Ernest Glanville

"The Golden Rock"

Chapter One.

A Queer Legacy.

Old Trader Hume was dead.

Not that he was really old when he died, but he had lived a life that had robbed him of his youth at one end and cut off the slow decline on the other. At fifteen he began the career of trader and hunter; before twenty he had been tossed by a buffalo, and broken his leg in a fall from his horse; at twenty-five he had been twice down with the fever; at thirty he was known as Old Hume; at fifty he had gone home to die—a man worn, sun-dried, and scarred with many wounds. Home to the Old Country, the land of his parents, the land of rest and green fields that had figured in his waking dreams, and in his lonely watches beneath the African sky.

His mother had talked to him of the quiet village, the ivied church, the bells, the song of the lark, and the pleasant customs of the country folk; and his father had told him of the great cities, the roar of life, and the silence of old ruins testifying to a mighty past; and the untrained, toughened Colonial boy had kept before him one goal—the hoary tower of Westminster, the green meadows, and the tuneful bells of old England.

Well, at last he had gone home; but it was not the home of his dreams. There were the wonderful green fields, the eloquent ruins, and a multitude beyond expectation for number; but there was something wanting, and the lack of it preyed upon him, hastening his end. These swarming men and women were not of his type. The people in the streets hurried along hard-eyed and absorbed; his neighbours treated his overtures with suspicion, not understanding his familiar greeting and his manner of going about in his shirt-sleeves, smoking strange tobacco. He was alone in the midst of crowds, and he waited for death with the patience of a stricken animal, while the people who understood him not made much of an explorer recently returned, not knowing that this weather-worn stranger who pottered about aimlessly had braved more dangers in unexplored countries, and had, without thinking of it, opened up more routes for the advance of commerce. One friendship he had formed with the son of his father’s brother, his only living relative, a boy who had been with him on his last trading trip, and whom he had sent to Oxford to pick up the ways of men, and, perhaps, some of their learning. But he only saw the lad in the long vacation, and then only for a few days, insisting that the young fellow should camp out in Wales with some of his companions.

Now, Old Trader Hume was dead and buried, and his nephew, Francis Hume, was alone in the old man’s room, the room of a hunter filled with trophies of the chase.

The young man was bending forward, one hand supporting his head, while the other, dangling listlessly, held a sheet of paper. Long he remained so, his eyes absently fixed on the point of a curved rhinoceros’ horn, then leant back in the chair and read the contents, setting forth the last will of his uncle.

A very short and simple document it was:

“I, Abel Hume, commonly known as Old Hume, the Trader, leave to my nephew Frank all my possessions, including 275 pounds in the Standard Bank. There is a map in my pocket-book drawn by myself. That I leave him also, and it is my wish that he will follow the directions therein. I would like him to use my double Express, and to treat it tenderly. Good-bye, my lad; shoot straight, and deal straight.

“Signed Abel Hume.”

“Dear old chap!” muttered Frank, with a sad smile, and again he sank into a long reverie.

He had always thought that his uncle was a wealthy man, and, under that impression, he had lived rather extravagantly at Oxford. His uncle had paid his bills, and he tried to recall if there had been, unnoticed at the time by him, any word or sign of disapproval, but he could remember only the dry chuckle of the hunter at some unusual entry.

“Poor old boy,” he said again; “I wish he had told me. What a lonely time he had!”

He thought then—how could he help it?—of his own prospects, which had lost so suddenly all the wide outlook of a happy career.

“I must give up Oxford, of course, and my friends, too, before they give me up; but what am I to do?” He looked around at the house, at the trophy of assegais on the wall, at the lion’s skin on the hearth, the yellow eyes glaring, and the red mouth set in an everlasting snarl.

“I am sorry the old man came home. He was happy there in the bush, or on the trek. What a life he must have led during those thirty-five years of hunting and trading, and what yarns he did spin in the evenings! There was that story of the bull elephant.”

He lit his pipe by instinct, and was lost in veldt and kloof among the big game until the strange glamour of the chase, from which no man is free, was upon him, and he was soon sitting with his uncle’s favourite rifle in his hands, examining its rich brown barrels, and the polished stock of almost black walnut, bound about the hand-grip with the skin of a puff-adder. He brought the butt to his shoulders, his cheek against the stock, and began sighting at small objects on the wall. The gun was heavy, but he had not been at Oxford for two years for nothing, and his muscles were those of an athlete.

He rose up to replace the gun tenderly in its rack, and then, going to his uncle’s desk, took out the pocket-book—a much-worn leather case, bound round with a length of braided buckskin.

Folded up in an inner pocket was a frayed piece of paper. This he carefully spread out on an open book, and, with a faint smile about his lips, carefully examined the roughly-drawn outlines of river and mountains. This was not the first time he had seen the sketch. His uncle had, on his last visit, with much gravity, taken the paper from its hiding-place, and had told the story connected with it—a story which had impressed the young undergraduate, chiefly on account of the moving adventures related, the real heart of the thing taking but an insignificant place in his thoughts.

Yet he vividly remembered how the old hunter, usually so cool, had worked himself into a pitch of excitement, and how, placing his withered finger on one spot, he had, sinking his voice to a whisper, said impressively:

“There, my lad, is your fortune. Your fortune; the fortunes of a hundred men.”

What was the story? Was there a fortune there, or had his uncle been, like many a lonely wanderer, the victim of a hallucination? He pored over the map, and in imagination listened again to the slow, grave words of the old hunter, whose eyes had flashed under the glow recalled by the memory of that expedition. His uncle had struck north through the Transvaal, and after crossing the Crocodile, had turned to the east for an unknown land, whence rumours had come of great herds of elephants. Entering a bush country too thick for the waggon to continue, he had gone on afoot with a score of boys for a big vlei, where there was, indeed, a happy hunting-ground. There, after bagging some fine tusks, he had heard from an old black of a strange rock to the west, which shone bright in the sun, and had struggled to reach the spot. A week he spent amid the tangle of reeds about the river, and in the gorges of a wild and lofty chain of mountains; and then, one day, in the early morning, he had, from the Place of the Eye in a singular rocky profile of a human face, seen shine out, from the great plain below, a blaze of light which glowed for the space of an hour while the rays were level, and then went out. He had seen the Golden Rock, the shining stone of the natives, the eye of the morning, the place of bloodshed, as the old man related, and he marked the spot where he had stood, for he could go no further then. Several days he had spent returning to the huts at the vlei, where he listened much to the old man, hearing more about the rock, and of the glistening ornaments that were made from it whenever a new chief arose. He learnt about the tribe who lived at the feet of the mountains and in the great forests, and he planned how he would reach the rock, when news came that his waggon had been burnt by the natives, and the next day he himself was attacked. Escaping to the river, where he lurked in the reeds, he at last fashioned a hollow tree to his purpose, and floated down the Limpopo, enduring twenty-five days of fearful suffering before he reached the month, where he was picked up by a Portuguese trader and landed at Delagoa Bay. In that trip he had lost everything—waggon, oxen, ivory, skins and stores, and before he could plan another expedition to the mysterious rock he felt he had entered the shadows, and the craving for the home of his forefathers would not be denied.

“My lad, that is your fortune. I have seen it, and you must find it. Will you promise?”

“Yes, uncle, I promise,” Frank had said, laughing at what he thought was a joke.

“That’s all right,” the old hunter had replied. “When a Hume makes a promise he means to keep it—or die.”

Frank now remembered those words and all they implied, and they spoke to him now with greater force than when he had heard them.

He had made a promise, carelessly, not knowing what he said, just to humour his uncle. Nevertheless he had given his word. Was he bound to keep it? Well for that matter, he was a Hume.

Taking an atlas from the shelf, he studied the East Coast of Africa, and the course of the Limpopo from its mouth. As far as his uncle had drawn, his sketch tallied with the map, and so exactly indeed that he must have filled in the original rough draft from the printed map.

Folding up the much-creased paper with a sigh, he paced up and down the room, tugging at his moustache, a blank look on his manly face. Suddenly stopping opposite a mirror, and seeing his reflection, he broke into a loud laugh.

“Hang it! what a brute I am! But it’s too absurd, this legacy of a Golden Rock which does not exist. Well, at any rate, I can use up the bank balance in making a hunting trip to the spot, and after that—”

He shrugged his shoulders, and went out to see about executing the will.

Chapter Two.

A Mystery.

Frank Hume had some of that tenacity of purpose which had made his uncle a successful hunter and Kaffir trader. He saw plainly enough the quixotic side of the quest to which he was committed, but he was not one of those who ask, “Is it worth while?” and “Where is the good?” if confronted with any undertaking not obviously practical.

The Golden Rock had taken no hold on his imagination. It was no bright spot glowing, like a beacon in a dark night, out of the dim future, but itself merely a dim and shadowy token representing and explaining the duty he owed to the dead man’s whim. He would go to the locality, and then let events shape his career to any rough-and-ready pattern, even to that of the hard life of a hunter. Having made up his mind, he set about his preparations carefully, shaking off his extravagant university habits, and keeping an eye to economy in small things to make the most of his little store of money.

In one important respect he was admirably fitted for a life of hardship. Though of average height, he was uncommonly deep in the chest and broad across the shoulders, and possessed a stock of bone and muscle upon which he could safely depend. His head was well set on, with a marked tilt of the chin that gave him an air of watchfulness, and this aspect was heightened by a pair of steady blue eyes.

Within a week he had settled his affairs and was ready to take the first outward-bound vessel, limiting his choice to a sailing-ship, for time was of no particular object, while money and the saving of it was of first importance. He had even seen the skipper of a four-masted iron clipper with the view of working his passage out, but the skipper had received his overture with an explosion. “No more swab-fisted gentlemen lubbers for me. They’re worse than an old maid with a family of cats, and not so useful. Have a drink?” They had a drink, and the rejected volunteer walked homewards in the evening, stopping on the Embankment to look on the dark river which was soon to carry him down to the salt waters.

As he leant there with his elbows on the granite coping, he heard the sound of oars, and presently made out the blurred outline of a boat, and a streak of white about its bows where the strong tide opposed its rush to the exertions of the labouring oarsmen. There were two of these, and Frank could see that they were not pulling together, while the bow oar was weaker than the stroke. The boat scarcely gained a foot against the tide, but, instead, moved sideways at every savage pull by stroke.

“Put your weight into it, man,” growled stroke.

“I can’t. I’m dead beat,” gasped the other.

“Look out!” shouted Frank, “you’ll be into the steps.”

Stroke looked sharply to the right, threw out a hand to keep the boat off the granite, then, as she was swept back, caught fast hold of an iron ring, while the bow oarsman sighed audibly and set to rubbing his arms.

“You’re a pretty sort of fellow, you are—as soft as butter. What the deuce did you say you could row for?”

“Who can pull against this flood? Look here!” Bow leant over, thrusting his hand into the dark waters, which foamed against the obstruction.

“What are we to do now?”

“Wait till the ebb, I suppose; or get a ferryman to row us.”

“Ferryman be damned. If we wait for the ebb we’ll not get out before daylight.”

Frank went round to the opening in the Embankment, and walked down the steps.

“Can I be of any use?” he said.

“Yes, you can, by taking yourself off,” was the surly rejoinder from stroke.

“Nonsense! Don’t go, sir. Can you row?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t want you to think. I thought I could row until I met this infernal tide.”

“Well, I can row against tide, or with it.”

“Step right in, then.”

“Man, you’re mad!” sharply interposed stroke. The two whispered together for a few minutes, then bow suavely spoke:

“My friend would be glad of your help, but he rather doubts your discretion. We are engaged in no nefarious designs, but at the same time we don’t want to be talked of.”

“I think,” said Frank, with a laugh, “you may trust me, especially as you have already given yourself away. There would be nothing to prevent my calling the attention of a policeman to your condition, you know.”

“Jump in,” said stroke quickly.

Bow crawled aft to take the tiller, and Frank stepped lightly into the boat.

“Take her through the second arch, and then keep over to the Surrey side, when you will shoot us through the end arch of London Bridge, and by the fleet of barges. She lies just beyond.”

“They are evidently making for a ship of some sort,” was Frank’s mental reflection on the reference to “she,” but he was next moment bending to his oar, his eyes fixed on the broad back before him, and his soul bent upon holding his own.

For a moment the boat had swept back with the tide, then as the oars dipped in she stood still to their tug, hung a moment, then crept on with slowly-increasing speed—under Waterloo Bridge, past the railway bridge, then across to the Surrey side, and, with a hard struggle, down under London Bridge and into the Pool, close in the shadow of a number of barges.

“Do you see her?” asked stroke, with a gasp.

“Pull on,” said the cox. “So—steady, stroke—pull, bow—easy.”

The boat scraped alongside a low craft, and cox held on to a rope ladder.

“How do you feel?” asked stroke, turning his head.

“Pretty well baked,” said Frank; “and you?”

“I’m worked to a cast-iron finish. Give me the painter—thanks. Now, up you go.”

Without more ado, Frank climbed up the ladder to a narrow deck, where he stood holding to a light rail. The two men were quickly by his side, one of them securing the boat.

“This way.”

They went forward to a deck-house, and descended a companion-way to a small saloon, where one of them struck a match, and lit a suspended lamp.

“Let’s have a look at you!” and the man who had pulled stroke, standing himself in the shade, threw the light full on Frank’s face, while the second man closed the door and stood with his back to it.

“That will do.”

“Pardon me,” said Frank, stung by this ungracious treatment; “it is my turn now.”

Quickly steadying the lamp, he directed the light on the other’s face, revealing a pair of fierce black eyes, and a face thickly bearded.

“Stop that, or I’ll—” He put his hand to his pocket with a threatening action.

“Leave him alone, Captain. Upon my word, he has served you well in your own coin;” and the other man stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Frank’s shoulder, whereat the latter, finding he was in queer company, stepped back.

“Don’t start, sir; there is nothing to fear.”

“I think there is,” said Frank; “so please keep your distance, or, better still, stand aside, as I should like to get out of this.”

“Of course you would, but—and I hate to tell you after what you have done—we can’t afford to let you go.”

“Afford, that’s not the word. We won’t let you go, mate.”

“I’ll see about that,” shouted Frank, at the same time hurling one man aside, and, seizing the handle, which came off to his furious tug, leaving the door still fast closed. Turning, he hurled the brass knob at the black-bearded man, but it missed the mark, and went with a crash through a glass door beyond.

Next moment he was looking into the dark muzzle of a revolver, held very straight in the brawny hand of the Captain, whose black eyes wore a very ugly look.

“Put that pistol down,” rang out in tones of suppressed passion.

The door stood open, and a tall girl in black swept in.

Her dark eyes, flashing from a face of unusual pallor, dwelt a moment on the three figures, the one huddled on the floor, the others facing each other.

“What does this mean, Captain Pardoe?” she asked haughtily, “and who is this stranger?”

Frank raised his hat. “For my part in this disturbance I heartily apologise, but I must say, and these gentlemen will bear me out, that my intrusion was not of my seeking.”

She inclined her head slightly, then turned to the second man, who had risen, looking uncomfortable at having been found in a humiliating position.

“Since Captain Pardoe cannot speak, perhaps you will have the goodness to explain, Mr Commins.”

“It is this way, Miss Laura!” blurted the Captain; “this young fellow knows too much.”

“Excuse me,” said Frank, “I know nothing except that I helped to row you here, and you wished to detain me.”

“Allow me to explain,” said Mr Commins, interposing with a wave of his hand. “The tide was against us, and I was unequal to the work. This young man kindly offered his help, and we accepted, but thinking it would be inadvisable to let him return, we felt it best to detain him, and if he had not been in such a hurry to put us down as thieves or cut-throats, and to act with unnecessary violence on that supposition, matters could have been amicably settled.”

“At the muzzle of a pistol,” said Frank dryly.

“I think you might have managed without help,” said the young lady coldly. “It is most vexing, and such a beginning bodes ill for the undertaking.”

“You need be under no uneasiness. We can easily detain him.”

“I object,” said Frank hotly.

Captain Pardoe lifted his weapon.

“Give me that pistol, sir,” said the young lady imperiously, and the Captain reluctantly handed it over. “I regret very much that we should place you under restraint, sir; but there are interests at stake more important than considerations of mere personal convenience. I’m afraid you must be our guest for a few days.”

“We can put him ashore at Madeira, Miss Laura,” said the Captain.

“At Madeira,” said Frank, earnestly gazing at the splendid eyes and superb figure of this masterful young lady.

“We will do our best to entertain you in the meanwhile,” she said, with a sudden dazzling smile, “and, perhaps, you will even forgive us for this unmannerly and ungrateful return for your kindness.”

As he caught the dazzle of her smile he determined upon his course, especially as the trip to Madeira would advance him on his voyage.

“I am willing,” he replied, “to take an enforced passage, provided you allow me to get my baggage.”

“That means going ashore?”

“Not necessarily; for upon a note from me to the landlady of my rooms the things would be given up.”

“We have no time to spare, Miss Laura,” said Captain Pardoe.

“It is necessary for me to go ashore,” she answered, “for a few minutes. Where are your rooms?”

“Off the Temple—in York street.”

“I think I will trust you,” she said, giving her hand, which Frank warmly clasped, the spell of her beauty being full upon him.

Within an hour they were all back on the ship, and as Big Ben struck out the hours of midnight the vessel slowly crept down the river.

Chapter Three.

A Wild Rush.

Hume was immediately shown into a tiny box of a cabin and the door locked upon him, an indignity that roused him to wrath, so that he banged against the frail panels with his fist.

“Look here,” said a deep voice from the alley, “if you don’t stow that sharp I’ll clap you in irons.”

“Leave him to me, Captain, and go on the bridge. Now, sir, will you oblige me by keeping silence for a few hours?”

Frank recognised the speaker by the rich tones, and immediately was pacified.

“If you wish it, I will; but please unlock the door.”

“Give me your promise that you won’t make any disturbance.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” She turned the key, and then he heard the rustle of her dress as she quickly moved away.

He stood looking at the handle for some moments, then sat on the bunk, with the feeling strongly rooted that he was in for some dark enterprise; but his mind dwelt less on this than on the stately figure and beautiful face of this strange girl, whose strong character had been so forcibly shown.

Who could she be, and what was she doing there—one woman with several men, and men evidently lawless? Already he longed for the hour when he could see her again, and once more hear her voice, and the remarkable and sudden change in the steady current of his life troubled him not at all.

But presently his natural caution overmastered the swift-born infatuation which had threatened to make a slave of him, and he roused himself to take a survey of the little cabin. This, though small, contained two bunks, was plainly fitted and strongly built. The port-hole, he noticed by the dim light, was protected by an inner sheet of steel. This he unscrewed, and opening, too, the round glass, he framed his face in the brass-rimmed circle. The boat was slipping along down the dark river at medium speed, the regular beat of her engines sounding very distinctly in the still night, and her track stretching in a ghostly gleam, unbroken by any other craft. By craning his neck, he noticed that she seemed very low in the water, and of unusual length, and he was puzzled to place her in any category of cargo or passenger steamers, finally coming to the conclusion that she was one of those long, swift tugs he had sometimes seen ploughing up the river with a string of coal barges in tow; a boat probably built for narrow channels, and to pass under low bridges.

“She’s not built for the ocean,” he mused, “and when we get into the Bay she’ll play pitch-and-toss, I’ll be bound.”

Suddenly, quite near, Captain Pardoe spoke:

“Forrard, there!”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Do you see the Hospital ship?”

“We’ll pass her at the next bend, sir.”

“Put the lights out as soon as you see her. Who have you got in the bows?”

“Dick, the Owl,” said the officer, with a slight laugh.

“That will do. Aft there, stand by the wheel.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” came in muffled reply.

“We won’t steer her from the bridge, madam,” said the Captain, “all the lights must be out, and the orders passed by mouth.”

“Do you think they’ll challenge us?” spoke the young lady, her voice sounding so near that Frank involuntarily drew back his head.

“They’ll speak us, but we’ll get through right enough. If there’s any trouble it’ll be off Sheerness.”

“Why there?”

“They’ll wire to the coastguard, and they’ll signal the guardship.”

“That’s a man-of-war, isn’t it?”

“She is that, miss, but she’ll not fire, I hope; and we’ll slip by before she’s rubbed her eyes. There are the lights of Gravesend, and isn’t that something black ahead under the bank? You won’t go below, I s’pose, Miss Laura?”

“No, Captain Pardoe; I will stop here.”

Suddenly the glare over the bows from the forward lamps died out, there was a sharp ring of the engineer’s bell, a sound of men in hot haste thrusting at the fires, and the vessel began to quiver and vibrate to the beat of vast engines working faster and faster.

There was a rush of wind on Frank’s face, the dark objects on the shore swiftly receded into the general blur, and the water foamed up at the bows and fell away in curling waves.

“Are all the lights out, Mr Webster?”

“Yes, sir; all but a light from a starboard port.”

“It’s that swab of a passenger,” growled the Captain; “I’ll have him tied to his bunk.”

Frank, warned that he was guilty of some unpardonable indiscretion, crawled down from the top bunk, and had just reached the floor, when the handle turned, there was a quick step, a rustle, and the light was switched off, not before he had seen the dark eyes flashing in resentment.

“If you behave in this way, sir, I’ll not stand between you and discipline.”

“Really, I did not know I was doing anything wrong.”

“Shut the port-hole,” she said sharply.

He turned to obey with a frown of protest, when, seemingly not a yard off, there flamed the lights of a ship’s cabin.

“Where are you coming to, you lubber?” shouted out a voice furiously.

There was a jar, an ugly tearing noise, and Frank and the young lady were thrown at each other.

“I beg your pardon, really,” said Frank, as he loosened his hold of her waist; “but I could not help myself.”

She stood back with a gasp. “Did you see that? Has she sunk?”

The reply came from the angry officer of the other vessel in a torrent of language reassuring as to her safety, but venomously strong.

The lights of another ship flashed by; then the steamer darted into the narrow fairway between a fleet of vessels, big and little, the waves washing against them, and bringing up an angry swarm of men, whose shouts could be heard in a confused babble in the rear.

“What ship’s that?” hailed a man in powerful tones.

There was no answer, and Frank felt a hand on his arm.

“We are the Customs—where are your lights?” followed in a faint hail astern.

“Thank Heaven, we are past Gravesend. Now, sir, you may have your light again.”

She pressed the button, and the electric light shone over her lustrous hair, revealing a sparkle in her glorious eyes and a flush on her cheeks.

Frank looked at her, and forgot everything in amazement at her beauty.

“I dare say,” she said, with a faint smile, “you are wondering who we are?”

“I don’t know,” said he, “and I don’t care, so long as I”—he meant to add—“am with you,” but he paused in time at the hint of a haughty surprise in her eyes.

She looked at him steadily a moment with a glance that implied some new interest, then, once more switching off the light, went out without a word, closing the door behind her.

He listened and heard her voice on deck, when he again framed his face in the port-hole.

The bow lights had been relit, and the ship had slackened something of her tremendous speed.

“I wish to Heaven,” said the Captain, “those funnels would not draw so well. Just look at that shower of sparks; they’ll give notice of our coming.”

“Why not slacken speed until you are close on the guardship?”

“That’ll give ’em more time to prepare for us, but it’s the best thing to do.”

Then followed a sharp signal to the engineer, and the speed was still further decreased.

“Mr Webster, was she damaged at all by that brush?”

“Just a dent, sir; but she’s all sound below.”

“Douse the lights again. We’ll keep close in on the port tack. Keep your eye on the Kent shore, and tell the watch to be on the lookout for the guardship.”

For some time the ship slipped along through the dark waters without another word being spoken.

“There’s the signal, sir,” sang out a voice, breaking in on the silence. A rocket mounted afar off.

“Ay, I see it. It’s as I feared. They’ve alarmed the guardship, and’ll be sending a boat to her. Suppose they catch us, madam, what yarn will you spin?”

“They must not catch us.”

“They may open fire.”

“Whether they fire or not, we must get through. Couldn’t we open fire, too?”

Captain Pardoe laughed.

“We must depend on our heels, Miss Laura. If it came to knocks, the guardship would blow us out of the water.”

“How annoying!” was the truly feminine reply—a reply so inappropriate that even Frank smiled, while Captain Pardoe chuckled audibly.

“Understand, Captain,” she continued imperiously, “I will not be captured, nor the ship, not if they have to blow it up.”

“Ah, see that?”

A shaft of light shot into the sky, then dropped to the water and swept swiftly from right to left.

“It’s the search-light. The guardship is looking for us. Mr Webster, step down to the engineer and tell him we’ll want every pound of steam he can give us when I signal him. We must get twenty-seven knots out of her.”

“Twenty-seven knots,” thought Frank. “What ship can this be?” The cabin seemed to grow unbearable as his excitement increased, and if danger was to be encountered his place was by the side of this girl whom Fate had thrown in his path.

Again the shaft of light, broadening from its base, shot out into the darkness, and swept the water to its outermost fringe, where the gleam mingled with the black night, reaching a few lengths ahead, where it outlined a bare pole on the bank.

“Port your helm; put her over to the Kent shore,” the Captain ordered with lowered voice.

The vessel came round, and made across to the other bank.

The search-light swept round again, just as the vessel was near the right bank, and the light shone over the deck, lighting up every detail, before it passed on.

“Astern—full speed astern,” roared the Captain down the speaking-tube; “starboard your helm; bring her up on the old course.”

The vessel backed out as the search-light flew back to the place she had occupied, and then swiftly made over to the Essex shore, and at another signal from the bridge darted into the shelter of the night.

Frank could hold himself no longer, but flung open the door, and after groping about in the saloon, found the companion-way to the deck. There was a broad white belt of light on his right, but all around and ahead was darkness, intensified by the brightness so near.

“They’ll find us in a minute,” spoke the Captain, and Frank, turning, saw dimly two figures on a bridge just ahead of two singularly low funnels, from which poured dense volumes of smoke.

The shaft of light played about the further shore, swept out slowly to mid-stream, then swept back again.

“Stand by, Mr Dixon,” said the Captain, down the tube.

The guardship could now be dimly seen behind that glittering eye—a blurr of spars and funnels about a mile up stream.

The light crept over the dark river in a broad track of gleaming silver, came slowly nearer, then, in a blinding flash, shone over the vessel, lighting up every man as he stood at his post, and bringing out the girl’s face in a startling pallor.

The bell sounded its sharp order, the engines answered quicker and quicker, and the long, narrow ship seemed to leap forward, sending up a shower of water, which sparkled in the light, and came aft like rain. On she rushed—the flames springing from her funnels—the whole frame and body of her vibrating, and the water hissing and splashing before her bows and in her wake.

A ball of white smoke, which for a moment dimmed the flaming light, belched from the warship, followed at fully half a minute by the sullen boom.

“That’s by way of formal notice,” said the Captain; “by-and-by she’ll send a sharper summons; better go below, Miss Laura.”

“I will stay here,” she answered quietly.

The small ship was now abreast of the man-of-war, which had changed its course and was steaming slowly ahead. On the left were the lights of Southend, far ahead the revolving lights of the Nore lightship, and on the port bows was the black hull and green and red lights of a huge steamer.

“That’s a stroke of luck,” said the Captain. “We’ll get on the blind side of that ship, and that bulldog daren’t show his teeth until we’re well clear both of Southend and the steamer.”

The man-of-war fired another blank charge, but the long, low vessel darted along, shifting her course until she came under the bows of the big ocean steamer.

The search-light, however, soon picked her up beyond, and a minute after there was another report, followed this time by the shrill scream of a shell, than which there are few sounds more threatening. The shot flew high, plunging with a splash far on the port side.

“They cannot hit us, Captain Pardoe, and we are rapidly leaving them.”

“They are not trying, Miss Laura. That was just by way of being more peremptory. In ten minutes we’ll be beyond reach of their light, and then there’ll be another spell of safety, unless we are sunk. Hullo, here comes another.”

There was another sullen roar, and the gunner had determined on a closer call, for the ball touched the water not a hundred yards off, then ricocheted to the Essex coast.

“The next one will have us,” growled the Captain.

“Steamer’s lights ahead! Starboard bow!” hailed the lookout.

Eyes were taken off the following man-of-war, and strained into—the darkness ahead, out of which presently there stood two lights.

“She’s near us, Mr Webster, and thank your stars for a sound berth to-night for that. We’ll slip by on the port, and then get away under her bulk. Do you think they see her?”

“No, sir; but the steamer ’ll make the cruiser see her. She must be in a rare state. Ah! there goes a rocket.”

High into the black heavens ahead went a ball of fire, which presently curved over and burst in a shower of blue.

“Looks like a navy signal, sir?”

“Very like. If she is, we’re caught hard and fast.”

“There’s an answer from the warship, sir,” said Frank, who had turned his eyes aft.

“I wish I understood the game,” growled the Captain, banging his fist on the bridge rail. “Oh, she means it this time!”

A red tongue of flame leapt out, a great volume of white smoke; the shot, keeping low, struck the water up, and then there was a loud crash, followed by the whir of splinters.

Frank saw the dark figure at the wheel suddenly sink to the deck, and without losing a moment he bounded down the narrow deck, seized the handle as the wheel was beginning to revolve, and brought it round.

“She’s paying off. What in thunder’s up with the wheel?” roared the Captain. “Mr Webster, take two men aft. Starboard your helm.”

Frank put his weight in, and with every sinew straining, brought the vessel round, just as, like a runaway horse that takes the bit in its iron jaws, she had threatened to come broadside on.

“What’s wrong here?” panted Mr Webster anxiously, as he reached the wheel.

“Steersman hit,” said Frank shortly; “carry him off. I’ll manage this.”

Mr Webster groped for the wounded man, drew him away, and then paused to look up, for they were passing the vessel whose lights they had seen. She was scarcely making any way, and the bulwarks were lined with pale faces, among them those of many women.

“Thank Heaven, she’s no cruiser; hurrah, boys, hurrah!”

The few hands took up the cheer, and the people on the deck above, relieved from some nameless fear at seeing the dark ship slipping away, responded with a feeble shout; the captain, from his lofty bridge, sending a call through his hollow hands: “What’s the meaning of this foolery?”

“Ask the guardship,” bellowed Captain Pardoe; “a little target practice. Good-bye.”

The little ship plunged into the welcome darkness, still maintaining her terrific speed, and the search-light could not reach her.

Then the lights were lit, the wounded man carried below, and an inspection made of the ship, when it was found that the iron bulwarks had been pierced a little forward of the wheel.

“Send the steersman forward!” shouted the Captain.

Frank was relieved, and walked to the bridge.

“What’s your name, my man?”

“Hume.”

“What—the passenger? I gave orders to have you locked in. Never mind that, sir; you did well, and I’m much obliged to you. You’re welcome to the run of the ship. That was a close shave, eh? If it hadn’t been for the mercy of that steamer we’d have been five fathoms under. You’d better turn in now.”

Frank lingered awhile to see whether the lady would appear, and then went down below, where he saw her leaning, as it were, for support against a saloon pillar, a handkerchief pressed to her forehead.

“It has been a trying night,” he said gently.

“You had no right to leave your cabin,” she replied—then swiftly disappeared.

Frank looked down the narrow gangway, heard the bang of her door, and, with his head up, and feeling mightily offended, entered his own tiny cabin.

“She might have been civil, at least,” he muttered.

Chapter Four.

A Strange Craft.

Hume had been to the Cape and back; he had also tossed about off the Bristol Channel in a small yacht; but before morning he learnt that the ocean could play more tricks with a ship than he had ever dreamt of in the wildest tossing. He was sleeping on the top bunk, for the sake of the breeze from the open port, and was early awakened by a dream, in which, with the thunder of waters in his ears, he had gone head foremost down a cascade.

Had it been a dream? He sat up, knocking his head against the roof, and in his ears there was the same terrific roar, with a splashing sound, and an unmistakable feeling of dampness. A desperate lurch made him cling to the brass rail; then, as the port dipped, he saw the sky-line obscured by a moving wall, and was almost washed away by a belching funnel of cold water that boomed on to the floor, and rushed over his cabin, taking with it every movable object. As the ship heeled over he struggled, soaked and shivering, with the brass hinge of the port-window, which he thrust in and held there until the ship rolled under again. With the backward swing he worked the screw in, then lurched out from his sodden bed to the floor, inches deep in water, when he groped for the switch and turned on the electric light. His portmanteau coming swiftly out from under the lower bunk, carried him off his feet, and then bounded over his body, while his gun-case rammed him viciously in the ribs.

Staggering up, he clambered into the lower bunk, and spent an awful hour of misery with a babel of sounds racking his brain, and every possible motion threatening dislocation to his body. The small bunk was too large for him. He could not brace himself tight; but, like a pea in a drum, was rattled from side to side and top to bottom, his head at one time threatening to fly off as the bows dipped; his body sinking with the most sickening desire to part with his head as the stern went under, and his arms, legs, and head flopping about hopelessly to each dizzy roll.

Then between, and coming through every motion, was the jarring of the screw as the stern was lifted up—a most soul-disturbing sensation, enough in itself to unsettle the innermost lashings, the smallest nerves and sinews of the body.

“What the devil possesses the ship?” thought Frank, in a state of feeble protest against this indignity of sea-sickness that held him in its clammy grasp. “Hulloa!” he groaned, as he heard someone staggering along the alley-way.

The door was opened, and the new-comer dived in to the roll of the ship as though he were violently impelled from the rear, ending up by stumbling over the gun-case.

“That’s the fifty-seventh time I’ve been knocked off my pins within an hour by this infernal buck-jumper. What have you been doing, messmate; taking a shower-bath?” And Mr Webster, the speaker, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, sat down on the edge of the bunk and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

Frank turned his head with a look of disgust, but the ship, pitching and rolling at the same moment, sent him and his bedclothes in a heap to one end of the bunk.

“God forgive me,” said the officer, making futile attempts to keep his feet out of the water; “but you’re a most dismal object.”

“What’s the matter with the ship?” growled Frank.

Webster opened his mouth to laugh, but a vicious lurch banged his head against the iron side of the cabin.

“Ship, do you call it?” he cried. “Why, ’tis nothing but a steel tube with an engine in it, and there’s not a ship afloat that would not ride over this sea without a heave.”

“Isn’t it rough, then?”

“Man, we’re just in the Channel, with a cross current and the apology for a ripple, but this devil of a sawn-off scaffold-pole just wallows in it like a porpoise. Come up on deck, and you’ll blush with shame to think you should have gone under to such little waves, scarce big enough to wet the frills of a Brighton beach-wader.”

As if to belie this imputation of mildness, a sea came on board with a crash and rushed along the deck with an angry swirl, making noise enough to spur Frank on to make an effort.

“That’s right,” said Webster, taking him by the arm. “Now come and have a nip and a bite.” Together they rolled out of the cabin and down the alley to the officers’ box, where Hume duly swallowed a stiff glass of grog, and was suited with a shiny covering of oilskin overalls. Then, holding on to anything that came handy, they clambered on deck, where the keen morning air very soon dispelled the nausea contracted in the stuffy cabin.

It was a brilliant morning, with wisps of wind-lashed clouds scurrying across the clear blue sky, and a buoyant property in the salt-laden air that brightened the eyes. It had brought a flush to the cheeks of the lady, whose figure, clad in oils, had been the first thing to catch and hold Frank’s gaze. She stood on the low bridge, holding with both hands to the rail, her feet braced and her body bending to the dips and roll of the steamer with a grace that even the heavy tarpaulin could not hide. The spray which came aft in a white and gleaming drizzle glistened on her covering, and ever and again with a low laugh she would bend her head to an unusually heavy gust of wet tossed up by the plunging bows of the steamer.

“Isn’t she a beauty!” growled Webster, brushing his hand across his eyes to wipe away the drops.

“She is, indeed!” murmured Frank. “May I ask who she is?”

Webster followed his companion’s gaze, and led him forward. “I’m not talking of her,” he said, dropping his voice; “and you’d best leave her out of your thoughts, young fellow. It’s this craft I mean; this narrow-gutted rib of a steel monument, that’s fit for nothing but to be stuck on end with a lamp in its stern, when it would make a good lighthouse. Ugh! the brute. See her bury her nose in that sea like a pig in a mash-tub.”

This wave was a gentle swell of dull green, covered with a lace-like tracing of air bubbles in round patches of white, and the top of it fringed with a line of hissing foam. A lumbering coal-ship would have ridden over it without wetting her eye-holes, but this strange craft, with a snort, leapt into the very heart of it, tossing up a column of spray, while the divided sea swelled up to the gunwales and foamed along the side with ripping noise, and went aft in a swirl of eddying whirlpools.

“Tell me,” said Webster, flicking the wet from his sou’wester, “what sort of a ship she is.”

Frank, standing wide on the slippery deck, cast his eyes fore and aft with growing wonder at the long, narrow shape of her, at the inward slope of her heavy bulwarks, at the wide, short funnels and sharp bows.

“I can’t liken her to anything but a wasp or a shark,” said he, “there’s such a vicious air about her.”

“Ay, she carries a sting in her tail and a devilish set of teeth. She’s ugly as a shark, and as narrow and vicious as a wasp. Well, what is she?”

“She’s a deuced bad sea boat, anyhow,” said Frank, as the deck suddenly sloped away at a fearful angle. “Is she a yacht?”

“You’ve hit it first shot. She’s a yacht—that’s what she is—a nice pleasure-boat for ladies and children, with engines strong enough to get twenty-seven knots out of her, and steel frame like a man-o’-war. What’s that you’re leaning against?”

“A ship’s boat, I suppose, covered with tarpaulin.”

“Right again, sir; that’s the yacht’s dinghy, fitted with velvet cushions. Take a peep.”

Frank looked under the tarpaulin, and saw the vast butt and machinery of a gun.

“That’s the yacht’s popgun, a four-inch quick-firing toy,” and Webster’s jolly face broke into a grin.

“She’s not a yacht, then?”

“Lord, how fresh you are! She’s no more a yacht than a bull-terrier is a pet pug—she’s a torpedo-catcher. Do you mean to say you had no suspicion when that ironclad opened fire on us last night?”

“I knew there was something dark afoot. A torpedo-catcher! Is this the Swift, the boat that was seized by the Customs authorities last week, on the suspicion that she had been bought for the rebel fleet at Rio de Janeiro?”

“The same, my boy; and seeing that you took an active part in her escape, it wouldn’t be safe for you to talk about this adventure. You’ve committed high treason, or some offence as bad, and would to a dead certainty be drawn and quartered.” Here Webster broke into another fit of laughter, ending up by smacking Frank on the back. “You’re in the same boat as we are, and if she doesn’t drown you, or roll you overboard, or knock your brains out, you may live to be shot.”

“Many thanks,” said Frank, with an answering smile. “And what fate is reserved for you?”

“Oh, as for me, I’ll die of a falling chimney. You feel better now, don’t you?”

“Thanks to your cheerful predictions.”

“Then come and report yourself to our chief, and harkee, you’ll be offered a billet as captain of the cook’s galley. Take my advice, and accept it; it’s comforting, sustaining, and by far the safest place in the ship.”

They went aft, now breasting the slanting deck as the bows dipped, now bending back to the answering lift, and came up to the bridge, where the Captain gave them a surly nod, and the lady flashed a smile on them.

“The new hand, mam, come to report himself. I found him afloat in his cabin with a feeling that he was an empty nothing, but he is better now,” and Webster turned a perfectly grave face upon Hume, his voice expressing the deepest sympathy.

“I am indebted to Mr Webster for his kindness, but he is premature in classing me as a new hand.”

“If you will come up here, Mr —”

“Hume,” said Frank briefly, filling up the pause.

“Mr Hume, you may talk with less discomfort.”

Webster, with a whispered word to Frank to “come off his stilts,” lurched to the chart-room, and Frank, with a feeling of resentment at the girl’s cold speech, mounted the steps to the bridge, where he waited with what patience he could muster until she chose to take her gaze off the sea, which she did presently, turning her magnificent eyes, and letting them dwell on his face in a calm scrutiny.

“Did Mr Webster tell you,” she asked in slow, formal speech, “that I had an offer to make?”

“He did suggest that I might hope for a berth in the cook’s galley.”

She did not smile at this as a man would have done, but frowned slightly. “I am—rather, the ship is—short-handed, and I wish you to take your turn in the officers’ watch.”

“But, Miss—” Here he paused with an inquiring look at her.

“You can call me madam,” she said.

He bowed, with a smile at her composure. “I am obliged for your confidence in me; but I am not competent to fill a responsible place.”

“You showed yourself last night equal to an emergency,” was the quick reply.

“Anyone could have done as well. But, madam, even if I were competent, I am not sure I could give my services unless I were satisfied as to the nature of the enterprise upon which this warship is embarked.”

She threw her head back with a haughty toss, and with a ring in her voice, replied: “I am not at liberty to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Pardon me,” he continued quietly, though his cheeks flushed, “I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but it is impossible for me to act in this matter blindfold, especially as I am not here of my own free will.”

“Then you refuse to help me?”

“I would help you willingly,” he replied eagerly, “if you tell me I can do so without hurt to my conscience or my country.”

“I will give you no assurance whatever. Do you, or do you not, accept my offer?” she said imperiously.

“No, madam, I cannot.”

“Then go back to your cabin; I will take the watch myself.” She turned away with an angry glow in her dark eyes, and he, after pausing awhile, slowly descended to the deck.

Chapter Five.

Down the Channel.

“Well, shipmate,” said Webster, coming out of the chart house, “have you been promoted from the saloon to the bridge, passing over the cook on the way, just after the old style when a lord-in-waiting, who did not know a brig from a bumboat, was appointed admiral? No apprenticeship, no navigation, no examination, but an order from the Commodore: ‘Mr Hume, sir, please take the third watch.’”

“No,” was the gloomy response; “I could not accept.”

“You swab! You mean to tell me you’ve declined to help the Commodore?”

“I presume you refer to the young lady?”

“Presume be damned. Have you no eyes, man, no gallantry; can you stand by and see a girl like that eat her heart out with sorrow and anxiety? Not that I care a brass button whether you help or not, for double work doesn’t hurt me; but just think what she’ll be like after a fortnight in this crazy roundabout.”

“You forget I know nothing about the lady, nor this ship, nor its mission.”

“And what’s that got to do with your keeping an eye on the binnacle, or a cheerful face that will do something to keep her spirits up? As for the matter of that, I know precious little about the object of this voyage, but it’s enough for me to know that she wants my help, and that Captain Pardoe is in command.”

“It is not enough for me. My knowledge of Captain Pardoe does not inspire me with much confidence in his designs, and you forget the circumstances under which I was trapped.”

“Well, well, you’re just like the rest. You landsmen don’t mind what you do ashore, but no sooner do you come aboard than you’re as nice with your conscience as a lady’s-maid with her mistress’s borrowed gown. I warrant you’d not trouble your head about the policy of a merchant’s business if you entered his service, not though he was selling bad pork to sailors or robbing the widows.”

“You’re going rather wide of the mark, Mr Webster,” said Frank sternly.

“There, now, you’ve taken offence, and that’s what makes me sad to think of you tossing like a log in your cabin—like that cold-blooded creature of a Commins who’s drinking champagne in his bunk, the swab.”

“Mr Webster!” hailed the Captain.

“Yes, sir!”

“Take the remainder of my watch, please, and keep a sharp look-out on the starboard quarter.”

Webster swung quickly to the bridge, where he touched his hat to the lady, and then braced himself fast to sweep the channel with the glass.

Captain Pardee came down slowly, and reeled a little on the deck, as though he had taken too much grog, thought Frank, as he caught him by the arm.

“Thank ’ee,” said he. “I’ve not quitted the bridge before since we left the Pool, and my legs are rather stiff.”

He staggered on to the small gangway and descended, leaving Frank to his own reflections, which were not very pleasant. If a man so tough and strong, and inured to hardship, as Captain Pardoe evidently was, felt the strain of the long watch on board, it was clearly beyond the power of a girl to undertake any part of work so trying.

She was still standing on the bridge, her face wet with the driving spray, and a tense look about the mouth which told of nerves high-strung. She was looking fixedly before her, and did not, as she had on her first coming on deck, bend her head to the flying spume in playful defiance. As he watched her, hesitating between his wish to help and his stubborn regard for his own rights, he saw her lips tremble, and that settled the matter.

“Madam,” he said, reaching her side in a moment, “I am ready to help.”

She withdrew her face from the sea, and he saw that her thoughts had been far from him or the ship, and in some confusion he repeated his words. A faint flush came to her cheek, and a brighter look in her eye.

“I’m so glad,” she whispered, and Frank, feeling something coquettish in this, flushed himself. With the faintest smile, she continued: “I come of a superstitious race, and your refusal, so brusquely given, too, had shaken my faith in my own power, and what is of more importance, in the success of my undertaking. I was reading ‘failure’ out there in the tumbling waters—But now you have reassured me. That is why I am glad.”

He flushed more deeply yet to think how easily she read his thoughts.

“You must forgive me,” he said, with a frank smile, “but I only wanted an excuse to satisfy my reasonable suspicions.”

“And you have found it?” she said, with an answering smile.

“Yes; I think I have.”

“Then you do not think that I am likely to menace the security of England with this craft?”

“I am in ignorance of your intentions still, but I am willing to believe that you are bent upon no desperate or unjust enterprise.”

“Desperate it may prove,” she said proudly, “but unjust it is not. No, no, believe me, sir, if there is any cause which would claim the sympathy of a brave man it is this upon which I am set.”

She rested her fingers on his arm, and looked at him earnestly with eyes dewed with unshed tears.

What emotion could it be, he thought, so powerful as to move one by nature so proud and self-reliant? He felt that further suspicion on his part would be contemptible.

“I am no seaman, madam,” he said, “but I may be of some service.”

“Mr Webster, will you tell Mr Hume in what way he may best assist us?”

“Ay, ay, madam.”

“Then I leave the ship in your hands, gentlemen, until Captain Pardoe has rested.” She bowed her head and left the bridge.

“So, after all, you’ve taken up arms against your lawful sovereign, and all for the smile of a woman, with not so much to show as the Queen’s shilling. Shake, my son!”

“Don’t talk rot, and tell me what I’m to do.”

“Is that the way to address your superior officer? Harkee, sir, for less than that I’ve clapped a man in irons. But I forgive you. Put your eye to the business end of this glass and tell me what craft is steaming up on the weather bows. My eyes are dim for the want of sleep.”

What with the swing and plunging of the “catcher,” it was some time before Frank could get the object within view, and when he did it was but a fleeting glimpse he had.

“It’s a Cape mail-boat,” he said; “I can make that out from her red funnels and grey hull.”

“Good. Now, would you know a warship if she showed at that distance?”

“Possibly, from her unusual breadth of beam—not to speak of her guns.”

“Well, my lad, keep a keen lookout, for there’ll be a lookout kept for us off the Isle of Wight, and be most particular in noting small craft. Set a thief to catch a thief, and as likely as not they’ll send a ‘catcher’ out from Portsmouth, and a cruiser from Plymouth. If you see anything strange in the movements of a steamer, blow down this pipe, and I’ll be up in a brace of shakes. I must have a wink before to-night;” and Webster, fetching a terrific yawn, went off down below.

Hume was left alone on the bridge, and, as far as he could see, there were only two other men on deck—the steersman inside the wheelhouse, and a seaman in a look-out shelter forward. It was a strange turn of the wheel which had placed him there in temporary charge of a torpedo-catcher, bound on he knew not what mad mission, and he shook his head once or twice in grave doubts of his own action, and of the conduct of those who so lightly trusted him—conduct which seemed to him to smack of the reckless. However, he entered upon his task without further thought of the consequences, letting his eyes sweep from right to left over the grey waters, and lingering here and there on a sail or a streamer of smoke. At first he eyed every ship with suspicion and fidgeted when a fishing lugger drove by before the wind, the crew peering under the boom at the long, low, swift craft; but after a time he reasoned he need fear no Craft which sailed on a parallel course up or down channel, and looked out only for sign of a ship making across. The sun mounted higher in the heavens, the wind fell away, and the Swift grew gradually steadier, and he could walk up and down the bridge without having to hold on at each step.

Close on noon Captain Pardoe came up to take a “sight,” retiring to the chart house to work out his bearings. The man at the wheel was relieved, and Mr Webster reappeared, looking as jolly as before, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

“Anything in view, Mr Hume?”

“Nothing but a couple of sailers and an ocean tramp, as I judge that steamer to be.”

Webster took a look round to satisfy himself.

“Now,” he said, “you go below for a snack and a snooze. You’ll find some tack on the table. Tumble into my cabin, as yours is too wet.”

Frank, nothing loath, went down, and was soon in a sound sleep, out of which he was aroused well on in the afternoon by a rough shaking, to find Webster bending over him with a sparkle in his eyes.

“There’s some fun afoot, my lad, with the prospect of sudden death and damp burial, so hurry up,” and the breezy first officer went like a tornado down the narrow alley.

Frank was quickly on deck, and found Webster talking to the look-out man, while Captain Pardoe and Miss Laura were on the bridge anxiously watching some object on the starboard bows. Looking in that direction, he could see nothing but a heavy streamer of smoke tailing away to the north, plainly showing that the steamer was on a course that would intercept the “destroyer.” Mounting to the bridge, he sighted the double funnels and heavy top hamper of a large vessel with the unmistakable cut of an ironclad.

“What do you make her?” said the Captain gloomily, more to break the silence than to ask for information.

Frank took the proffered glass, and bringing it to bear, it revealed two barbette towers, with long guns projecting, sharp bows heavily scrolled with gilt, and a mass of tumbled waters pouring before her rush.

“She is coming along at a tremendous pace, Captain.”

“Ay, eighteen knots, and she’ll be across our bows in a quarter of an hour, if she doesn’t ram us to gain a little experience.”

“I am sure she cannot be in pursuit of us,” said Miss Laura, stamping her foot. “How could she hit off our position so exactly, when we have made little smoke and stood well away from the English coast? She may be a French cruiser.”

The Captain shook his head.

“They’d log our course as soon as they received all particulars by wire, and from the crow’s-nest on the masts they’d see us sooner than we could find them.”

“Well, then, we must run away; and if she is only doing eighteen knots we should have no difficulty in escaping.”

“True, ma’am, if it was a stern chase; but she’ll have us right under her bows.”

“And what will you do if she orders us to stop?” and the young lady fixed a burning glance upon the dark and troubled face of the Captain.

“I’ll take my orders from you, Miss Laura,” he said gravely; “even though she turns her big guns on us.”

“Well, then, signal to the engineer to cram on all steam. We won’t get under her guns, at any rate.”

The Captain smiled, then touched the bell, and the sharp summons below was answered by prompt stoking.

Frank stood back, an amazed and silent witness of this scene on the little bridge. It seemed a thing incredible and unreal that a girl should have control in a matter fraught with such a responsibility and such peril. He glanced keenly at the Captain to see whether or no he were humouring the young lady; but there was no sign in that dark and gloomy face except an air of grim resignation, while, though Miss Laura showed, in the imperious lift of her head and in her flashing eyes, visible tokens of intense feeling, she gave no trace of a mind unhinged.

“Heave the log, Mr Webster.”

Webster’s voice rang out cheerily; and soon the long line was paying out in the foaming track. A bare-legged and brawny-armed tar, taking the line over his shoulder, staggered forward with it when its swift race had been checked by the minute hand, and Webster himself put his weight into the work, seeing which, Frank went down to help, for it’s no child’s play towing in the line from the grasp of the rushing waters.

“Twenty-three, sir,” sang out Webster; “and no bad speed, too, in the open,” he added to Frank.

In a few minutes the space between the two ships had greatly lessened, and the name of the cruiser could be picked out on her bows.

“Do you see that, Miss Laura? there’s no doubt she’s after us.”

“I see no change in her, Captain.”

“She has shifted her course in answer to our increased speed, and instead of being stem on, you can now see almost the length of her broadside.”

“She’s got her bow chaser cleared, sir,” said Webster, in a tone of pleasurable excitement.

A grand and formidable object the warship appeared now, sending before her terrible bows a white avalanche of water, her white decks lined with men, and the dark muzzles of her guns threatening destruction. And no less deadly in aspect, though on a lesser scale, was the low and swifter craft sullenly plunging on like some stealthy panther retreating, snarling and half reluctant, before the advance of a royal tiger.

“It is strange she does not signal,” muttered the Captain, “unless she means to speak us.”

The cruiser was so near now that every man on board the port side could be distinctly seen, and it was clear that where the two lines met the ships would be within less than a cable’s length.

“She made another point to starboard,” said Webster. “If she doesn’t give way she’ll be on top of us.”

“She won’t give way an inch,” said the Captain bitterly; “and she’s in her rights as a Queen’s ship. Stand by, below!” he shouted.

The two ships tore along, the cruiser terrible and silent, except for the foaming of the waves, and every soul on the smaller vessel held his breath.

“Reverse the starboard screw!” shouted Captain Pardoe; “bring her round two points on the starboard!”

The long craft trembled as the one screw revolved in opposition to the other, then she bore away and darted under the stern of the great ship, heeling over from the waves that swelled up in the wake.

The cruiser came round with a stately sweep, bringing up on the port side on a parallel course; and they all waited for the summons from the commander. It came, ringing, sharp and peremptory:

“Lay-to, there!”

Miss Laura looked at Captain Pardoe, with her hand to her heart, and he signalled to the engineer for more speed. The little vessel darted forward, her stem settling down like the tail of a duck taking to flight, a huge wave rising up right above the rails.

The cruiser sank astern; but from her bows there leapt a great ball of smoke, followed by a deafening report.

“We know what that means,” said Webster, with a smile, “and she’ll play skittles with us presently.”

But the cruiser held on without further notice, sinking further astern with each minute.

The distance between widened to a mile, and still she gave no other sign, and those on the bridge looked at each other in wonder.

“You see, Captain,” said Miss Laura, betwixt a sob and a laugh, “I was right. She did not know us, and we are safe.”

“Steamers ahead!” came the hoarse cry from the look-out, like a croak of ill-omen.

Glasses were quickly raised for a long scrutiny of two small steamers low down in the water.

“Well?” said the Captain, with a look at Webster.

“Pilot boats mayhap,” said that officer, with a queer grimace and a swift glance at the young lady, whose face had paled again to the lips at this new anxiety.

“Oh, are they?” she asked, with a troubled look at the Captain.

“No, Miss Laura,” he said sadly; “they’re torpedo boats. That’s why the cruiser let us slip. They mean to take this boat without injury to her or us, and they’ve got us in a trap.”

Chapter Six.

A Narrow Escape.

Torpedo boats! Two insignificant smudges of black, lifting and bowing like a couple of dingy sea-birds in a waste of waters, wretched little things that could be stowed away on the promenade deck of a mail steamer, and yet the appearance of one of them among a fleet of heavy ironclads would create as much consternation as a gadfly among a mob of cattle.

On came these mosquitoes of the navy, with nothing to distinguish one from the other but a white number on the black funnel, and the honest merchant seamen on the bridge of the Swift almost shuddered at the sight, recognising in them the incarnation of stealth and mischief. The torpedo-catcher, however, abated nothing of her speed. Was she not, after all, built to destroy these venomous midgets of the ocean? They were her game, and a brawny-armed seaman growled out his opinion of the relative fighting values of the crafts.

“Sink the little brutes,” he said, shooting a squirt of tobacco juice; “run over ’em, blow ’em up, send them to—”

His deep voice swelled from a murmur to a shout, and a melancholy seaman at the wheel nodded his head vigorously in hearty approval.

The first officer winked at Frank and pushed his big oilskin cap over his head.

“What an almighty smash there would be if the Captain gave the word. We’d sink the torpedo boats and the cruiser would sink us.”

Frank began tugging at his small moustache as the unreasoning fighting impulse seized hold of him. He forgot that his own countrymen were the objects of his increasing animosity. Underneath his feet he felt the quiver of the deck as the long vessel darted along, and the speed affected him with the same exaltation that boils through the blood of a cavalry-man when his horse has got into the desperate swing of the charge.

“Clear the gun for action,” shouted the Captain; and Webster, at the order, sprang over the bridge to the deck. Four men were at his side, the tarpaulin flew off, and the long black gun emerged.

Frank drew closer to the young lady. “Won’t you come below?” he said.

She did not hear, and he touched her with his hand.

She turned her eyes on him, magnificent and wild.

“Had you not better come below?”

She shook off his hand with an impatient gesture.

The long gun was already charged, and Webster stood by whistling, his hand ready to touch her off.

“Send the shot over that boat on the port side. Make it a close call, and she’ll shear off.”

Webster climbed up on the butt of his gun, took a long glance over the grey waters at the black funnel that alone showed, and without troubling himself about the reckonings for range finding, ventured an opinion:

“Is she a mile?”

“About that, sir,” growled the big Quartermaster, Black Henderson.

Webster jumped down, and, with a smile on his face, fired the gun.

There was a deafening report, which shivered the glass in the chart-room, and when they drove through the smoke, and steadied themselves after the shock, they caught faintly the scream of the shell, and saw it stream high above the black boat.

“That’ll scare the life out of them,” growled a sailor, with a chuckle.

He forgot that there were men after his own metal on board, and the little boat paid not the least attention to the warning.

A little patch of red instead streamed out from her bare pole of a mast, the meteor flag of Old England, which no British seaman can see without a glow of pride, and a look of consternation came into their faces.

They had forgotten about the cruiser steaming in their wake, showing nothing now but its white fighting deck, surmounted by two huge funnels; but she kept a watchful eye on the swift catcher, and at the audacious act of hostility had bristled with anger. Two small bow chasers projecting from the bulge in her bows spoke together, and a sharp reminder in the shape of a nine-pounder went screaming over the low craft, to plunge in the sea a cable’s length ahead, while the second, in a sort of devil’s “duck-and-drake” hops, sped away.

Captain Pardoe turned swiftly, and shook his fist at the cruiser.

Miss Laura had ducked her head at the vicious scream of one shot, and started aside at the angry splash and wild screech of the other, then stood trembling from head to foot while she bit her lip in vexation at her weakness.

Captain Pardoe noted her emotion, and swallowing his own rage, said gruffly:

“Shall we give in, mam?”

“No,” she said; “take no notice of me, please. Keep right on, Captain. Even if we are hit, our machinery may escape injury. You know what there is at stake, and if—if I am—if anything happens to me, promise me you will do your best.”

For answer Captain Pardoe took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

“Now,” said he gruffly, “you must go below.”

“I cannot; you must not ask me; you are endangering your lives for me, and I must be with you.”

“Mr Hume, please take this lady to the saloon; and hark you, sir,” he added in a whisper, “lock her in.”

Frank looked at the young lady in dismay, and she, betwixt surprise at the order and indignation at the intended affront, stood silent.

“Do you hear me, sir?”

There was a dull report from the stern, and again there came that nerve-shaking scream.

Frank seized the lady in his arms, lifted her up, and staggered towards the steps.

“Put me down,” she gasped.

At the steps he put her down, and, with tears of mortification in her eyes, she soundly boxed his ears, then went down the steps to the deck, and into the saloon, while he stood with a curious feeling that what he had done bound her to him.

“What’s the matter with your cheek?” said Webster, coming up; “seems to be redder on one side than the other. There, now, don’t get angry. Lord love you, I’d sooner face that cruiser than attempt to carry the Commodore; but I thank you for it, my son. The sight of her up here put my heart in my mouth. Are you going to run ’em down, sir, or blow ’em up?”

The Captain had his glass to his eye again, and held it there for some time, slowly sweeping the sea.

“Neither, Mr Webster,” he said finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, “I am going to steam at half-speed.”

He signalled to the engine-room.

“Hoist the distress signal, Mr Webster, that’ll serve the purpose.”

“Do I understand, Captain Pardee, that you intend to give this vessel up?”

“Understand what you like, my lad, but do what I order.”

The ship had got a tremendous way on, but she perceptibly slackened speed, and the sailors, noticing this, got together in a group, directing surly glances at the bridge.

Webster folded his arms, and faced the Captain.

“Do you mean to surrender this ship, Captain Pardoe?”

“And if I do so intend, what then?”

“Why, then, I’ll take command.”

“The devil!” said the Captain, making a step forward, grasping his long glass as a cudgel. A moment they faced each other; then a grim smile hovered about the Captain’s thin lips. “You’re a queer fellow, Jim, and a mutinous one; and I don’t know why I should waste words over you. Take this glass and look over that boat on the starboard.”

Webster, with a keen glance at his captain, did as he was told.

“Well, what do you see?”

“I see a mast with cross-trees.”

“Can you see the hull or rigging below the yards?”

“No, sir, there’s a layer of fog.”

“Ah, now, bend the flag on.”

Webster took another look at the Captain, then bent the Union Jack reversed to the peak.

They looked at the cruiser, and she at once signalled the torpedo boats, which simultaneously turned almost in their own lengths, and one on each bow, steamed a quarter of a mile in advance.

The cruiser came on hand over hand, and Captain Pardee’s glance turned repeatedly from her to the grey belt ahead.

He touched the bell, and the catcher responded with slightly increased speed, which soon brought her within hail of the torpedo boats.

An officer on the port boat, clad from head to foot in oils, all glistening with wet, leant over the bridge, and through his hollowed hands called, “Slacken speed, sir!”

“All right; what’s the fuss about?”

“Slacken speed!”

“So I am.”

There came a hail from the starboard boat.

“Make away, Number 4; the cruiser will settle this matter.”

The cruiser was signalling again, and the torpedo boats began to shear off.

Captain Pardoe measured the distance to the fog, and called on the engineer for full speed; and before the torpedo boats had got well out of reach of the cruiser’s guns, had she then opened fire, the Swift darted by them. When she was out of the range of their torpedoes, had they resolved to fire, he gave one of them his wash, placing it between him and the cruiser, and thus attaining his object, which was to stop the cruiser’s fire until he could make a dash for the shelter of the fog.

This feat was greeted with a ringing shout from the crew, and the men shot admiring glances at the Captain.

Chapter Seven.

Object of the Voyage.

Into the welcome security of the fog they plunged, and dashed on impetuously, regardless of danger to themselves or other ships from collision, and heedless of the rules about half-speed.

“Now is our chance!” growled the Captain, “and we’ll not lose it. If the fog’s only deep enough the cruiser will not see us again this side the Atlantic.”

The fog closed round in damp clinging wraiths, affecting everyone not only with an acute feeling of discomfort, but with a sense of impending misfortune. The sea, visible only for a few yards, came with a heave out of the white bank and went by into mysterious obscurity with a subdued swish, while the ship went on wailing hoarsely. Those on deck thrust their hands deep into their pockets, hunched their shoulders, and stared with white faces at the drifting mists and the beads of wet on the ropes. Between the hoarse, choking cries of the foghorn there was a heavy silence, in which the ear was strained to detect some sound of life beyond the impenetrable cloak, and the silence was unbroken by any word or motion, for each man stood where he was when the ship dashed into this mantle of death—an obscurity that is worse than the blackest of southern midnights, and is more dreaded by the mariner than the sound of breakers on a lee shore. A seagull appearing out of nowhere, swooped upon the ship with a startling cry, and disappeared like a wraith of fog more solid than the other gliding and twisting coils of mist. And the steamer plunged on, wailing and roaring in an ecstasy of mingled fear and rage as though it also felt the depressing influence. Each one was impressed with an actual sense of insecurity in the headlong speed of the craft; the vibration from the stroke of the engines appeared too great for the stability of the frame; the dip and roll seemed to be at a perilous angle, and dark forms shaped themselves ahead, threatening the horrors of a collision. These, it is true, melted away, being but darker masses of fog, charged, probably, with imprisoned volumes of smoke from another steamer; but the presence of this smoke, judged soon for what it was by its acrid smell, disclosed the imminence of the very danger they had anticipated. At any moment there might loom out of the mist a solid mass in place of these darker patches, and at the speed they were going nothing could prevent the shock and dread disaster of a collision.

“Keep a good lookout forward, Mr Webster,” sang out the Captain, in tones that were muffled as though he were calling from a well.

“We are doing that, sir,” said Webster, who had gone forward as soon as the fog bank was entered; “but the spray is blinding.”

The Captain growled under his breath, poked his nose against the binnacle, and then glanced into the driving mist overhead.

“It’s lightening above, Mr Hume, eh?”

“Yes, sir; but there appears to be a strong streamer of smoke on the port side.”

“Ay, I noticed it before; but it certainly is thicker. I’ll give ’em a call.”

The steamer’s siren sent forth a rending cry from its brazen throat.

Almost immediately there came a response—a wild, hoarse roar terminating in a frantic screech.

“Where away, Mr Webster?”

“Port, sir.”

“Starboard, sir.”

“Dead ahead!” were the conflicting cries.

The siren flung another wild cry into the wet gloom—a cry that was at once imploring, menacing, and complaining.

It was answered again by a roar as of a great sea beast in fear of pain.

Then followed a deep silence, while every man strained his eyes.

At the same instant they saw her, a great mass looming out suddenly just ahead.

“Starboard!” shouted the Captain, in a voice of thunder.

The Swift leant over as she answered to her helm. There was a noise of shouting from the towering decks of the strange steamer, a feeling of impending doom, as her iron side rolled over towards the low craft, but next instant she was swallowed up in the gloom astern.

The Captain drew a long breath, and the men turned and looked at each other in silence, their faces still white and fixed.

“That was a close shave, Mr Hume?”

“Yes, sir,” said Frank, wiping his forehead; “I’d rather be in daylight with the cruiser opening fire than pass through such a moment again.”

“Ay, my lad, it was touch and go, and by the mercy of a good seaman at the wheel we didn’t touch.”

Webster came with a swing up the steps, and clapped Frank on the back.

“I told you she’d drown you before you’d have done with her.”

“Well, I’m not drowned yet.”

“No; but, by gum, you were near it! Did you see the cook’s face at the gangway when we rushed by? Lord, I nearly died with laughter at his sudden gasp, and I shouldn’t wonder but he’s got his mouth open yet. By the way, the Commodore’s down at the cuddy door, and by the same token she’s got her mouth open in surprise. Why not go down and tell her the news?”

Frank accepted the hint, and very soon was beside a tall figure, dimly seen in the shadow of the door; but, having got so far, he was at a loss to proceed. It was a stilted form of address to call her “madam;” “Miss Laura” was at once too familiar, and smacked of servility. Why had they not told him her name and have done with it; why, in fact, could she not tell it him herself? Having now mastered his first boyish fears and awe of her beauty, and warmly conscious that he stood on a different footing to her since he had boldly lifted her in his arms, he determined to brush away the mystery which hedged her in.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I hope you will forgive me for obeying the Captain’s orders just now.”

“Ah! is that you, Mr Hume? Can you tell me how we are getting on, since I am not able to judge for myself?” She spoke gently, and he caught the gleam of a smile.

“You must admit that, though the Captain was somewhat peremptory, the necessity was urgent.”

“And you must admit, Mr Hume, that he was obeyed with singular promptitude, which told of distinct pleasure on your part at the prospect of relieving the bridge of my presence. But still, you have not told me of our position.”

“We are well away from the cruiser, and when we have pierced this bank of fog, which we may do soon, as it is growing lighter, we should be free from danger of pursuit. Pray, however, do not think that we wished to keep the bridge to ourselves, and if I was presumptuous to act promptly, it was because I was anxious for your safety. You have not said whether you forgive me?”

“Is my safety, then, of any interest to you?” she said, turning her eyes upon him, and laying a hand upon his arm with the look and action of a born coquette.

“Not with me only,” he said earnestly, “but, if a new shipmate may say so, with every member of the crew. Mr Webster told me his heart was in his mouth when he saw you in danger.”

“He is a brave fellow,” she said softly, “and modest with it all—a man who would give his life with a smile for anyone he liked. It sometimes distresses me to think that I should have led him and the others upon this venture, dangerous as it must be.”

“Will you share in the danger?”

“Assuredly. This boat is mine. I had bought it when it was seized by the Customs. The enterprise is of my planning, and what danger there is will be shared by me.” She lifted her head as she spoke.

“Why should you venture upon anything that brings danger to yourself? Surely you have friends, relatives, who would have acted for you?”

She stood silent for some time, and looked at him curiously for his boldness.

“I have only one relative, Mr Hume, and he is my father, a prisoner in the hands of Balmaceda. It is to rescue him that I have risked the passage of the Thames, and if I cannot save his life I will die with him.” There was subdued passion in her voice, and her hands were clenched.

“Your father a prisoner in Brazil! How can they imprison an Englishman?”

“He is no Englishman. My father is Manuel da Gama Lobo de Anstrade, Colonel in the Army, and member of a noble Spanish family, treacherously seized by that ruffian President.”

“But you—surely you are of English descent?”

“My mother was English, Mr Hume, and I have been educated in England.” She paused for some moments, then continued quickly: “I have told you more than is known by any on board, except Mr Commins and Captain Pardoe. But I am seldom misled, and I am sure you will respect my confidence.”

“I will, Miss de Anstrade.”

“You must not mention my name. If you knew the Brazilians you would understand. Were this ship to fall into the hands of the President’s party, and my name were discovered, there would be little mercy shown. Ah! what fiendish punishment they can devise! Luiz, my brother, they made him walk blindfolded over the precipice at Garanagua.”

She spoke scarcely above a whisper, but with an intentness that thrilled her listener, and her eyes were fixed before her, wide open and gleaming. He had seen that look before, as she stood on the bridge gazing into the tossing seas ahead, and yet seeing nothing. Now he knew that a terrible picture was before her eyes.

Instinctively he took her hand.

“I am grieved I should have awakened these memories,” he said gently.

“You have not awakened them, my friend; they are burnt in.”

He stood there in silence, holding her hand, which was like a lump of ice in his warm grasp, and which she allowed to remain there, unconscious of his touch. He could mark the hollow under her eyes, the lines of pain between her dark brows, and he sighed.

She sighed too; her mind came back from its troubled wanderings in the far Brazil, and she looked down at her hand, drawing it away, and regarding him with haughty disfavour.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“You are strangely daring, Mr Hume.”

“My thought was to show my sympathy, and I could not find words.”

“It is true. You English are slow of speech, but quick to act. That is why, in this matter, I am trusting to my mother’s countrymen.”

“Will you trust me also, my Captain?”

“You! But we are to land you at Madeira.”

“I am in your service already for a time; will you not engage me permanently?”

“But you do not understand. We cannot hope to escape the Brazilian warships without a fight, and they are but the first of the dangers to be met and overcome.”

“And yet you will face those dangers?”

“For my father’s freedom!”

“But Mr Webster, Captain Pardoe, these sailors, what of them?”

“They are men accustomed to danger; they know the risks they run, and are satisfied with their reward.”

He flushed at this plain speech, but continued:

“And yet a few hours ago you urged me to help you?”

“And you at first declined?”

“I knew nothing then; but now you have taken me into your confidence, and I would be a poor thing, indeed, if I were to step ashore at the first opportunity. I may not be able to do much, but—”

“You will see I do not run into needless danger—is that it, Mr Hume?” she said, with a smile. “I accept your services, sir,” she added slowly; “but I do so with a sadness at my heart that warns me of impending trouble. I hope it bodes no ill to you. My mind is fixed upon this enterprise; but, oh! often in the night my heart is heavy with forebodings, so that I could abandon myself to the relief of womanly tears, if I only dared. It is not an easy task, this,” she went on, with a tremble in her voice, “for a girl to be alone among strange men; but my father, pale and stern, beckons me on, and my brother—oh, my brother!”

Her voice gave way, and she put her hand to her eyes; then, as he stood by pale, distressed, with an oppression in his throat, she thrust her hand forth with a wild gesture, and swept by him to the bridge. Frank stood awhile, then went slowly forward.

When, with a start, he came out of his reverie, it was to find the ship free of the fog, and dashing along in the grey of the evening towards the golden glory of an exquisite sunset. The sea stretched away to where glowed a rim of molten gold upon the horizon; and from this glowing band there shot streaks of fire into the sky, and rippling bars of silver on the waters, while the deepening dusk turned the blue of the ocean to a wonderful hue, shading from grey to deep black.

Chapter Eight.

Lieutenant Gobo.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, with lockers almost exhausted of coal, they sighted the outposts of Madeira—jagged rocks, with the clearest of outlines—and made for Funchal with some apprehension as to their reception from the Portuguese.

They had not passed scathless through the Bay. The funnels were coated with salt, the mark of a curling sea which had swept over the bows, and the starboard boat was missing. The deck was soaked, and grimy from coal-grit,—while all on board looked worn and unwashed, as though they had been without sleep, and, indeed, they had passed through a wearying time, tossed about like corks, compelled to hold on at every step, and drenched with spray. But though the catcher had plunged and rolled in a manner that tried the nerves of the oldest seaman, she had gone safely through those huge rollers, and they had learnt to trust in her. What they wanted now was her full capacity of coal, with some tons over for storage on the deck, to enable her to make the long passage to Rio, if possible. The question was, Had the Portuguese been warned by the Brazilian Consul in London, and would they give them coal?

Very soon she was steering a course parallel to the vast slope of the Island, ploughing through waters of deepest violet. Innumerable little white houses dotted that seemingly inhospitable slope of coloured sandstone, many as the white crests of the waves, and each one of them when viewed through a glass was seen to be embedded in a wealth of vegetation. So steep was the slope, and so limited each settlement, that every bit of land was terraced, so that not one spadeful of the precious soil should escape. From where, at the foot, the slope terminated in a precipitous descent to the foaming wave, these terraces ascended like irregular steps far up to the heights. And there lived a frugal people, with that brilliant sea below them, and the blue, unclouded sky above, with the air tempered by the mists on the mountain ridge above to the most balmy softness, and with a soil, once saved and scraped together, that grew all they needed without much toil. Theirs is the life of repose, with grapes and bananas for their principal food, varied with onions and fish, and washed down with the wine of that iron soil.