Percival Keene

“I am indeed very glad, Captain Green; for I had no animosity against the major, and his conduct to me has been quite incomprehensible.”

After inquiry about my wound, and expressing a hope that I should soon be well, Captain Green left; but I observed that he took no further notice of Colonel Delmar than a haughty salute as he quitted the room; and then, to my surprise, Colonel Delmar said that, upon consideration, he thought it would be advisable for him to go away for a certain time.

“I agree with you,” replied I; “it would be better.” I said this, because I did not wish his company; for it at once struck me as very strange that he should, now that Major Stapleton was alive and promising to do well, talk of departure, when he refused at the time he supposed him to be killed. I was therefore very glad when in an hour or two afterwards he took his leave, and started, as he said, for London.

Chapter Thirty Eight

My recovery was rapid: in less than a fortnight I was on the sofa. The frigate was now rigged, and had taken in her water and stores, and was reported ready for sea in a month, as we still required about forty men to make up our complement. I saw a great deal of Captain Green, who paid me a visit almost every day; and once, when our conversation turned upon the duel, I made the same remark as I did when Colonel Delmar used such harsh language over the body of Major Stapleton. “Yes,” replied Captain Green, “I thought it was my duty to tell him what Colonel Delmar had said. He was very much excited, and replied, ‘The greatest scoundrel, did he say?—then is the devil better than those he tempts; however, we are both in each other’s power. I must get well first, and then I will act.’ There certainly is some mystery, the attack was so unprovoked, the determination so positive. Have you any reason to suppose that Colonel Delmar is your enemy, Captain Keene? for certainly he did appear to me to do all he could at the time of the duel to give your adversary the advantage.”

“I really have no cause to suppose that he has grounds for being my enemy; but I cannot help suspecting that, for some reason or reasons unknown, he is so.”

When Captain Green had left me, I tried all I could to find out why Colonel Delmar should be inimical to me. That he was the supposed heir to Miss Delmar I knew; but surely her leaving me a few thousands was not sufficient cause for a man to seek my life. Lord de Versely had nothing to leave; I could come to no conclusion that was at all satisfactory. I then thought whether I would write to Lord de Versely, and tell him what had happened; but I decided that I would not. The initials had been put in the papers at the announcement of the duel, and, had he seen them, he certainly would have written down to inquire about the facts. My mother had so done, and I resolved that I would answer her letter, which had hitherto remained on the table. I sent for my desk, and when my servant brought it me, the bunch of keys were hanging to the lock. I thought this strange, as I had locked my desk before I went out to meet Major Stapleton, and had never sent for it since my return; my servant, however, could tell me nothing about it, except that he found it as he brought it to me; but after a little time, he recollected that the doctor had asked for a pen and ink to write a prescription, and that the colonel had taken the keys to get him what he required. This accounted for it, and nothing more was said upon the subject. Of course, although it was known, no notice was taken of what had passed by the Admiralty. I had not even put myself down in the sick report, but signed my daily papers, and sent them into the admiral’s office as if nothing had happened.

In six weeks I was able to limp about a little, and the Circe was at last reported ready for sea. My orders came down, and I was to sail with the first fair wind to join the squadron in the Texel and North Sea. I had taken up my quarters on board, and was waiting two days, while the wind still blew hard from the eastward, when my promise to write to Mr Warden occurred to me; and, as I had closed all my despatches to Lord de Versely—the Honourable Miss Delmar, to whom I made my excuse for not being able to pay my respects before my departure—my mother, and my aunt Bridgeman—I resolved that I would write him a long letter previous to my sailing. I did so, in which I entered into the whole affair of the duel, the conduct of Colonel Delmar, and my suspicions relative to him; stating, at the same time, that I could not comprehend why he should have sought to injure me. I finished this letter late in the evening, and the next morning, the wind having come round, we sailed for our destination.

Once more on the water, all my thoughts were given to the service. We soon fell in with the North Sea squadron, and the day afterwards the Circe was directed to go on shore in company with the Dryad, and watch the flotillas of gun-boats which had been collecting in the various rivers and ports; to sink, burn, and destroy to the utmost of our power. This was an active and dangerous service, as the enemy had every advantage in the sands and shoals, and hardly a day passed in which we were not engaged with the flotillas and batteries. It was, however, now fine weather, for the winter had set in early, and had passed away, and for two months we continued in the service, during which my skip’s company were well trained. One morning a cutter from the fleet was reported from the mast-head, and we expected that we should soon have our letters from England, when the Dryad threw out the signal for six sail of praams in shore.

The two frigates made all sail in chase, leaving the cutter to follow us how she could. Our masters were well acquainted with the shoals on the coast, and we threaded our way through them towards the enemy. We were within gun-shot, and had exchanged broadsides with the batteries, when the flotillas gained a small harbour, which prevented our making any further attempts. The Dryad made the signal to haul off; it was quite time, as we had not more than four hours’ daylight, and were entangled among the shoals. The breeze, which had been fresh, now increased very rapidly, and there was every appearance of a gale. We worked out as fast as we could, and by nine o’clock in the evening we were clear of the sands, and in the open sea; but the gale had sprung up so rapidly that we were obliged to reduce our sail to close-reefed topsails. With the sands under our lee, it was necessary to draw off as fast as we could, and we therefore carried a heavy press of sail all the night—at last, the wind was so strong that we could only carry close-reefed maintop-sail and reefed fore-sail; and with a heavy sea, which had risen up, we felt that we were in extreme danger.

Daylight once more made its appearance. Our first object was to ascertain the position of the Dryad. For a long time we looked in vain; at last, a partial clearing up of the horizon on the lee bow discovered her, looming through the heavy atmosphere, more like a phantom ship than the work of mortal hands. She was a deep grey mass upon a lighter grey ground. Her top-masts were gone, and she was pitching and rising without appearing to advance under her courses and storm staysails.

“There she is, sir,” said Mr Wilson; “and if the gale lasts, good-bye to her.”

“If the gale lasts, Mr Wilson,” said I in a low voice, “I suspect you may sing our requiem as well; but we must trust to Heaven and our own exertions. Pass along the lead-line, Mr Hawkins.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the officer of the watch; “how much out sir?”

“Forty fathoms.”

The men ranged themselves along the lee-bulwarks, chains, and gangway and passed the deep sea-lines from aft to the anchor stock forward. The deep sea lead was taken forward, and as soon as it was bent and ready, the ship was thrown up to the wind so as to check her way. “Heave,” and the lead was thrown, and as it descended the line was dropped from the hands of the men, one after another, as the line drew aft; but when it came to the hands of the master, who was on the quarter, instead of finding, as he expected, forty fathoms of water, he had to haul in the slack line for such a length of time, that the lead was astern and no proper soundings could be obtained.

One thing was, however, certain, which was, that we were in much shallower water than we had any idea of; and the master, much alarmed, desired the quarter-master to go into the chains and see if he could get soundings with the hand-lead while the men were hauling in the deep sea-line. The quarter-master was forestalled by Bob Cross who, dropping into the chains, cleared the line, and swinging it but twice or thrice, for there was little or no way in the vessel, let it go.

The anxiety with which the descent of the line was watched by me, the master, and other of the officers who were hanging over the hammock rails, it would be difficult to describe. When sixteen fathoms were out the lead sounded. Cross gathered up the slack line, and fourteen and a half fathoms was announced.

“Mr Hillyer,” said I, “oblige me by coming down into the cabin.” The master followed me immediately. The chart was on the table in the fore-cabin.

“We must have gone to leeward dreadfully, sir.”

“Yes,” replied I; “but the sweep of the currents in heavy gales is so tremendous, and so uncertain on this coast, that I am not surprised. We must have had a South East current, and probably we are hereabouts,” continued I, putting the point of the compass upon the spot.

“It seems hardly possible, sir,” replied the master; “but still I fear it must be so; and if so,” continued he, drawing a deep sigh, “I’m afraid it’s all over with us, without a miracle in our favour.”

“I am of your opinion, Mr Hillyer; but say nothing about it,” replied I; “the gale may moderate, the wind may shift, and if so we may be saved. At all events, it’s no use telling bad news too soon, and therefore you’ll oblige me by not saying anything on the subject. A few hours will decide our fate.”

“But the Dryad, she is good four miles to the leeward of us, and the soundings decrease here so rapidly, that in an hour, with the sail she is under, she must go on shore.”

“She has no chance, that’s certain,” replied I. “I only hope it may be so thick that we may not see her.”

“Not a soul will be saved, sir,” replied the master, shuddering. “I should say it were impossible, Mr Hillyer; but we all owe Heaven a death; and if they go first and we go after them, at all events, let us do our duty until the time comes—but never despair. As long as there is life, there is hope; so now let us go on deck, and put as good a face on it as we can.”

Chapter Thirty Nine

I returned on deck followed by the master. “The barometer is rising,” said I aloud, to the first lieutenant; “so I presume the gale will break about twelve o’clock.”

“I am glad to hear of it, sir; for we have quite enough of it,” replied the first-lieutenant.

“Do you see the Dryad?”

“No, sir; it’s quite thick again to leeward: we have not seen her these ten minutes.”

Thank God for that, thought I, for they will never see her again. “What soundings had you last?”

“Fourteen fathoms, sir.”

“I expect we shall cross the tail of the bank in much less,” replied I; “but, when once clear, we shall have sea-room.”

As the captain is an oracle in times of danger, the seamen caught every word which was uttered from my mouth; and what they gathered from what I had said, satisfied them that they were in no immediate danger. Nevertheless, the master walked the deck as if he was stupefied with the impending crisis. No wonder, poor fellow; with a wife and family depending upon him for support, it is not to be expected that a man can look upon immediate dissolution without painful feelings. A sailor should never marry: or if he does, for the benefit of the service, his marriage should prove an unhappy one, and then he would become more reckless than before. As for my own thoughts, they may be given in a few words—they were upon the vanity of human wishes. Whatever I had done with the one object I had in view—whatever might have been my success had I lived—whether I might have been wedded to Minnie some future day, or what may have resulted, good, bad, or indifferent, as to future, all was to be, in a few hours, cut short by the will of Heaven. In the next world there was neither marriage nor giving in marriage—in the next world, name, titles, wealth, everything worldly was as nought—and all I had to do was to die like a man, and do my duty to the last, trusting to a merciful God to forgive me my sins and offences; and with this philosophy I stood prepared for the event.

About noon it again cleared up to leeward, but the Dryad was no longer to be seen: this was reported to me. As it was nearly three hours since we last had a sight of her, I knew her fate too well—she had plenty of time to go on shore, and to be broken up by the heavy seas. I did however point my glass in the direction, and coolly observed, “she has rounded the tail of the bank, I presume, and has bore up. It was the best thing she could do.” I then asked the master if he had wound his chronometers, and went down into the cabin. I had not, however, been examining the chart more than a minute, when the officer of the watch came down, and reported that we had shoaled to twelve fathoms.

“Very good, Mr Hawkins; we shall be in shallower water yet. Let me know if there is any change in the soundings.”

As soon as the cabin door was again shut, I worked up the tide to see when it would change against us; I found that it had changed one hour at least. Then it will be sooner over, thought I, throwing down the pencil.

“Mr Cross, the boatswain, wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the sentry, opening the cabin door.

“Tell him to come in,” replied I. “Well, Cross, what’s the matter?”

“I was speaking to the first lieutenant about getting up a runner, sir—the fore-stay is a good deal chafed; that is, if you think it’s of any use.”

“How do you mean, of any use, Cross?”

“Why, sir, although no one would suppose it from you—but if the face of the master (and he is not a faint-hearted man neither) is to be taken as a barometer, we shall all be in ‘kingdom come’ before long. I’ve cruised in these seas so often, that I pretty well guess where we are, Captain Keene.”

“Well, Cross, it’s no use denying that we are in a mess, and nothing but the wind going down or changing can get us out of it.”

“Just as I thought sir; well, it can’t be helped, so it’s no use fretting about it. I think myself that the gale is breaking, and that we shall have fine weather by to-morrow morning.”

“That will be rather too late, Cross; for I think we shall be done for in three or four hours, if not sooner.”

“Eleven fathoms, sir,” said the officer of the watch, coming in hastily.

“Very well, Mr Hawkins; let her go through the water,” replied I.

As soon as the cabin door was again shut, I said, “You see, Cross, the tide is now against us, and this will not last long.”

“No, sir; we shall strike in five fathoms with this heavy sea.”

“I know we shall; but I do not wish to dishearten the men before it is necessary, and then we must do our best.”

“You won’t be offended, I am sure, by my asking, Captain Keene, what you think of doing?”

“Not at all, Cross; it is my intention to explain it to the ship’s company before I do it. I may as well take your opinion upon it now. As soon as we are in six fathoms, I intend to cut away the masts and anchor.”

“That’s our only chance, sir, and if it is well done, and the gale abates, it may save some of us; but how do you intend to anchor?”

“I shall back the best bower with the sheet, and let go the small bower at the same time that I do the sheet, so as to ride an even strain.”

“You can’t do better, sir; but that will require time for preparation, to be well done. Do you think that we shall have time, if you wait till we are in six fathoms?”

“I don’t know but you are right, Cross, and I think it would be better to commence our preparations at once.”

“Ten fathoms, sir,” reported the officer of the watch.

“Very well, I will be on deck directly.”

“Well, sir, we must now go to our duty; and as we may chance not to talk to one another again, sir,” said Cross, “I can only say God bless you, and I hope that, if we do not meet again in this world, we shall in heaven, or as near to it as possible. Good-bye, sir.”

“Good-bye, Cross,” replied I, shaking him by the hand; “we’ll do our duty, at all events. So now for my last dying speech.”

Cross quitted the cabin, and I followed him. As soon as I was on deck, I desired the first lieutenant to turn the hands up, and send them aft. When they were all assembled, with Cross at their head, I stood on one of the carronades and said: “My lads, I have sent for you, because I consider that, although the gale is evidently breaking, we are shoaling our water so fast, that we are in danger of going on shore before the gale does break. Now, what I intend to do, as our best chance, is to cut away the masts, and anchor as soon as we are in six fathoms water; perhaps we may then ride it out. At all events, we must do our best, and put our trust in Providence. But, my lads, you must be aware, that in times of difficulty it is important that we should be all cool and collected, that you must adhere to your discipline, and obey your officers to the last; if you do not, everything will go wrong instead of right. You have proved yourselves an excellent set of men, and I’m sure you will continue so to do. It is possible we may not have to cut away our masts, or to anchor; still, we must make every preparation in case it is necessary, and I have, therefore, sent for you, to explain my intentions, and to request that you will all assist me to the best of your abilities; and I feel convinced that you will, and will do your duty like British seamen. That’s all I have to say, my lads. Pipe down, Mr Cross.”

The ship’s company went forward in silence. They perceived the full extent of the danger. The first lieutenant and boatswain employed a portion in backing the best bower anchor with the sheet; the others roued up the cables from the tiers, and coiled them on the main-deck, clear for running. All hands were busily employed, and employment made them forget their fears. The work was done silently, but orderly and steadily. In the meantime we had shoaled to eight fathoms, and it was now nearly three o’clock; but as it was summer time, the days were long. Indeed, when the weather was fine, there was little or no night, and the weather was warm, which was all in our favour.

When everything was reported ready, I went round to examine and ascertain if the cables would run clear. Satisfied that all was right, I then picked out the men, and appointed those who were most trustworthy to the stations of importance; and, having so done, I then returned to the quarter-deck, and called up the carpenter and some of the topmen to be ready with the axes to cut away the masts and lashings of the booms and boats. Just as these orders were completed, the gale blew fiercer than ever. We were now in seven fathoms water, and pressed heavy by the gale.

I stood at the break of the gangway, the first lieutenant and master by my side, and Cross a little forward, watching my eye. The men in the chains continued to give the soundings in a clear steady voice, “By the mark seven,” “Quarter less seven,” “And a half six.” At last, the man in the chains next to me, a fine old forecastle man, gave the sounding “By the mark six,” and he gave it with a louder voice than before, with a sort of defiance, as much as to say, “The time is come, let the elements do their worst.”

The time was come. “Silence, fore and aft. Every man down under the half-deck, except those stationed. Cut away the boom lashings, and clear the boats.” This was soon done, and reported. “Now then, my lads, be steady. Cut away the lanyards in the chains.”

One after another the lanyards and backstays were severed; the masts groaned and creaked, and then the fore-mast and main-mast were over the side almost at the same time; the mizen followed, as the frigate broached to and righted, leaving the ship’s deck a mass of wreck and confusion; but no one was hurt, from the precautions which had been taken, the mast having been cut away before we rounded to, to anchor, as otherwise, they would have fallen aft and not gone clear of the ship.

“Stand by the best bower. Stand clear of the cable. Let go the anchor.”

As soon as the best bower cable was nearly out, the sheet anchor and small bower were let go at the same moment, and the result was to be ascertained.

Chapter Forty

The frigate was head to wind, rising and pitching with the heavy sea, but not yet feeling the strain of the cables: the masts lay rolling and beating alongside.

The ship’s company had most of them returned on deck, to view their impending fate, and the carpenters, who had already received their orders, were battening down the hatchways on the main-deck. In a minute the frigate rode to her anchors, and as soon as the strain was on the cables, she dipped, and a tremendous sea broke over her bows, deluging us fore and aft, nearly filling the main-deck, and washing the carpenters away from their half-completed work. A second and a third followed, rolling aft, so as to almost bury the vessel, sweeping away the men who clung to the cordage and guns, and carrying many of them overboard.

I had quitted the gangway, where there was no hold, and had repaired to the main bitts, behind the stump of the main-mast. Even in this position I should not have been able to hold on, if it had not been for Bob Cross, who was near me, and who passed a rope round my body as I was sweeping away; but the booms and boats which had been cut adrift, in case of the ship driving on shore broadside, were driven aft with the last tremendous sea, and many men on the quarter-deck were crushed and mangled.

After the third sea had swept over us, there was a pause, and Cross said to me, “We had better go down on the main-deck, Captain Keene, and get the half-ports open if possible.” We did so, and with great difficulty, found the people to help us; for, as it may be imagined, the confusion was now very great; but the carpenters were again collected, and the half-ports got out, and then the battening down was completed; for, although she continued to ship seas fore and aft, they were not so heavy as the three first, which had so nearly swamped her.

I again went on deck, followed by Cross, who would not leave me. Most of the men had lashed themselves to the guns and belaying pins, but I looked in vain for the first lieutenant and master; they were standing at the gangway at the time of the first sea breaking over us, and it is to be presumed that they were washed overboard, for I never saw them again.

We had hardly been on deck, and taken our old position at the bitts, when the heavy seas again poured over us; but the booms having been cleared, and the ports on the main-deck open, they did not sweep us with the same force as before.

“She cannot stand this long, Bob,” said I, as we clung to the bitts.

“No, sir, the cables must part with such a heavy strain; or if they do not, we shall drag our anchors till we strike on the sands.”

“And then we shall go to pieces?”

“Yes, sir; but do not forget to get to the wreck of the masts, if you possibly can. The best chance will be there.”

“Bad’s the best, Cross; however, that was my intention.”

The reader will be surprised at my having no conversation with any other party but Cross; but the fact was, that although it was only occasionally that a heavy sea poured over us, we were blinded by the continual spray in which the frigate was enveloped, and which prevented us not only from seeing our own position, but even a few feet from us; and, as if any one who had not a firm hold when the seas poured over the deck, was almost certain to be washed overboard, every man clung to where he was; indeed, there were not fifty men on deck; for those who had not been washed overboard by the first seas, had hastened to get under the half-deck; and many had been washed overboard in the attempt.

The most painful part was to hear the moaning and cries for help of the poor fellows who lay jammed under the heavy spars and boats which had been washed aft, and to whom it was impossible to afford any relief without the assistance of a large body of men. But all I have described since the anchors were let go occurred in a few minutes.