The Grip of Honor

"Well, indeed, sir; the Lady Elizabeth is here, as you see. We are to be married at once, sir."

"You may have the chaplain of the Serapis for that purpose."

"Yes, sir. When he last officiated for me, he was reading my funeral service," replied O'Neill, smiling.

"Some people would say it's much the same thing," laughed the captain; "but we know better. Ah well, that's over now, thank God; and this lady-Madam," he said, turning to her, "I bade you welcome to a ship once before. It is a different ship now, but the welcome is just the same."

"Know you aught of Major Edward Coventry, Captain Jones?" cried Elizabeth. This time it was she who remembered.

"Why, he lies on the deck yonder, dying. He wouldn't let me take him below. Do you know-but I forgot, he was your friend."

"Take me to him!" she cried hastily, and in a moment she was kneeling by his side. They had made him as comfortable as possible with cushions and boat cloaks, but his hours were numbered. His head was thrown back, his face ghastly pale. Blood stained the linen of his shirt about his breast. His eyes were closed; the end was at hand.

"Poor fellow!" said O'Neill, in great sorrow, "he died for me;" and then he briefly recounted the circumstances of their escape to the astonished captain.

"Do you know how he was wounded, sir?" he asked.

"It was my own hand that struck the blow," answered Jones. "Would it had been otherwise! There was a moment in the action when they sprang to board. He leaped upon the rail, cutlass in hand; he was a fair and easy mark; I met them with a pike, which I buried in his bosom. He fell back smiling. I remember that I thought it strange to see him smiling at that time, even in the heat of the battle-too bad-too bad!" he said.

"Oh, Edward!" cried the girl, tears streaming down her face, "I never thought to see you thus! I never meant to bring you to this! If you could but speak to me-to say that you forgave me for it all! If I could have your blessing before-" The man stirred a little and opened his eyes. He looked about him vacantly, but consciousness began to dawn again, and with the dawn came recognition. It was the face of Elizabeth bending over him. She was the woman whom he loved. There, back of her, was O'Neill. He began to comprehend.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, "my death-not in vain-then."

"Forgive me-forgive me," she cried brokenly. "Oh, forgive me! I did love you!"

"Yes," he said, faintly smiling; "but-not like-" He glanced at O'Neill. "You, too!" he murmured; "make-her-happy." His mind wandered a little. "Father," he cried suddenly, "don't look at me in that way! I did it because I loved her; her happiness before mine."

"Oh, doctor, can nothing be done; is there no hope?" cried O'Neill to the attending surgeon.

"Nothing, sir. 'Twill not be long now," answered the surgeon, shaking his head.

CHAPTER XXIV

Not Guilty, my Lord

"There's a boat comin' alongside, sir," said a midshipman to Captain Jones, "flying an admiral's flag."

"Ah, that will be our friend Lord Westbrooke," he said, turning toward the gangway. "Show him to me if he comes on board." Elizabeth knelt by the side of the dying man, who had sunk into silence again, and bathed his head with her handkerchief, while the doctor applied some simple restorative. In a moment the stately form of the old admiral stepped through the gangway, and he looked about him in astonishment.

"God bless me, what a fight! I knew that rebel was a desperate man, but I never imagined anything like this! Captain Pearson?" said he, imperiously. "Where is he?"

"Here, my Lord," said Pearson, mournfully, coming out of the cabin, where he had withdrawn a little.

"I congratulate you, sir, on-" "Stop, sir!" cried the captain, in great agony. "You do not understand. This ship-we were not successful."

"What!" cried the admiral. "Is not this the Serapis?"

"Ay, but she belongs-"

"To the Navy of the United States, sir," said a calm voice at his elbow, which made him start; "and she is now commanded by Captain John Paul Jones, at your service. I shall be glad to supply you with a yard-arm, if you have need of one, my Lord-"

"Good God!" said the old man, turning to Jones. "And the Richard?"

"We sunk her, sir," answered Pearson, "but it was useless."

"You have done well, Captain Pearson," said the admiral. "Here is evidence of the fight you made. Never fear; you shall receive reward. 'Twas a defeat as noble as a capture."

"Ay," said Captain Jones, "I can bear witness to the desperate nature of the resistance. 'Twas such as I have never met before in twenty battles on the sea."

"Pearson-my-my-son-" said the admiral, huskily. "How did he bear himself in the fight?"

"Well and nobly, sir, as I can testify," added Pearson.

"I, too," said Jones, – "I saw him. 'Twas he who led your boarders, Captain Pearson, when they tried to sweep our decks."

"And is he well?" said the old admiral, striving to school himself into composure. "That charge, you know, Pearson; I think we need not press it now?" he added.

"No, not now, nor ever, sir," said Pearson, mournfully. "Compose yourself, my dear admiral; he-"

"I am a veteran," said the admiral. "I have looked death in the face for fifty years. Speak plainly. You would say that he is dead."

"Not yet, sir," answered Jones, gently.

"Where is he? Take me to him!"

"He lies aft there on the quarter-deck, sir."

The little group around the dying man made way for the old admiral. He knelt down on the deck opposite Elizabeth, not heeding the others, and gazed long and earnestly in the face of the dying officer.

"The last of his line," he murmured, "and he is gone!" A single tear trickled down the weather-beaten cheek, and splashed upon the face of the young man. "Will he live to know me, think you?" said the admiral, simply, to the surgeon.

"I think so, yes," replied the physician. As if he had heard the question, Coventry opened his eyes; there was recognition in them.

"Father," he murmured faintly.

"My boy-my boy," said the admiral, bowing his head, and striving, manlike, but in vain, to conceal his emotion.

"You told me-not to see you-again; I tried to obey," said Coventry, faintly. "The charge-

"It is withdrawn; I dismiss it. You have done nobly, Captain Pearson says, and fought like a hero. You are forgiven. I commend you," said the old man, catching his other hand.

"Ah, so," said Coventry, smiling wearily. "Now I must go."

"Not yet!" cried the admiral.

"I-my Lord-" said the young man, wandering again, "may it please the court-may it please the court-" He struggled for breath. "Lift me up," he said.

"'Twill be his end," said the doctor, lifting a warning finger.

"Lift me up," cried the dying man, more strongly than before. The admiral nodded. The young Irishman lifted him a little.

"Higher!" he cried. O'Neill lifted him to a sitting position.

"Not guilty, my Lord!" said the young man, resolutely, in a loud, clear voice, throwing his arms out before him, and still smiling. The blood gushed from his lips; and when they laid him back, his plea was heard in that higher court before which the rich and the poor must all finally appear, before which the admiral and the sailor equally must plead.

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord," said the chaplain of the Serapis, reverently. The men stood around him in a silence broken only by the woman's sobs.

"He has died like a hero, sir," said Jones at last, removing his hat, "and I venture to say that no one of his gallant race, in all the years of their history, has ever made a better end."

"Ah," said the admiral, rising, and mournfully regarding the little group, Elizabeth praying by the side of his son, O'Neill still supporting his head, "I made my plans, I tempted this honorable gentleman to do a shameful thing; he refused, and it has all come back upon me. I've wrought my own undoing, gentlemen. The hand of God has worked His will, not mine. I am punished; I am overruled. He has written this old man childless. I go down to my grave alone-forever alone!"

"Not so," answered O'Neill, rising. "You have Elizabeth. Let me, too-"

"Peace, sir!" said the old man, waving him back. "The young cling together, – think of each other, – there is nothing left for the old. Our ways lie apart. I bear you in no unkindness, I wish you well. Elizabeth, I had hoped to call you daughter. 'Twas my own pride defeated the wish. May you be happy with this honest gentleman! He deserves you even as did this, my son."

"My father-my father-" cried the girl, catching his hand.

The old man shook his head; his lips trembled. Gray-faced and broken, all his years upon him, he turned away unsteadily, as if to go to his barge.

"Stop, sir!" cried Pearson. "You forget we are not in possession of the ship. We are prisoners," he whispered.

"Ah, yes," said the admiral, "I had forgotten it. Well, it matters little to me. Captain Jones," he continued, turning to the little Scotsman, and proffering his sword, with a painful gesture, "I am your prisoner, it seems."

"Sir," said the little captain, and twenty generations of gentle blood could not have done it better, "allow me to match the act of an American sailor against the word of an English officer. You are free, my Lord. Your boat awaits you. If I can do aught-"

"Be it so," said the admiral, simply. "Let me have my boy, and we will go away together, and I shall remember you differently in the future. If in England you ever need a friend, remember this moment, and call upon me. Farewell."

And two hung over the taffrail and watched the white sails of the little boat bearing away to the verdant shore, where the old castle still shone in the sunlight. Two, sad yet exultant. Their troubles were over now. They had lost everything else, but had gained each other in the losing.

"We ought to be very good to each other," said the sweet voice of the woman, "to make up to God all that He has preserved us from."

"Ay," said O'Neill, "and to give due value to the sacrifice of him who loved you, even as I do myself."