The Battle and the Breeze Part 3

cash, I thought I'd give her a treat an' a surprise, so off I goes to buy her some things, when, before I got well into the town--a sea-port it was--down comed the press-gang an' nabbed me. I showed fight, of course, just as you did, an floored four of 'em, but they was too many for me an' before I knowed where I was they had me into a boat and aboord this here s.h.i.+p, where I've bin ever since. I'm used to it now, an' rather like it, as no doubt you will come for to like it too; but it _was_ hard on my old mother. I begged an' prayed them to let me go back an' bid her good-bye, an' swore I would return, but they only laughed at me, so I was obliged to write her a letter to keep her mind easy. Of all the jobs I ever did have, the writin' of that letter was the wust.

Nothin' but dooty would iver indooce me to try it again; for, you see, I didn't get much in the way of edication, an' writin' never came handy to me.

"Hows'ever," continued Ben, "I took so kindly to His Majesty's service that they almost look upon me as an old hand, an' actooally gave me leave to be the leader o' the gang that was sent to Fairway to take you, so that I might have a chance o' sayin' adoo to my old mother."

"What!" exclaimed Bowls, "is your mother the old woman who stops at the end o' Cow Lane, where Mrs Blyth lives, who talks so much about her big-whiskered Ben?"

"That same," replied Ben, with a smile: "she was always proud o' me, specially after my whiskers comed. I thought that p'r'aps ye might have knowed her."

"I knows her by hearsay from Nelly Blyth, but not bein' a native of Fairway, of course I don't know much about the people.--Hallo! Riggles, what's wrong with 'e to-day?" said Bill, as his friend Tom came towards him with a very perplexed expression on his honest face, "not repenting of havin' joined the sarvice already, I hope?"

"No, I ain't troubled about that," answered Riggles, scratching his chin and knitting his brows; "but I've got a brother, d'ye see--"

"Nothin' uncommon in that," said Bolter, as the other paused.

"P'r'aps not," continued Tom Riggles; "but then, you see, my brother's such a preeplexin' sort o' feller, I don't know wot to make of him."

"Let him alone, then," suggested Ben Bolter.

"That won't do neither, for he's got into trouble; but it's a long story, an' I dessay you won't care to hear about it."

"You're out there, Tom," said Bowls; "come, sit down here and let's have it all."

The three men sat down on the combings of the fore-hatch, and Tom Riggles began by telling them that it was of no use bothering them with an account of his brother Sam's early life.

"Not unless there's somethin' partikler about it," said Bolter.

"Well, there ain't nothin' very partikler about it, 'xcept that Sam was partiklerly noisy as a baby, and wild as a boy, besides bein' uncommon partikler about his wittles, 'specially in the matter o' havin' plenty of 'em. Moreover, he ran away to sea when he was twelve years old, an'

was partiklerly quiet after that for a long time, for n.o.body know'd where he'd gone to, till one fine mornin' my mother she gets a letter from him sayin' he was in China, drivin' a great trade in the opium line. We niver felt quite sure about that, for Sam wornt over partikler about truth. He was a kindly sort o' feller, hows'ever, an' continued to write once or twice a year for a long time. In these letters he said that his life was pretty wariable, as no doubt it was, for he wrote from all parts o' the world. First, he was clerk, he said, to the British counsel in Penang, or some sich name, though where that is I don't know; then he told us he'd joined a man-o'-war, an' took to clearin' the pirates out o' the China seas. He found it a tough job appariently, an'

got wounded in the head with a grape-shot, and half choked by a stink-pot, after which we heard no more of him for a long time, when a letter turns up from Californy, sayin' he was there s.h.i.+ppin' hides on the coast; and after that he went through Texas an' the States, where he got married, though he hadn't nothin' wotever, as I knows of, to keep a wife upon--"

"But he may have had somethin' for all you didn't know it," suggested Bill Bowls.

"Well, p'r'aps he had. Hows'ever, the next we heard was that he'd gone to Canada, an' tuk a small farm there, which was all well enough, but now we've got a letter from him sayin' that he's in trouble, an' don't see his way out of it very clear. He's got the farm, a wife, an' a sarvant to support, an' nothin' to do it with. Moreover, the sarvant is a boy what a gentleman took from a Reformation-house, or somethin' o'

that sort, where they put little thieves, as has only bin in quod for the fust time. They say that many of 'em is saved, and turns out well, but this feller don't seem to have bin a crack specimen, for Sam's remarks about him ain't complimentary. Here's the letter, mates,"

continued Riggles, drawing a soiled epistle from his pocket; "it'll give 'e a better notion than I can wot sort of a fix he's in, Will you read it, Bill Bowls?"

"No, thankee," said Bill; "read it yerself, an' for any sake don't spell the words if ye can help it."

Thus admonished, Tom began to read the following letter from his wild brother, interrupting himself occasionally to explain and comment thereon, and sometimes, despite the adjuration of Bill Bowls, to spell.

We give the letter in the writer's own words:--

"`My dear mother [it's to mother, d'ye see; he always writes to her, an'

she sends the letters to me],--My dear mother, here we are all alive and kicking. My sweet wife is worth her weight in gold, though she does not possess more of that precious metal than the wedding-ring on her finger--more's the pity for we are sadly in want of it just now. The baby, too, is splendid. Fat as a prize pig, capable of roaring like a mad bull, and, it is said, uncommonly like his father. We all send our kind love to you, and father, and Tom. By the way, where _is_ Tom? You did not mention him in your last. I fear he is one of these roving fellows whom the Scotch very appropriately style ne'er-do-weels. A bad lot they are. Humph! you're one of 'em, Mister Sam, if ever there was, an' my only hope of ye is that you've got some soft places in your heart.'"

"Go on, Tom," said Ben Bolter; "don't cut in like that on the thread of any man's story."

"Well," continued Riggles, reading with great difficulty, "Sam goes on for to say--"

"`We thank you for your good wishes, and trust to be able to send you a good account of our proceedings ere long. [You see Sam was always of a cheery, hopeful natur, he was.] We have now been on the place fifteen days, but have not yet begun the house, as we can get no money. Two builders have, however, got the plans, and we are waiting for their sp-s-p-i-f- oh! spiflication; why, wot can that be?'"

"It ain't spiflication, anyhow," said Bolter. "Spell it right through."

"Oh! I've got him, it's _specification_," cried Riggles; "well--"

"`Specification. Many things will cost more than we antic.i.p.ated. We had to turn the family out who had squatted here, at two days' notice, as we could not afford to live at Kinmonday--that's the nearest town, I s'pose. How they managed to live in the log cabin I do not know, as, when it rained--and it has done so twice since we came, furiously--the whole place was deluged, and we had to put an umbrella up in bed. We have had the roof raised and newly s.h.i.+ngled, and are as comfortable as can be expected. Indeed, the hut is admirably adapted for summer weather, as we can shake hands between the logs.

"`The weather is very hot, although there has been much more rain this season than usual. There can be no doubt that this is a splendid country, both as regards soil and climate, and it seems a pity to see such land lying waste and unimproved for so many years. It far surpa.s.ses my expectations, both in natural beauty and capabilities. We have a deal of work to do in the way of fencing, for at present everybody's livestock is running over a large part of our land; but we haven't got money to buy fencing! Then we ought to have two horses, for the boy that was sent to me from the Reformatory can plough; but again, we haven't a rap wherewith to buy them. One reason of this is that in a new place a fellow is not trusted at first, and the last two hundred dollars we had went in tools, household furniture, utensils, etcetera.

We have been living on credit for an occasional chicken or duck from our neighbours, which makes but a poor meal for three--not to mention baby, being very small--and George, that's the boy, having a tremendous appet.i.te!

"`I walked into town twice to try to get some meat, but although there are ostensibly two butchers, I failed to get any. They actually wanted payment for it! Heigho! how I wish that money grew on the trees--or bread. By the way, that reminds me that there are bread-fruit trees in the South Sea Islands. I think I'll sell the farm and go there. One day I had the good luck to rescue a fine young chicken from the talons of a big hawk, upon which we all made a good meal. I really don't know what we should have done had it not been for the great abundance of blackberries here. They are fine and large, and so plentiful that I can gather a bucketful in an hour. We have made them into jam and pies, and are now drying them for winter use. We have also hazel-nuts and plums by the cart-load, and crab-apples in numbers almost beyond the power of figures to express. There is also a fruit about the size of a lime, which they call here the "May apple," but which I have named "omnifruct," as it combines the flavour of apples, pears, peaches, pine-apples, gooseberries, strawberries, rasps--in fact, it is hard to tell what it does _not_ resemble. But after all, this is rather light food, and although very Eden-like living--_minus_ the felicity--it does not quite satisfy people who have been used most part of their lives to beefsteak and stout.

"`George came to me a week ago. The little rascal would have been here sooner, but first of all the stage-coach upset, and then he fell asleep and was carried ten miles beyond our clearing, and had to walk back as best he could with a big bundle on his shoulder. He is an uncommonly silent individual. We can hardly get him to utter a word. He does what he is told, but I have first to show him how, and generally end by doing it myself. He appears to be a remarkably dead boy, but my excellent wife has taken him in hand, and will certainly strike some fire out of him if she can't put it into him! She has just gone into town on a foraging expedition, and I fondly hope she may succeed in making a raise of some edibles.

"`I have distinguished myself lately by manufacturing a sideboard and dresser, as well as a table and bench for the female authority, and expect to accomplish a henhouse and a gate next week. You see we work in hope. I fervently wish we could live on the same. However, I'm pretty jolly, despite a severe attack of rheumatism, which has not been improved by my getting up in the night and rus.h.i.+ng out in my s.h.i.+rt to chase away trespa.s.sing cows and pigs, as we have not got a watch-dog yet.

"`When my wife shuts her eyes at night her dreams are of one invariable subject--blackberries! She cannot get rid of the impression, and I have serious fears that we shall all break out in brambles. There are not so many mosquitoes here as I had expected; just enough to keep us lively.

How I shall rejoice when we have got a cow! It will be a great saving in b.u.t.ter and milk to our neighbours, who at present supply us with such things on credit! We can raise here wheat, oats, Indian corn, etcetera.

The only difficulties are the want of seed and money! But it is unkind in me writing to you, mother, in this strain, seeing that you can't help me in my difficulties. However, don't take on about me. My motto is, "Never give in." Give our love to father, also to Tom. He's a good-hearted fellow is Tom, though I fear he'll never come to much good.--Believe me, your affectionate son, SAM. RIGGLES.'"

"There," said Tom, folding up the letter; "what d'ye think o' that, mates?"

Tom did not at that time get an answer to his question, for just as he spoke the order was given to beat to quarters for exercise, and in a few minutes the decks were cleared, and every man at his post.

But the order which had been given to engage in mimic warfare, for the sake of training the new hands, was suddenly changed into the command to clear for action in earnest, when the look-out reported a French vessel on the weather-bow. Sail was immediately crowded on the _Waterwitch_, and all was enthusiasm and expectation as they gave chase to the enemy.

CHAPTER FOUR.

OUR HERO AND HIS FRIENDS SEE SERVICE.

The _Waterwitch_ was commanded at this time by Captain Ward, a man possessed of great energy and judgment, united to heroic courage. He had received orders to join that portion of the British fleet which, under Nelson, was engaged in searching for the French in the Mediterranean, and had pa.s.sed Cape St. Vincent on his way thither, when he fell in with the French vessel.

During the morning a thick fog had obscured the horizon, concealing the enemy from view. When the rising sun dispersed it he was suddenly revealed. Hence the abrupt order on board the _Waterwitch_ to prepare for action. As the fog lifted still more, another French vessel was revealed, and it was soon found that the English frigate had two Frenchmen of forty-four guns each to cope with.

"Just as it should be!" remarked Captain Ward, when this was ascertained. "There would have been no glory in conquering one Frenchman equal to my own s.h.i.+p in size!"

The _Waterwitch_ was immediately steered towards the s.h.i.+p that was nearest, in the expectation that she would show fight at once, but the French commander, probably wis.h.i.+ng to delay the engagement until his other vessel could join him, made sail, and bore down on her. Captain Ward, on perceiving the intention, put on a press of canvas, and endeavoured to frustrate the enemy's design. In this he was only partially successful.

"Surely," said Bill Bowls to his friend Ben Bolter, with whom he was stationed at one of the starboard guns on the main deck, "surely we are near enough now to give 'em a shot."

"No, we ain't," said Tom Riggles, who was also stationed at the same gun; "an' depend on it Cap'n Ward is not the man to throw away his shot for nothin'."

Ben Bolter and some of the other men at the gun agreed with this opinion, so our hero, whose fighting propensities were beginning to rouse up, had to content himself with gazing through the port-hole at the flying enemy, and restrained his impatience as he best could.

At last the order was given to fire, and for an hour after that a running fight was maintained, but without much effect. When, however, the two s.h.i.+ps of the enemy succeeded in drawing sufficiently near to each other, they hove to, and awaited the advance of the _Waterwitch_, plying her vigorously with shot as she came on.

Captain Ward only replied with his bow chasers at first. He walked the deck with his hands behind his back without speaking, and, as far as his countenance expressed his feelings, he might have been waiting for a summons to dinner, instead of hastening to engage in an unequal contest.