat being immediately despatched to the Foudroyant with a copy of the proceedings, for the rear-admiral’s approbation. Then followed a discussion on much the most interesting topic for them all: the probable position of, and the means of capturing, the lugger. That le Feu-Follet was near, all were convinced; but where she was to be found, it was hard to tell. Officers had been sent on the heights of Capri, one of which towers more than a thousand feet above the sea; but they returned from a bootless errand. Nothing resembling the lugger was visible in the offing, among the islands, or in the bays. A cutter had been sent to look round Campanella, and another crossed the mouth of the bay, to take a look to the northward of Ischia, in order to make certain that the treacherous craft had not gone behind the mountains of that island for a refuge. In short, no expedient likely to discover the fugitive was neglected. All failed, however; boat after boat came back without success, and officer after officer returned wearied and disappointed.

Much of the day was passed in this manner, for it was a calm, and moving either of the ships was out of the question. In the full expectation of discovering the lugger somewhere in striking distance, Cuffe had even gone so far as to detail a party from each vessel, with a view to attack her in boats again; feeling no doubt of success, now that he had the disposable force of three vessels to send against his enemy. Winchester was to have commanded, as a right purchased by his blood; nor was the hope of succeeding in this way abandoned, until the last boat, that which had been sent round Ischia, returned, reporting its total want of success.

“I have heard it said,” observed Cuffe, as he and his brother captains stood conversing together on the quarter-deck of the Proserpine just after this last report had been made–“I have heard it said, that this Raoul Yvard has actually gone boldly into several of our ports, under English or neutral colors, and lain there a day or two at a time unsuspected, until it has suited him to go out again. Can it be possible he is up, off the town? There is such a fleet of craft in and about the mole that a little lugger, with her paint and marks altered, _might_ be among them. What think you, Lyon?”

“It is sartainly a law of nature, Captain Cuffe, that smaller objects should be overlooked, in the presence of greater; and such a thing _might_ happen, therefore; though I should place it among the improbables, if not absolutely among the impossibles. ‘Twould be far safer, nevertheless, to run in, in the manner you designate, among the hundred or two of ships, than to venture alone into a haven or a roadstead. If you wish for retirement, Sir Frederick, plunge at once into the Strand, or take lodgings on Ludgate Hill; but if you wish to be noticed and chased, go into a Highland village and just conceal your name for a bit! Ah–he knows the difference well who has tried both modes of life!”

“This is true, Cuffe,” observed the Baronet, “yet I hardly think a Frenchman, big or little, would be apt to come and anchor under Nelson’s nose.”

“‘Twould be something like the lion’s lying down with the lamb, certainly, and ought not to be counted on as very likely. Mr. Winchester, is not that our boat coming round the sloop’s quarter?”

“Yes, sir–she has got back from Naples–quartermaster—-“

“Aye, quartermaster,” interrupted Cuffe, sternly, “a pretty lookout is this! Here is our own boat close in upon us, and not a word from your lips on the interesting subject, sir?”

This word, _sir_, is much used on board a man-of-war, and in all its convertible significations. From the inferior to the superior, it comes as natural as if it were a gift from above; from equal to equal, it has a ceremonious and be-on-your-guard air that sometimes means respect, sometimes disrespect; while from a captain to a quartermaster, it always means reproof, if it do not mean menace. In discussions of this sort, it is wisest for the weaker party to be silent; and nowhere is this truth sooner learned than on shipboard. The quartermaster, consequently, made no answer, and the gig came alongside, bringing back the officer who had carried the proceedings of the court up to Naples.

“Here we have it,” said Cuffe, opening the important document as soon has he and his brother captains were again in the cabin. “Approved–ordered that the sentence be carried into execution on board His Majesty’s ship the Proserpine, Captain Cuffe, to-morrow, between the hours of sunrise and sunset.”

Then followed the date, and the well-known signature of “Nelson and Bronte.” All this was what Cuffe both wished and expected, though he would have preferred a little more grace in carrying out the orders. The reader is not to suppose from this that our captain was either vengeful or bloody-minded; or that he really desired to inflict on Raoul any penalty for the manner in which he had baffled his own designs and caused his crew to suffer. So far from this, his intention was to use the sentence to extort from the prisoner a confession of the orders he had given to those left in the lugger, and then to use this confession as a means of obtaining his pardon, with a transfer to a prison-ship. Cuffe had no great veneration for privateersmen, nor was his estimate of their morality at all unreasonable, when he inferred that one who served with gain for his principal object would not long hesitate about purchasing his own life by the betrayal of a secret like that he now asked. Had Raoul belonged even to a republican navy, the English man-of-wars-man might have hesitated about carrying out his plan; but, with the master of a corsair, it appeared to be the most natural thing imaginable to attempt its execution. Both Sir Frederick and Lyon viewed the matter in the same light; and, now that everything was legally done that was necessary to the design, the capture of the lugger was deemed more than half accomplished.

“It is somewhat afflicting, too, Cuffe,” observed Sir Frederick, in his drawling, indolent way; “it is somewhat afflicting, too, Cuffe, to be compelled to betray one’s friends or to be hanged! In parliament, now, we say we’ll be hanged if we do, and here you say you’ll be hanged if you don’t.”

“Poh, poh! Dashwood; no one expects this Raoul Yvard will come to that fate, for no one thinks he will hold out. We shall get the lugger, and that will be the end of it. I’d give a thousand pounds to see that d–d Few-Folly at anchor within pistol-shot of my stern at this blessed moment. My feelings are in the matter.”

“Five hundred would be a high price,” observed Lyon, dryly. “I much doubt if the shares of us three come to as much as a hundred apiece, even should the craft fall into our hands.”

“By the way, gents,” put in Sir Frederick, gaping–“suppose we toss up or throw the dice to see which shall have all, on supposition we get her within the next twenty-four hours, timing the affair by this ship’s chronometers. You’ve dice on board, I dare say, Cuffe, and we can make a regular time of it here for half an hour, and no one the wiser.”

“Your pardon, Captain Dashwood; I can suffer no such amusement. It is unmilitary and contrary to regulations; and, then, hundreds are not as plenty with Lyon and myself as they are with you. I like to pocket my prize-money first and sport on it afterward.”

“You’re right, Captain Cuffe,” said Lyon; “though there can be no great innovation in sporting on Sir Frederick’s portion, if he see fit to indulge us. Money is an agreeable acquisition beyond a doubt, and life is sweet to saint and sinner alike; but I much question your facility in persuading this Monshure Rawl to tell you his secret consairning the lugger, in the manner ye anticipate.”

This opinion met with no favor; and after discussing the point among themselves a little longer, the three captains were on the point of separating, when Griffin burst into the cabin without even knocking and altogether regardless of the usual observances.

“One would think it blew a typhoon, Mr. Griffin,” said Cuffe, coldly, “by the rate at which you run before it.”

“It’s an ill wind that blows no luck, sir,” answered the lieutenant, actually panting for breath, so great had been his haste to communicate what he had to say. “Our lookout, on the heights above Campanella, has just signalled us that he sees the lugger to the southward and eastward–somewhere near the point of Piane, I suppose, sir; and what is better, the wind is coming off shore earlier than common this evening.”

“That _is_ news!” exclaimed Cuffe, rubbing his hands with delight. “Go on deck, Griffin, and tell Winchester to unmoor; then make a signal to the other ships to do the same. Now, gentlemen, we have the game in our own hands, and let us see and play it skilfully. In a couple of hours it will be dark, and our movements can all be made without being seen. As the Proserpine is, perhaps, the fastest ship”–at this remark Sir Frederick smiled ironically, while Lyon raised his eyebrows like one who saw a marvel–“as the Proserpine is, perhaps, the fastest ship, she ought to go the furthest to leeward; and I will get under way and stand off to sea, keeping well to the northward and eastward, as if I were running for the Straits of Bonifacio, for instance, until it gets to be dark, when I will haul up south for a couple of hours or so; then come up as high as southeast until we are to the southward of the Gulf of Salerno. This will be before daylight, if the wind stand. At daylight, then, you may look out for me off Piane, say two leagues, and to seaward, I hope, of the lugger. You shall follow, Sir Frederick, just as the sun sets, and keep in my wake, as near as possible, heaving to, however, at midnight. This will bring you fairly abreast of the gulf and about midway between the two capes, a little west of south from Campanella. Lyon, you can lie here until the night has fairly set in, when you can pass between Capri and the cape and run down south two hours and heave to. This will place you in a position to watch the passage to and from the gulf under the northern shore.”

“And this arrangement completed to your satisfaction, Captain Cuffe,” asked Lyon, deliberately helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff, “what will be your pleasure in the posterior evolutions?”

“Each ship must keep her station until the day has fairly dawned. Should it turn out as I trust it may, that we’ve got le Few-Folly in-shore of us, all we’ll have to do will be to close in upon her and drive her up higher and higher into the Bay. She will naturally run into shallow water; when we must anchor off, man the boats, send them north and south of her, and let them board her under cover of our fire. If we find the lugger embayed, we’ll have her as sure as fate.”

“Very prettily conceived, Captain Cuffe; and in a way to be handsomely executed. But if we should happen to find the heathen outside of us?”

“Then make sail in chase to seaward, each ship acting for the best. Come, gentlemen, I do not wish to be inhospitable, but the Proserpine must be off. She has a long road before her; and the winds of this season of the year can barely be counted on for an hour at a time.”

Cuffe being in such a hurry, his guests departed without further ceremony. As for Sir Frederick, the first thing he did was to order dinner an hour earlier than he had intended, and then to invite his surgeon and marine-officer, two capital pairs of knives and forks, to come and share it with him, after which he sat down to play somewhat villanously on a flute. Two hours later he gave the necessary orders to his first lieutenant; after which he troubled himself very little about the frigate he commanded. Lyon, on the other hand, sat down to a very frugal meal alone as soon as he found himself again in his sloop; first ordering certain old sails to be got on deck and to be mended for the eighth or ninth time.

With the Proserpine it was different Her capstan-bars flew round, and one anchor was actually catted by the time her captain appeared on deck. The other soon followed, the three topsails fell, were sheeted home and hoisted, and sail was set after sail, until the ship went steadily past the low promontory of Ana Capri a cloud of canvas. Her head was to the westward, inclining a little north; and had there been any one to the southward to watch her movements, as there was not, so far as the eye could see, it would have been supposed that she was standing over toward the coast of Sardinia, most probably with an intention of passing by the Straits of Bonifacio, between that island and Corsica. The wind being nearly east, and it blowing a good breeze, the progress of the ship was such as promised to fulfil all the expectations of her commander.

As the sun set and darkness diffused itself over the Mediterranean, the lighter steering-sails were taken in and the Proserpine brought the wind abeam, standing south. One of the last things visible from the decks, besides the mountains of the islands and of the main, the curling smoke of Vesuvius, the blue void above and the bluer sea below, was the speck of the Terpsichore, as that ship followed, as near as might be, in her wake; Sir Frederick and his friends still at table, but with a vigilant and industrious first lieutenant on deck, who was sufficient in himself for all that was required of the vessel in any emergency. The latter had his orders, and he executed them with a precision and attention that promised to leave nothing to be wished for. On the other hand, the people of the Ringdove were kept at work mending old sails until the hour to “knock off work” arrived; then the ship unmoored. At the proper time the remaining anchor was lifted, and the sloop went through the pass between Capri and Campanella, as directed, when Lyon sent for the first lieutenant to join him in his cabin.

“Look you here, McBean,” said Lyon, pointing to the chart which lay on the table; “Captain Cuffe has just run down off Piane, and will find himself well to leeward when the west wind comes to-morrow; Sir Frederick has followed famously clear of the land, and won’t be in a much better box. Now, this lugger must be pretty picking if all they say of her be true. Ten to one but she has gold in her. These corsairs are desperate rogues after the siller, and, taking hull, sails, armament, head-money, and the scrapings of the lockers together, I shouldn’t marvel if she come to something as good as L8,000 or L10,000. This would be fair dividing for a sloop, but would amount to a painfully small trifle, as between the officers of three ships, after deducting the admiral’s share. What are you thinking of, Airchy?”

“Of just that, Captain Lyon. It would be dividing every lieutenant’s share by three, as well as every captain’s.”

“That’s it, Airchy, and so ye’ll have a shairp lookout on deck. There’ll be no occasion to run down quite as far as Captain Cuffe suggested, ye’ll obsairve; for, if in the bay, the lugger will work her way up toward this headland, and we’ll be all the more likely to fall in with her, by keeping near it ourselves. Ye’ll take the idea?”

“It’s plain enou’, Captain Lyon; and I’ll be obsairving it. How is the law understood as respects dairkness? I understand that none share but such as are in _sight_; but is dairkness deemed a legal impediment?”

“To be sure it is; the idea being that all who can see may act. Now, if we catch the lugger before Captain Cuffe and Sir Frederick even know where she is, on what principle can they aid and sustain us in the capture?”

“And you wish a shairp lookout the night, Captain Lyon?”

“That’s just it, Airchy. Ye’ll all be doing your best in the way of eyes, and we may get the lugger alone. ‘Twould be such a pity, Mr. McBean, to divide by three, when the sums might be kept entire!”

Such was the state of feeling with which each of these three officers entered on his present duty. Cuffe was earnest in the wish to catch his enemy, and this principally for the credit of the thing, though a little out of a desire to revenge his own losses; Sir Frederick Dashwood, indifferent to all but his own pleasures; and Lyon, closely attentive to the main chance. An hour or two later, or just before Cuffe turned in, he sent a message to request the presence of his first lieutenant, if the latter were still up. Winchester was writing up his private journal; closing the book, he obeyed the order in that quiet, submissive manner which a first lieutenant is more apt to use toward his captain than toward any one else.

“Good evening, Winchester,” said Cuffe, in a familiar, friendly way, which satisfied the subordinate that he was not sent for to be ‘rattled down’; “draw a chair and try a glass of this Capri wine with some water. It’s not carrying sail hard to drink a gallon of it; yet I rather think it fills up the chinks better than nothing.”

“Thank’ee, Captain Cuffe, we like it in the gun-room, and got off a fresh cask or two this morning, while the court was sitting. So they tell me, sir, his lordship has put his name to it, and that this Frenchman is to swing from our fore-yard-arm some time to-morrow?”

“It stands so on _paper_, Winchester; but if he confess where his lugger lies, all will go smoothly enough with him. However, as things look _now_, we’ll have her, and thanks only to ourselves.”

“Well, sir, that will be best, on the whole. I do not like to see a man selling his own people.”

“There you are right enough, Winchester, and I trust we shall get along without it; though the lugger must be ours. I sent for you, by the way, about this Bolt–something must be done with that fellow.”

“It’s a clear case of desertion, Captain Cuffe; and, as it would now seem, of treason in the bargain. I would rather hang ten such chaps than one man like the Frenchman.”

“Well, it’s clear, Mr. Winchester, _you_ do not bear malice! Have you forgotten Porto Ferrajo, and the boats, already? or do you love them that despitefully use you?”

“‘Twas all fair service, sir, and one never thinks anything of that. I owe this Monsieur Yvard no grudge for what he did; but, now it’s all fairly over, I rather like him the better for it. But it’s a very different matter as to this Bolt; a skulking scoundrel, who would let other men fight his country’s battles, while he goes a-privateering against British commerce.”

“Aye, there’s the rub, Winchester! _Are_ they _his_ country’s battles?”

“Why, we took him for an Englishman, sir, and we must act up to our own professions, in order to be consistent.”

“And so hang an innocent man for a treason that he _could_ not commit.”

“Why, Captain Cuffe, do you believe the fellow’s whining story about his being a Yankee? If that be true, we have done him so much injustice already, as to make his case a very hard one. For my part I look upon all these fellows as only so many disaffected Englishmen, and treat them accordingly.”

“That is a sure way to quiet one’s feelings, Winchester; but it’s most too serious when it comes to hanging. If Bolt deserve any punishment, he deserves death; and that is a matter about which one ought to be tolerably certain, before he pushes things too far. I’ve sometimes had my doubts about three or four of our people’s being Englishmen, after all.”

“There can be no certainty in these matters, unless one could carry a parish register for the whole kingdom in his ship, Captain Cuffe. If they are not Englishmen, why do they not produce satisfactory proofs to show it? That is but reasonable, you must allow, sir?”

“I don’t know, Winchester; there are two sides to that question, too. Suppose the King of Naples should seize you, here, ashore, and call on you to prove that you are not one of his subjects? How would you go to work to make it out–no parish register being at hand?”

“Well, then, Captain Cuffe, if we are so very wrong, we had better give all these men up, at once–though one of them is the very best hand in the ship; I think it right to tell you that, sir.”

“There is a wide difference, sir, between giving a man up, and hanging him. We are short-handed as it is, and cannot spare a single man. I’ve been looking over your station bills, and they never appeared so feeble before. We want eighteen or nineteen good seamen to make them respectable again; and though this Bolt is no great matter as a seaman, he can turn his hand to so many things, that he was as useful as the boatswain. In a word, we cannot spare him–either to let him go or to hang him; even were the latter just.”

“I’m sure, sir, I desire to do nothing that is unjust or inconvenient, and so act your pleasure in the affair.”

“My pleasure is just this then, Winchester. We must turn Bolt to duty. If the fellow is really an American, it would be a wretched business even to flog him for desertion; and as to treason, you know, there can be none without allegiance. Nelson gives me a discretion, and so we’ll act on the safe side, and just turn him over to duty again. When there comes an opportunity, I’ll inquire into the facts of his case, and if he can make out that he is not an Englishman, why, he must be discharged. The ship will be going home in a year or two, when everything can be settled fairly and deliberately. I dare say Bolt will not object to the terms.”

“Perhaps not, sir. Then there’s the crew, Captain Cuffe. They may think it strange treason and desertion go unpunished. These fellows talk and reason more than is always known aft.”

“I’ve thought of all that, Winchester. I dare say you have heard of such a thing as a King’s evidence? Well, here has Raoul Yvard been tried and found guilty as a spy; Bolt having been a witness. A few remarks judiciously made may throw everything off on that tack; and appearances will be preserved, so far as discipline is concerned.”

“Yes, sir, that might be done, it’s true; but an uneasy berth will the poor devil have of it, if the people fancy he has been a King’s evidence. Men of that class hate a traitor worse than they do crime, Captain Cuffe, and they’ll ride Bolt down like the main tack.”

“Perhaps not; and if they do, ’twill not be as bad as hanging. The fellow must think himself luckily out of a bad scrape, and thank God for all his mercies. You can see that he suffers nothing unreasonable, or greatly out of the way. So send an order to the master-at-arms to knock the irons off the chap, and send him to duty, before you turn in, Winchester.”

This settled the matter as to Ithuel, for the moment, at least. Cuffe was one of those men who was indisposed to push things too far, while he found it difficult to do his whole duty. There was not an officer in the Proserpine, who had any serious doubts about the true country of Bolt, though there was not one officer among them all who would openly avow it. There was too much “granite” about Ithuel to permit Englishmen long to be deceived, and that very language on which the impressed man so much prided himself would have betrayed his origin, had other evidence been wanting. Still there was a tenacity about an English ship of war, in that day, that did not easily permit an athletic hand to escape its grasp, when it had once closed upon him. In a great and enterprising service, like that of Great Britain, an _esprit de corps_ existed in the respective ships, which made them the rivals of each other, and men being the great essentials of efficiency, a single seaman was relinquished with a reluctance that must have been witnessed, fully to be understood. Cuffe consequently could not make up his mind to do full justice to Ithuel, while he could not make up his mind to push injustice so far as trial and punishment. Nelson had left him a discretion, as has been said, and this he chose to use in the manner just mentioned.

Had the case of the New Hampshire man been fairly brought before the British Admiral, his discharge would have been ordered without hesitation. Nelson was too far removed from the competition of the separate ships, and ordinarily under the control of too high motives, to be accessory to the injustice of forcibly detaining a foreigner in his country’s service; for it was only while under the malign influence to which there has already been allusion, that he ceased to be high-minded and just. Prejudiced he was, and in some cases exceedingly so; America standing but little better in his eyes than France herself. For the first of these antipathies he had some apology; since in addition to the aversion that was naturally produced by the history of the cisatlantic Republic, accident had thrown him in the way, in the West Indies, of ascertaining the frauds, deceptions, and cupidities of a class of men that never exhibit national character in its brightest and most alluring colors. Still, he was too upright of mind willingly to countenance injustice, and too chivalrous to oppress. But Ithuel had fallen into the hands of one who fell far short of the high qualities of the Admiral, while at the same time he kept clear of his more prominent weaknesses, and who _was_ brought within the sphere of the competition between the respective ships and their crews.

Winchester, of course, obeyed his orders. He roused the master-at-arms from his hammock, and directed him to bring Ithuel Bolt to the quarter-deck.

“In consequence of what took place this morning,” said the first lieutenant, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all near him, “Captain Cuffe has seen fit to order you to be released, Bolt, and turned to duty again. You will know how to appreciate this leniency, and will serve with greater zeal than ever, I make no doubt. Never forget that you have been with a yard-rope, as it might be, round your neck. In the morning you will be stationed and berthed anew.”

Ithuel was too shrewd to answer. He fully understood the reason why he escaped punishment, and it increased his hopes of eventually escaping from the service itself. Still he gagged a little at the idea of passing for one who peached–or for a _”State’s_-evidence,” as he called it; that character involving more of sin. In vulgar eyes, than the commission of a thousand legal crimes. This gave Winchester no concern. After dismissing his man he gossiped a minute or two with Yelverton, who had the watch, gaped once or twice somewhat provokingly, and, going below, was in a deep sleep in ten minutes.

CHAPTER XX.

“White as a white sail on a dusky sea. When half the horizon’s clouded and half free, Fluttering between the dim wave and the sky Is hope’s last gleam in man’s extremity.”

_The Island._

The dawning of day, on the morning which succeeded, was a moment of great interest on board the different English ships which then lay off the Gulf of Salerno. Cuffe and Lyon were called, according to especial orders left by themselves, while even Sir Frederick Dashwood allowed himself to be awakened, to hear the report of the officer of the watch. The first was up quite half an hour before the light appeared. He even went into the maintop again, in order to get as early and as wide a survey of the horizon as he wished. Griffin went aloft with him, and together they stood leaning against the topmast rigging, watching the slow approach of those rays which gradually diffused themselves over the whole of a panorama that was as bewitching as the hour and the lovely accessories of an Italian landscape could render it.

“I see nothing _in-shore_,” exclaimed Cuffe, in a tone of disappointment, when the light permitted a tolerable view of the coast. “If she should be _outside_ of us our work will be only half done!”

“There is a white speck close in with the land, _sir_,” returned Griffin; “here, In the direction of those ruins, of which our gentlemen that have been round in the boats to look at, tell such marvels; I believe, however, it is only a felucca or a sparanara. There is a peak to the sail that does not look lugger-fashion.”

“What is this, off here at the northwest, Griffin?–Is it too large for the le Few-Folly?”

“That must be the Terpsichore, sir. It’s just where she _ought_ to be, as I understand the orders; and I suppose Sir Frederick has carried her there. But yonder’s a sail, in the northern board, which may turn out to be the lugger; she is fairly within Campanella, and is not far from the north shore of the bay.”

“By George!–that _must_ be she; Monsieur Yvard has kept her skulking round and about Amalfi, all this time! Let us go down, and set everything that will draw, at once, sir.”

In two minutes Griffin was on deck, hauling the yards, and clearing away to make sail. As usual, the wind was light at the southward again, and the course would be nearly before it. Studding-sail booms were to be run out, the sails set, and the ship’s head laid to the northward, keeping a little to seaward of the chase. At this moment the Proserpine had the Point of Piane, and the little village of Abate, nearly abeam. The ship might have been going four knots through the water, and the distance across the mouth of the bay was something like thirty miles. Of course, eight hours would be necessary to carry the frigate over the intervening space should the wind stand, as it probably would not, at that season of the year. A week later, and strong southerly winds might be expected, but that week was as interminable as an age, for any present purpose.

Half-an-hour’s trial satisfied all on the deck of the Proserpine, that the chase was keeping off, like themselves, and that she was standing toward the mountains of Amalfi. Her progress, too, was about equal to that of the frigate, for, dead before the wind, the latter ship was merely a good sailer; her great superiority commencing only when she brought the breeze forward of the beam. It has been supposed that the stranger, when first seen, was about fifteen miles distant, his canvas appearing both small and shapeless; but some doubts now began to be entertained, equally as to his rig, his size, and his distance. If a large or a lofty vessel, of course he must be materially further off, and if a large or lofty vessel it could not be le Feu-Follet.

The other frigate took her cue from the Proserpine, and stood across for the northern side of the gulf; a certain proof that nothing was visible, from her mast-heads, to lead her in any other direction. Two hours, however, satisfied all on board the latter ship that they were on a wrong scent, and that the vessel to leeward was their own consort, the sloop; Lyon having, in his eagerness to get the prize before she could be seen from the other ships, carried the Ring-dove quite within the bay, and thus misled Cuffe and Sir Frederick.

“There can no longer be any doubt!” exclaimed the captain of the Proserpine, dropping his glass, with vexation too strongly painted in his manner to be mistaken; “that is a ship; and, as you say, Winchester, it must be the Ringdove; though what the devil Lyon is doing away in there with her, unless he sees something close under the land, is more than I can tell. As there is clearly nothing in this quarter, we will stand on, and take a look for ourselves.”

This nearly destroyed the hope of success. The officers began to suspect that their lookout on Campanella had been deceived, and that what he had supposed to be a lugger was, in truth, a felucca, or perhaps a xebec–a craft which might well be mistaken for a lugger, at the distance of a few leagues. The error, however, was with those in the ship. The officer sent upon the heights was a shrewd, practised master’s-mate, who knew everything about his profession that properly came within his line, and knew little else. But for a habit of drinking, he would long since have been a lieutenant, being, in truth, an older sailor than Westchester; but, satisfied of his own infirmity, and coming from a class in life in which preferment was viewed as a Godsend rather than as a right, he had long settled down into the belief that he was to live and die in his present station, thereby losing most of the desire to rise. The name of this man was Clinch. In consequence of his long experience, within the circle of his duties, his opinion was greatly respected by his superiors, when he was sober; and as he had the precaution not to be otherwise when engaged on service, his weakness seldom brought him into any serious difficulties. Cuffe, as a last hope, had sent him up on the heights of Campanella, with a perfect conviction that, if anything were really in sight, he would not fail to see it. All this confidence, however, had now ended in disappointment; and, half-an-hour later, when it was announced to Cuffe that “the cutter, with Mr. Clinch, was coming down the bay toward them,” the former even heard the name of his drunken favorite with disgust. As was usual with him, when out of humor, he went below as the boat drew near, leaving orders for her officer to be sent down to him, the instant the latter got on board. Five minutes later, Clinch thrust his hard-looking, weatherbeaten, but handsome red countenance in at the cabin-door.

“Well, sir,” commenced the captain, on a tolerably high key, “a d–d pretty wild-goose chase you’ve sent us all on, down here, into this bay! The southerly wind is failing already, and in half an hour the ships will be frying the pitch off their decks, without a breath of air; when the wind does come, it will come out at west, and bring us all four or five leagues dead to leeward!”

Clinch’s experience had taught him the useful man-of-war lesson, to bow to the tempest, and not to attempt to brave it. Whenever he was “rattled-down,” as he called it, he had the habit of throwing an expression of surprise, comically blended with contrition, into his countenance, that seemed to say, “What have I done now?”–or “If I have done anything amiss, you see how sorry I an for it.” He met his irritated commander, on the present occasion, with this expression, and it produced the usual effect of mollifying him a little.

“Well, sir–explain this matter, if you please,” continued Cuffe, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Will you please to tell me, sir, what you wish explained?” inquired Clinch, throwing more surprise than common, even, into his countenance.

“That is an extraordinary question, Mr. Clinch! I wish the signal you made from yonder headland explained, sir. Did you not signal the ship, to say that you saw the le Few-Folly down here, at the southward?”

“Well, sir, I’m glad there was no mistake in the matter,” answered Clinch, in a confident and a relieved manner. “I _was_ afraid at first, Captain Cuffe, my signal had not been understood.”

“Understood! How could it be mistaken? You showed a black ball, for ‘the lugger’s in sight.’ You’ll not deny that, I trust?”

“No, sir; one black ball, for ‘the lugger’s in sight.’ That’s just what I did show, Captain Cuffe.”

“And _three_ black balls together, for ‘she bears due south from Capri.’ What do you say to _that_”

“All right, sir. Three black balls together, for ‘she bears due south from Capri.’ I didn’t tell the distance, Captain Cuffe, because Mr. Winchester gave me no signals for that.”

“And these signals you kept showing every half-hour, as long as it was light; even until the Proserpine was off.”

“All according to orders, Captain Cuffe, as Mr. Winchester will tell you. I was to repeat every half-hour, as long as the lugger was in sight, and the day lasted.”

“Aye, sir; but you were not ordered to send as after a jack-o-lantern, or to mistake some xebec or other, from one of the Greek islands, for a light, handy French lugger”

“Nor did I, Captain Cuffe, begging your pardon, sir. I signalled the Few-Folly, and nothing else, I give you my word for it.”

Cuffe looked hard at the master’s-mate for a half a minute, and his ire insensibly lessened as he gazed.

“You are too old a seaman, Clinch, not to know what you were about! If you saw the privateer, be good enough to tell us what has become of her.”

“That is more than I can say, Captain Cuffe, though _see_ her I did; and that so plainly, as to be able to make out her jigger, even. You know, sir, we shot away her jigger-mast in the chase off Elba, and she got a new one, that steves for’rard uncommonly. I noticed _that_ when we fell in with her in the Canal of Piombino; and seeing it again, could not but know it. But there’s no mistaking the saucy Folly, for them that has once seen her; and I am certain we made her out, about four leagues to the southward of the cape, at the time I first signalled.”

“Four leagues!–I had though she must be at least eight or ten, and kept off that distance, to get her in the net. Why did you not let us know her distance?”

“Had no signals for that, Captain Cuffe.”

“Well, then, why not send a boat to tell us the fact?”

“Had no orders, sir. Was told by Mr. Winchester just to signal the lugger and her bearings; and this, you must own, Captain Cuffe, we did plain enough. Besides, sir–“

“Well; besides _what_?” demanded the captain, observing that the master’s-mate hesitated.

“Why, sir, how was I to know that any one in the ship would think a lugger _could_ be seen eight or ten leagues? That’s a long bit of water, sir; and it would take a heavy ship’s spars to rise high enough for such a sight.”

“The land you were on, Clinch, was much loftier than any vessel’s spars.”

“Quite true, sir; but not lofty enough for that, Captain Cuffe. That I saw the Folly, I’m as certain as I as being in this cabin.”

“What has become of her, then? You perceive she is not in the bay now.”

“I suppose, Captain Cuffe, that she stood in until near enough for her purpose, and that she must have hauled off the land after the night set in. There was plenty of room for her to pass out to sea again, between the two frigates, and not be seen in the dark.”

This conjecture was so plausible as to satisfy Cuffe; yet it was not the fact. Clinch had made le Feu-Follet, from his elevated post, to the southward, as his signal had said; and he was right in all his statements about her, until darkness concealed her movements. Instead of passing out of the bay, as he imagined, however, she had hauled up within a quarter of a league of Campanella, doubled that point, brushed along the coast to the northward of it, fairly within the Bay of Naples, and pushed out to sea between Capri and Ischia, going directly athwart the anchorage the men-of-war had so recently quitted, in order to do so.

When Raoul quitted his vessel, he order her to stand directly off the land, just keeping Ischia and Capri in view, lying-to under her jigger. As this was low sail, and a lugger shows so little aloft, it was a common expedient of cruisers of that rig, when they wished to escape observation. Monsieur Pintard, Raoul’s first lieutenant, had expected a signal from his commander, at the very spot where Clinch had taken his station; but seeing none, he had swept along the coast after dark, in the hope of discovering his position by the burning of a blue light. Failing of this, however, he went off the land again, in time to get an offing before the return of day, and to save the wind. It was the boldness of the manoeuvre that saved the lugger; Lyon going out through the pass between Capri and Campanella, about twenty minutes before Pintard brushed close round the rocks, under his jigger and jib only, anxiously looking out for a signal from his captain. The Frenchmen saw the sloop-of-war quite plainly, and by the aid of their night-glasses ascertained her character; mistaking her, however, for another ship, bound to Sicily or Malta–while their own vessel escaped observation, owing to the little sail she carried, the want of hamper, and her situation so near the land, which gave her a background of rocks. Clinch had not seen the movements of the lugger after dark, in consequence of his retiring to the village of St. Agata, to seek lodgings, as soon as he perceived that his own ship had gone to sea, and left him and his boat’s crew behind. The following morning, when he made the ship to the southward, he pushed off, and pulled toward his proper vessel, as related.

“Where did you pass the night, Clinch?” demanded the captain, after they had discussed the probability of the lugger’s escape. “Not on the heights, under the canopy of heaven?”

“On the heights, and under the great canopy that has covered us both so often, Captain Cuffe; but with a good Neapolitan mud-roof between it and my head. As soon as it was dark, and I saw that the ship was off, I found a village, named St. Agata, that stands on the heights, just abeam of those rocks they call the Sirens, and there we were well berthed until morning.”

“You are lucky in bringing back all the boat’s crew, Clinch. You know it’s low water with us as to men, just now; and our fellows are not all to be trusted ashore, in a country that is full of stone walls, good wine, and pretty girls.”

“I always take a set of regular steady ones with me, Captain Cuffe; I haven’t lost a man from a boat these five years.”

“You must have some secret, then, worth knowing; for even the admirals sometimes lose their barge-men. I dare say, now, yours are all married chaps, that hold on to their wives as so many sheet-anchors; they say that is often a good expedient.”

“Not at all, sir. I did try that, till I found that half the fellows would run to get rid of their wives. The Portsmouth and Plymouth marriages don’t always bring large estates with them, sir, and the bridegrooms like to cut adrift at the end of the honeymoon. Don’t you remember when we were in the Blenheim together, sir, we lost eleven of the launch’s crew at one time; and nine of them turned out to be vagabonds, sir, that deserted their weeping wives and suffering families at home!”

“Now you mention it, I do remember something of the sort; draw a chair, Clinch, and take a glass of grog. Tim, put a bottle of Jamaica before Mr. Clinch, I have heard it said that you are married yourself, my gallant master’s mate?”

“Lord, Captain Cuffe, that’s one of the young gentlemen’s stories! If a body believed all they say, the Christian religion would soon get athwart-hawse, and mankind be all adrift in their morals,” answered Clinch, smacking his lips, after a very grateful draught. “We’ve a regular set of high-flyers aboard this ship, at this blessed minute, Captain Cuffe, sir, and Mr. Winchester has his hands full of them. I often wonder at his patience, sir.”

“We were young once ourselves, Clinch, and ought to be indulgent to the follies of youth. But what sort of a berth did you find last night upon the rocks yonder?”

“Why, sir, as good as one can expect out of Old England. I fell in with an elderly woman calling herself Giuntotardi–which is regular built Italian, isn’t it, sir?”

“That it is–but, you speak the language, I believe, Clinch?”

“Why, sir, I’ve been drifting about the world so long, that I speak a little of everything, finding it convenient when I stand in need of victuals and drink. The old lady on the hill and I overhauled a famous yarn between us, sir. It seems she has a niece and a brother at Naples, who ought to have been back night before last; and she was in lots of tribulation about them, wanting to know if our ship had seen anything of the rovers.”

“By George, Clinch, you were on the soundings there, had you but known it! Our prisoner has been in that part of the world, and we might get some clue to his manoeuvres, by questioning the old woman closely. I hope you parted good friends?”

“The best in the world, Captain Cuffe. No one that feeds and lodges _me_ well, need dread me as an enemy!”

“I’ll warrant it! That’s the reason you are so loyal, Clinch?”

The hard, red face of the master’s mate worked a little, and, though he could not well look all sorts of colors, he looked all ways but in his captain’s eye. It was now ten years since he ought to have been a lieutenant, having once actually outranked Cuffe, in the way of date of service at least; and his conscience told him two things quite distinctly: first, the fact of his long and weary probation; second, that it was, in a great degree, his own fault.

“I love His Majesty, sir,” Clinch observed, after giving a gulp, “and I never lay anything that goes hard with myself to his account. Still, memory will be memory; and spite of all I can do, sir, I sometimes remember what I _might_ have been, as well as what I _am_. If his Majesty _does_ feed me, it is with the spoon of a master’s mate; and if he _does_ lodge me, it is in the cockpit.”

“I have been your shipmate often, and for years at a time,” answered Cuffe good-naturedly, though a little in the manner of a superior; “and no one knows your history better. It is not your friends who have failed you at need, so much as a certain enemy, with whom you will insist on associating, though he harms them most who love him best.”

“Aye, aye, sir–that can’t be denied, Captain Cuffe; yet it’s a hard life that passes altogether without hope.”

This was uttered with an expression of melancholy that said more for Clinch’s character than Cuffe had witnessed in the man for years, and it revived many early impressions in his favor. Clinch and he had once been messmates, even; and though years of a decided disparity in rank had since interposed their barrier of etiquette and feeling, Cuffe never could entirely forget the circumstance.

“It is hard, indeed, to live as you say, without hope,” returned the captain; “but hope _ought_ to be the last thing to die. You should make one more rally, Clinch, before you throw up in despair.”

“It is not so much for myself, Captain Cuffe, that I mind it, as for some that live ashore. My father was as reputable a tradesman as there was in Plymouth, and when he got me on the quarter-deck he thought he was about to make a gentleman of me, instead of leaving me to pass a life in a situation that may be said to be even beneath what his own was.”

“Now you undervalue your station, Clinch. The berth of a master’s-mate in one of His Majesty’s finest frigates is something to be proud of; I was once a master’s-mate–nay, Nelson has doubtless filled the same station. For that matter, one of His Majesty’s own sons may have gone through the rank.”

“Aye, gone _through_ it, as you say, sir,” returned Clinch, with a husky voice. “It does well enough for them that go _through_ it, but it’s death to them that _stick_. It’s a feather in a midshipman’s cap to be rated a mate; but it’s no honor to be a mate at my time of life, Captain Cuffe.”

“What’s your age, Clinch? You are not much my senior?”

“Your senior, sir! The difference in our years is not as great as in our rank, certainly, though I never shall see thirty-two again. But it’s not so much _that_, after all, as the thoughts of my poor mother, who set her heart on seeing me with His Majesty’s commission in my pocket; and of another who set her heart on one that I’m afraid was never worthy her affection.”

“This is new to me, Clinch,” returned the captain, with interest. “One so seldom thinks of a master’s-mate marrying, that the idea of your being in that way has never crossed my mind, except in the manner of a joke.”

“Master’s-mates _have_ married, Captain Cuffe, and they have ended in being very miserable. But Jane, as well as myself, has made up her mind to live single, unless we can see brighter prospects before us than what my present hopes afford.”

“Is it quite right, Jack, to keep a poor young woman towing along in this uncertainty, during the period of life when her chances for making a good connection are the best?”

Clinch stared at his commander until his eyes filled with tears. The glass had not touched his lips since the conversation took its present direction; and the usual hard settled character of his face was becoming expressive once more with human emotions.

“It’s not my fault, Captain Cuffe,” he answered, in a low voice; “it’s now quite six years since I insisted on her giving me up; but she wouldn’t hear of the thing. A very respectable attorney wished to have her, and I even prayed her to accept his offer; and the only unkind glance I ever got from her eye, was when she heard me make a request that she told me sounded impiously almost to her ears. She would be a sailor’s wife or die a maid.”

“The girl has unfortunately got some romantic notions concerning the profession, Clinch, and they are ever the hardest to be convinced of what is for their own good.”

“Jane Weston! Not she, sir. There is not as much romance about her as in the fly-leaves of a prayer-book. She is all _heart_, poor Jane; and how I came to get such a hold of it, Captain Cuffe, is a great mystery to myself. I certainly do not _deserve_ half her affection, and I now begin to despair of ever being able to repay her for it.”

Clinch was still a handsome man, though exposure and his habits had made some inroads on a countenance that by nature was frank, open, and prepossessing. It now expressed the anguish that occasionally came over his heart, as the helplessness of his situation presented itself fully to his mind. Cuffe’s feelings were touched, for he remembered the time when they were messmates, with a future before them that promised no more to the one than to the other, the difference in the chances which birth afforded the captain alone excepted. Clinch was a prime seaman, and as brave as a lion, too; qualities that secured to him a degree of respect that his occasional self-forgetfulness had never entirely forfeited. Some persons thought him the most skilful mariner the Proserpine contained; and, perhaps, this was true, if the professional skill were confined strictly to the handling of a ship, or to taking care of her on critical occasions. All these circumstances induced Cuffe to enter more closely into the master’s-mate’s present distress than he might otherwise have done. Instead of shoving the bottle to him, however, as if conscious how much disappointed hope had already driven the other to its indiscreet use, he pushed it gently aside, and taking his old messmate’s hand with a momentary forgetfulness of the difference in rank, he said in a tone of kindness and confidence that had long been strangers to Clinch’s ears:

“Jack, my honest fellow, there is good stuff in you yet, if you will only give it fair play. Make a manly rally, respect yourself for a few months, and something will turn up that will yet give you your Jane, and gladden your old mother’s heart.”

There are periods in the lives of men, when a few kind words, backed by a friendly act or two, might save thousands of human beings from destruction. Such was the crisis in the fate of Clinch. He had almost given up hope, though it did occasionally revive in him whenever he got a cheering letter from the constant Jane, who pertinaciously refused to believe anything to his prejudice, and religiously abstained from all reproaches. But it is necessary to understand the influence of rank on board a man-of-war, fully to comprehend the effect which was now produced on the master’s-mate by the captain’s language and manner. Tears streamed out of the eyes of Clinch, and he grasped the hand of his commander almost convulsively.

“What can I do, sir? Captain Cuffe, what can I do?” he exclaimed. “My duty is never neglected; but there _are_ moments of despair, when I find the burden too hard to be borne, without calling upon the bottle for support.”

“Whenever a man drinks with such a motive, Clinch, I would advise him to abstain altogether. He cannot trust himself; and that which he terms his friend is, in truth, his direst enemy. Refuse your rations, even; determine to be free. One week, nay, one day, may give a strength that will enable you to conquer, by leaving your reason unimpaired. Absence from the ship has accidentally befriended you–for the little you have taken here has not been sufficient to do any harm. We are now engaged on a most interesting duty, and I will throw service into your way that may be of importance to you. Get your name once fairly in a despatch, and your commission is safe. Nelson loves to prefer old tars; and nothing would make him happier than to be able to serve _you_. Put it in my power to ask it of him, and I’ll answer for the result. Something may yet come out of your visit to the cottage of this woman, and do you be mindful to keep yourself in fortune’s way.”

“God bless you, Captain Cuffe–God bless you, sir,” answered Clinch, nearly choked; “I’ll endeavor to do as you wish.”

“Remember Jane and your mother. With such a woman dependent for her happiness on his existence, a man must be a brute not to struggle hard.”

Clinch groaned–for Cuffe probed his wound deep; though it was done with an honest desire to cure. After wiping the perspiration from his face, and writhing on his chair, however, he recovered a little of his self-command, and became comparatively composed.

“If a friend could only point out the way by which I might recover some of the lost ground,” he said, “my gratitude to him would last as long as life, Captain Cuffe.”

“Here is an opening then, Clinch. Nelson attaches as much importance to our catching this lugger as he ever did to falling in with a fleet. The officer who is serviceable on this occasion may be sure of being remembered, and I will give you every chance in my power. Go, dress yourself in your best; make yourself look as you know you can; then be ready for boat service. I have some duty for you now, which will be but the beginning of good luck, if you only remain true to your mother, to Jane, and to yourself.”

A new life was infused into Clinch. For years he had been overlooked–apparently forgotten, except when thorough seamanship was required; and even his experiment of getting transferred to a vessel commanded by an old messmate had seemingly failed. Here was a change, however, and a ray, brighter than common, shone athwart the darkness of his future. Even Cuffe was struck with the cheerfulness of his countenance, and the alacrity of the master’s-mate’s movements, and he reproached himself with having so long been indifferent to the best interests of one who certainly had some claims on his friendship. Still, there was nothing unusual in the present relations between these old messmates. Favored by family and friends, Cuffe had never been permitted to fall into despondency, and had pursued his career successfully and with spirit; while the other unsupported, and failing of any immediate opportunity for getting ahead, had fallen into evil ways, and come to be, by slow degrees, the man he was. Such instances as the latter are of not unfrequent occurrence even in a marine in which promotion is as regular as our own, though it is rare indeed that a man recovers his lost ground when placed in circumstances so trying.

In half an hour Clinch was ready, dressed in his best. The gentlemen of the quarter-deck saw all these preparations with surprise; for, of late, the master’s-mate had seldom been seen in that part of the ship at all. But, in a man-of-war, discipline is a matter of faith, and no one presumed to ask questions. Clinch was closeted with the captain for a few minutes, received his orders, and went over the ship’s side with a cheerful countenance, actually entering the captain’s gig, the fastest-rowing boat of the ship. As soon as seated, he shoved off, and held his way toward the point of Campanella, then distant about three leagues. No one knew whither he was bound, though all believed it was on duty that related to the lugger, and duty that required a seaman’s judgment. As for Cuffe, his manner, which-had begun to be uneasy and wandering, became more composed when he saw his old messmate fairly off, and that, too, at a rate which would carry him even to Naples in the course of a few hours, should his voyage happen to be so long.

CHAPTER XXI.