← catalogue

In Greek Waters: A Story of the Grecian War of Independence

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #42276 · 810,058 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of In Greek Waters: A Story of the Grecian War of Independence
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: In Greek Waters: A Story of the Grecian War of Independence

Author: G. A. Henty

Illustrator: W. S. Stacey


        
Release date: March 8, 2013 [eBook #42276]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42276

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN GREEK WATERS: A STORY OF THE GRECIAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE ***

[Illustration: CAPTURED BY ALBANIAN BRIGANDS]




    IN GREEK WATERS

    A STORY OF

    THE GRECIAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE

    (1821-1827)

    BY

    G. A. HENTY

    Author of “Beric the Briton,” “Condemned as a Nihilist,” etc.


    _WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. S. STACEY, AND
    A MAP OF THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO_

    NEW YORK
    CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
    1902


    COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY
    CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

    THE CAXTON PRESS
    NEW YORK.





PREFACE


MY DEAR LADS,

The struggle known as the Greek War of Independence lasted for six
years (1821-27), and had I attempted to give even an outline of the
events this would have been a history and not a story. Moreover, six
years is altogether beyond the length of time that can be included in
a book for boys. For these reasons I have confined the story to the
principal incidents of the first two years of the war; those of my
readers who may wish to learn the whole history of the struggle I
refer to Finlay’s well-known _History of Greece_, which I have
followed closely in my narration.

As a rule in the stories of wars, especially of wars waged for
national independence, the dark side of the struggle is brightened by
examples of patriotism and devotion, of heroic bravery, of humanity to
the wounded, of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. The war of Greek
independence is an exception. The story is a dark one with scarcely a
gleam of light. Never during modern times has a struggle been
disgraced by such deeds of cruelty and massacre as those which
prevailed on both sides. Such being the case, I have devoted less
space than usual to the historical portion of my tale, and this plays
but a subordinate part in the adventures of the _Misericordia_ and her
crew.

    Yours sincerely,

    G. A. HENTY.




    CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                      PAGE
        I. A GREEK STUDENT                         11
       II. A YACHT                                 29
      III. THE WRECK                               47
       IV. A STARTLING PROPOSAL                    66
        V. FITTING OUT                             85
       VI. UNDER WEIGH                            107
      VII. A CHANGE OF NAME                       127
     VIII. A BESIEGED VILLAGE                     145
       IX. RESCUED                                162
        X. A DARING EXPLOIT                       180
       XI. IN THE HANDS OF THE TURKS              197
      XII. PLANNING A RESCUE                      213
     XIII. THE PASHA OF ADALIA                    225
      XIV. CHIOS                                  243
       XV. A WHITE SQUALL                         259
      XVI. FIRE-SHIPS                             277
     XVII. RESCUING THE GARRISON OF ATHENS        295
    XVIII. A TURKISH DEFEAT                       312
      XIX. PRISONERS                              330
       XX. AT CONSTANTINOPLE                      348
      XXI. THE “MISERICORDIA” AGAIN               365
     XXII. ALL ENDS WELL                          385




    ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                 PAGE
    CAPTURED BY ALBANIAN BRIGANDS      _Frontispiece_
    “WELL, YOUNGSTER, WHAT IS IT?”                 20
    HORACE SUGGESTS A RESCUE                       52
    THEIR FIRST SIGHT OF THE SCHOONER              82
    A DISCUSSION ABOUT CLOTHES                    110
    “GIVE THEM A ROUND,” SAID CAPTAIN MARTYN      148
    THE CAPTAIN IS WOUNDED                        177
    THE GREEK CAPTIVES ARE BROUGHT ON DECK        198
    THE CAPTURE OF THE PASHA                      228
    REPELLING THE TURKISH BOARDERS                279
    THE GOVERNOR COMES ON BOARD                   306
    THE DOCTOR TELLS THE STORY                    379

           *       *       *       *       *

    MAP OF GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO                     10




IN GREEK WATERS




CHAPTER I

A GREEK STUDENT


The people of the little fishing village of Seaport were agreed on one
subject, however much they might differ on others, namely, that Mr.
Beveridge was “a wonderful learned man.” In this respect they were
proud of him: learned men came to visit him, and his name was widely
known as the author of various treatises and books which were precious
to deep scholars, and were held in high respect at the universities.
Most of the villagers were, however, of opinion that it would have
been better for Seaport had Mr. Beveridge been a trifle less learned
and a good deal more practical. Naturally he would have been spoken of
as the squire, for he was the owner of the whole parish, and his house
was one of the finest in the county, which some of his ancestors had
represented in parliament; but for all that it would have been
ridiculous to call a man squire who had never been seen on horseback,
and who, as was popularly believed, could not distinguish a field of
potatoes from one of turnips.

It was very seldom that Mr. Beveridge ventured outside the
boundary-wall of his grounds, except, indeed, when he posted up to
London to investigate some rare manuscript, or to pore over ancient
books in the reading-room of the British Museum. He was never seen at
the meetings of magistrates, or at social gatherings of any kind, and
when his name was mentioned at these, many shrugged their shoulders
and said what a pity it was that one of the finest properties in the
county should be in the hands of a man who was, to say the least of
it, a little cracked.

Mr. Beveridge’s father, when on a tour in the East as a young man, had
fallen in love with and, to the intense indignation of his family,
married a Greek lady. Upon coming into possession of the property, two
years later, John Beveridge settled down with his beautiful wife at
the Hall, and lived in perfect happiness with her until her death.

She had had but one child, a boy, the present owner of the Hall, who
was twelve years old when she died. Happy as she was with her husband,
Mrs. Beveridge had never ceased to regret the sunny skies of her
native land. She seldom spoke of it to her husband, who hunted and
shot, was a regular attendant at the board of magistrates, and
attended personally to the management of his estate. He was a man of
little sentiment, and had but a poor opinion of the Greeks in general.
But to Herbert she often talked of the days of her childhood, and
imbued him with her own passionate love of her native country. This
led him at school to devote himself to the study of Greek with such
energy and ardour that he came to be considered as a prodigy, and
going up to Oxford he neglected all other branches of study, mixed but
little with other undergraduates, made no friends, but lived the life
of a recluse, and was rewarded by being the only first-class man of
his year, the examiners declaring that no such papers had ever before
been sent in.

Unfortunately for Herbert his father died a few months before he took
his degree. He had neither understood nor appreciated his son’s
devotion to study, and when others congratulated him upon the
reputation he was already gaining at the university, he used to shrug
his shoulders and say, “What is the good of it? He has not got to
work for his living. I would rather see him back a horse over a
five-barred gate than write Greek like Homer.” He had frequently
declared that directly Herbert took his degree he would go with him
first for a few months up to London, and they would then travel
together for a year or two so as to make him, as he said, a bit like
other people.

Left to his own devices at the death of his father Herbert Beveridge
did not even go home after taking his degree, but, writing to the
steward to shut up the house, started a week later for Greece, where
he remained for three years, by the end of which time he was as
perfectly acquainted with modern as with ancient Greek. Then he
returned home, bringing with him two Greek attendants, turned the
drawing-room into a library, and devoted himself to his favourite
study. Three years later he married, or rather his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce,
married him. That lady, who was the wife of a neighbouring squire,
came over and, as she said, took him in hand.

“This cannot go on, Herbert,” she said; “it is plainly your duty to
marry.”

“I have never thought of marrying, aunt.”

“I daresay not, Herbert, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t
marry. You don’t intend, I suppose, that this place, after being in
the hands of our family for hundreds of years, is to be sold to
strangers at your death. It is clearly your duty to marry and have
children.”

“But I don’t know anyone to marry.”

“I will find you a wife, Herbert. I know half a dozen nice girls, any
one of whom would suit you. You want a thoroughly good, sensible wife,
and then, perhaps, there would be some chance of your becoming like
other people.”

“I don’t want to become like other people, I only want to be let
alone.”

“Well, you see that is out of the question, Herbert. You shirk all
your duties as a large land-owner; but this duty, at least, you cannot
shirk. Let me see, to-day is Monday; on Wednesday our gig shall be
over here at half-past twelve, and you shall come over and lunch with
me. I will have Miss Hendon there; she is in all respects suitable for
you. She is fairly pretty, and very bright and domesticated, with
plenty of common sense. She won’t have any money; for although her
father’s estate is a nice one, she has four or five brothers, and I
don’t suppose Mr. Hendon lays by a penny of his income. However, that
matters very little. Now you must rouse yourself for a bit. This is an
important business, you know, and has to be done. After it is over you
will find it a great comfort, and your wife will take all sorts of
little worries off your hand. Of course if you don’t like Mary Hendon
when you see her, I will find somebody else.”

Herbert Beveridge resigned himself quietly, and became almost passive
in this matter of his own marriage. He liked Mary Hendon when he had
got over the shyness and discomfort of the first visit, and three
months later they were married. He then went back to his library
again, and his wife took the management of the estate and house into
her capable hands. During her lifetime Herbert Beveridge emerged to a
certain extent from his shell. He became really fond of her, and
occasionally accompanied her on her drives, went sometimes into
society, and was generally considered to be improving fast.

Ten years after marriage she died, and her husband fell back into his
old ways. His life, however, was no longer quite solitary, for she had
left him a boy eight years of age. He had been christened Horace,
which was a sort of compromise. Mr. Beveridge had wished that he
should have the name of some Greek worthy--his favourites being either
Themistocles or Aristides. His mother had called in Mrs. Fordyce to
her assistance, and the two ladies together had succeeded in carrying
their point. Mrs. Fordyce had urged that it would be a misfortune for
the boy to bear either of these names.

“He will have to go to school, Herbert, of course, and the boys would
make his life a burden to him if he had either of the names you
mention. I know what boys are; we have plenty of them in our family.
If he were Aristides he would get the nickname of Tidy, which would be
hideous. The other name is worse still; they would probably shorten it
into Cockles, and I am sure you would not want the boy to be spoken of
as Cockles Beveridge.”

“I hate common names,” Mr. Beveridge said, “such as Jack, Bob, and
Bill.”

“Well, I think they are quite good enough for ordinary life, Herbert,
but if you must have something classical why not take the name of
Horace? One of Mary’s brothers is Horace, you know, and he would no
doubt take it as a compliment if you gave the boy that name.”

And so it was fixed for Horace. As soon as the child was old enough to
go out without a nurse, Mr. Beveridge appointed one of his Greek
servants to accompany him, in order that the child should pick up a
knowledge of Greek; while he himself interested himself so far in him
as to set aside his books and have him into the library for an hour a
day, when he always talked to him in Greek. Thus at his mother’s death
the boy was able to talk the language as fluently as English. In other
respects he showed no signs whatever of taking after his father’s
tastes. He was a sturdy boy, and evinced even greater antipathy than
usual to learning the alphabet, and was never so happy as when he
could persuade Marco to take him down to the beach to play with the
fisher children. At his mother’s death he was carried off by Mrs.
Fordyce, and spent the next six months with her and in the houses of
his mother’s brothers, where there were children about his own age. At
the end of that time a sort of family council was held, and Mrs.
Fordyce went over to Seaport to see her nephew.

“What were you thinking about doing with the boy, Herbert?”

“The boy?” he asked vaguely, being engaged on a paper throwing new
light on the Greek particles when she entered.

“Naturally, Herbert, the boy, your boy; it is high time he went to
school.”

“I was thinking the other day about getting a tutor for him.”

“Getting fiddlesticks!” Mrs. Fordyce said sharply; “the boy wants
companionship. What do you suppose he would become, moping about this
big house alone? He wants to play, if he is ever to grow up an active
healthy man. No harm has been done yet, for dear Mary kept the house
bright, and had the sense to let him pass most of his time in the open
air, and not to want him always at her apron-string. If when he gets
to the age of twenty he develops a taste for Greek--which Heaven
forbid!--or for Chinese, or for any other heathen and out-of-the-way
study, it will be quite time enough for him to take it up. The
Beveridges have always been men of action. It is all very well,
Herbert, to have one great scholar in the family; we all admit that it
is a great credit to us; but two of them would ruin it. Happily I
believe there is no record of a great scholar producing an equally
great son. At any rate I do hope the boy will have a fair chance of
growing into an active energetic man, and taking his place in the
county.”

“I have no wish it should be otherwise, aunt,” Herbert Beveridge said.
“I quite acknowledge that in some respects it would be better if I had
not devoted myself so entirely to study, though my work has not been
without fruit, I hope, for it is acknowledged that my book on the use
of the digamma threw an entirely new light upon the subject. Still I
cannot expect, nor do I wish, that Horace should follow in my
footsteps. Indeed, I trust, that when I have finished my work, there
will be little for a fresh labourer to glean in that direction. At any
rate he is far too young to develop a bent in any direction whatever,
and I think therefore that your proposal is a good one.”

“Then in that case, Herbert, I think you cannot do better than send
him with Horace Hendon’s two boys to school. One is about his own age
and one is a little older. The elder boy has been there a year, and
his father is well satisfied with the school.”

“Very well, aunt. If you will ask Horace to make arrangements for the
boy to go with his sons I am quite content it should be so.”

So Horace Beveridge went, a week later, by coach with his cousins to a
school at Exeter, some forty miles from Seaport, and there remained
until he was fourteen. He passed his holidays at home, never seeing
his father until dinnertime, after which he spent two hours with him,
a period of the day to which the boy always looked forward with some
dread. Sometimes his father would chat cheerfully to him, always in
modern Greek; at others he would sit silent and abstracted, waking up
occasionally and making some abrupt remark to the boy, and then again
lapsing into silence. When about the house and grounds Marco was his
constant companion. The Greek, who was a mere lad when he had come to
England, was fond of Horace, and having been a fisherman as a boy, he
enjoyed almost as much as his charge did the boating and fishing
expeditions upon which he accompanied him.

At this time Horace had a strong desire to go to sea, but even his
Aunt Fordyce, when he broached the subject to her, would give him no
hope or encouragement.

“If it had been ten years ago, Horace, it would have been another
matter. The sea was a stirring life, then; and even had you only gone
into the navy for a few years you would have seen lots of service, and
might have distinguished yourself. As to staying in it, it would have
been ridiculous for you as an only son. But now nothing could be more
wretched than the position of a naval officer. All the world is at
peace, and there does not appear to be the slightest chance of war
anywhere for many years. Hundreds and hundreds of ships have been paid
off and laid up, and there are thousands of officers on half-pay, and
without the smallest chance of ever getting employment again. You
have arrived too late in the world for sailoring. Besides, I do not
think in any case your father would consent to such a thing. I am
happy to say that I do not think he has any idea, or even desire, that
you should turn out a famous scholar as he is. But to a man like him
it would seem terrible that your education should cease altogether at
the age at which boys go into the navy, and that you should grow up
knowing nothing of what he considers the essentials of a gentleman’s
education. No, no, Horace, the sea is out of the question. You must go
up to Eton, as arranged, at the end of these holidays, and from Eton
you must go through one of the universities. After that you can wander
about for a bit and see the world, and you will see as much of it in
six months that way as in twice as many years were you in the navy in
these times of peace.”

Horace looked a little downcast.

“There is another thing, Horace,” his aunt said; “it would not be fair
for you to go into the navy, even if there was nothing else against
it.”

“How is that, aunt?”

“Well, Horace, when there are hundreds of officers on half-pay, who
can scarcely keep life together on the few pounds a year they get, it
would be hard indeed for young fellows with money and influence to
step into the places and keep them out.”

“Yes, aunt, I did not think of that,” Horace said, brightening up. “It
certainly would be a beastly shame for a fellow who can do anything
with himself to take the place of a man who can do nothing else.”

“Besides, Horace,” his aunt went on, “if you like the sea so much as
you do now when you have done with college, there is no reason why you
should not get your father to let you either hire or buy a yacht and
go where you like in her, instead of travelling about by land.”

“That would be very jolly!” Horace exclaimed. “Yes, that would be
really better than going to sea, because one could go where one
liked.”

And so at the end of the holidays Horace went up to Eton. On his
return home in the summer his father said: “Your aunt was over here
the other day, Horace, and she was telling me about that foolish idea
you have of going to sea. I was glad to hear that you gave it up at
once when she pointed out to you the absurdity of it. Her opinion is
that as you are so fond of the water, and as Marco can manage a boat
well, it would be a good thing for you to have one of your own,
instead of going out always with the fishermen; the idea seemed to me
a good one, so I got her to write to some one she knows at Exmouth,
and he has spoken to the revenue officer there. They have been
bothering me about what size it should be, and as I could not tell
them whether it should be ten feet long or fifty, I said the matter
must remain till you came home, and then Marco could go over with you
to Exmouth and see the officer.”

“Oh, thank you very much, father!”

“It is only right that you should be indulged in a matter like this,
Horace. I know that you don’t care about riding alone, and I am sorry
I can’t be more of a companion to you, but I have always my hands full
of important work, and I know that for a boy of your age it must be
very dull here. Choose any boat you like. I have been talking to
Marco, and he says that she can be hauled up on the beach and lie
there perfectly safe when you are away. Of course if necessary he can
have a young fellow or two from the village to help while you are at
home. He seems to think that in that way you could have a boat of more
comfortable size. I don’t know anything about it, so I have left the
matter entirely to him and you. The difference of cost between a small
boat and a large one is of no consequence one way or the other.”

Accordingly, the next morning Marco and Horace started directly after
breakfast in the carriage to catch the coach, which passed along the
main road four miles from Seaport, and arrived at Exmouth at two. They
had no difficulty in finding the house of Captain Martyn, whose title
was an honorary one, he being a lieutenant of many years’ service.

“Is Captain Martyn in?” Horace asked the servant who opened the door.

“No, sir; he is away in the cutter.” Horace stood aghast. It had never
struck him that the officer might not be at home.

“His son is in, Mr. William Martyn, if that will do,” the servant
said, seeing the boy’s look of dismay.

“I don’t know,” he said; “but at any rate I should like to see him.”

“I will tell him, sir, if you will stay here.”

A minute later a tall powerfully-built young fellow of two or
three-and-twenty came to the door.

“Well, youngster, what is it?” he asked.

“I have come about buying a boat, sir. My name is Beveridge. I believe
Captain Martyn was kind enough to say that he would look out for a
boat for us.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard about it; but whether it was a dinghy or a
man-of-war that was wanted we couldn’t find out. Do you intend to
manage her single-handed?”

“Oh, no, sir! I have done a lot of sailing with the fishermen at
Seaport, but I could not manage a boat by myself, not if there was any
wind. But Marco was a sailor among the Greek isles before he entered
my father’s service.”

“Want a comfortable craft,” the Greek, who had learned to speak a
certain amount of English, said. “Can have two or three hands.”

“Oh, you want a regular cruiser! Well, you are a lucky young chap, I
must say. The idea of a young cub like you having a boat with two or
three hands to knock about in! Do you want a captain, because I am to
let?”

“No, sir, we don’t want a captain, and we don’t want a great big
craft. Something about the size of a fishing-boat, I should say. Are
you a sailor?”

“Yes, worse luck, I am a master’s mate, if you know what that is. It
means a passed midshipman. I have been a master’s mate for four years,
and am likely to be one all my life, for I have no more chance of
getting a berth than I have of being appointed a post-captain
to-morrow. Well, I will put on my cap and go with you. I have been
looking about since my father heard about a boat being wanted. The
letter said nothing about your age, or what size of boat was wanted;
it gave in fact no useful information whatever. It was about as much
to the point as if they had said you wanted to have a house and did
not say whether it was a two-roomed cottage or a country mansion. But
I think I know of a little craft that would about suit you. Does your
father sail himself?”

[Illustration: “WELL, YOUNGSTER, WHAT IS IT?”]

Horace could not help smiling at the idea. “No,” he said. “My father
cares for nothing but studying Greek. I am at Eton, but it is very
slow in the holidays, and as I generally go out with the fishermen the
best part of the time I am at home, he thought it would be a good
thing for me to have a boat of my own.”

William Martyn looked quietly down at the lad, then went in and got
his cap, rejoined them, and sauntered down towards the river. He led
the way along the wharfs, passed above the town, and then pointed to a
boat lying on the mud.

“That is the craft I should choose if I were in your place,” he said.
“She is as sound as a bell, and I wouldn’t mind crossing the Bay of
Biscay in her.”

“But she is very large,” Horace said, looking at her with some doubt
in his face.

“She is about fifteen tons burthen,” he said, “built of oak, and is
only eight years old, though she looks battered about and rusty as she
lies there. She was built from his own designs by Captain Burrows, as
good a sailor as ever stepped. She is forty feet long and fifteen feet
beam. She is fast, and a splendid sea-boat, with four foot draft of
water. He died three years after he built her, and she has been lying
there ever since. Her gear has been all stowed away in a dry place,
and the old sailor in charge of it says it is in perfect order. The
old captain used to knock about on board of her with only a man and a
boy, and she is as easy to handle as a cock-boat. I was out in her
more than once when I was at home on leave, and she is a beauty. Of
course you can’t judge of her as she lies there; but she has
wonderfully easy lines, and sits the water like a duck. She is a
dandy, you see; that is, she carries a small mizzen mast. She was
rigged so because a craft like that is a good deal easier to work
short-handed than a cutter.”

She seemed as she lay there so much larger than anything Horace had
had the idea of possessing that he looked doubtfully at Marco.

“I think she will do,” the Greek said; “just the sort of boat for us.
See her when tide comes up, and can go on board. How much cost?”

“They only want eighty pounds for her,” William Martyn said. “They
asked a hundred and fifty at first; but everything is so dull, and
there have been such a lot of small craft sold off from the dockyards,
that she has not found a purchaser. If I had two or three hundred a
year of my own there is nothing I should like better than to own that
craft and knock about in her. Her only fault is she wants head-room.
There is only five foot under her beams, for she has a low freeboard.
That prevents her from being sold as a yacht. But as one does not want
to walk about much below I don’t see that that matters. She has got a
roomy cabin and a nice little stateroom for the owner, and a fo’castle
big enough for six hands.”

“It would be splendid,” Horace said. “But do you think, Marco, my
father meant me to have such a large boat as this?”

The Greek nodded. “Master said buy a good big safe boat. No use
getting a little thing Mr. Horace tire of in a year or two. Can always
get a man or two in the holidays. I think that is just the boat.”

“Tide has nearly reached her,” William Martyn said. “We shall be able
to get off to her in an hour. We will go and overhaul the gear now. I
will get the key of the cabins.”

It took them a good hour to get out the sails and inspect them, and
examine the ropes and gear. All were pronounced in good order.

“The sails are as good for all practical purposes as the day they were
turned out,” Martyn said. “They may not be quite as white as the
fresh-water sailors about here think necessary for their pleasure
craft, but they are sound and strong, and were well scrubbed before
they were put away. And you may be sure Burrows used none but the best
rope money could buy. Now we will go on board. She will look a
different craft when her decks are holy-stoned, and she gets two or
three coats of paint,” the young officer went on as they stepped on
board. “A landsman can never judge of a boat when she is dismantled,
and he can’t judge much at any time. He thinks more of paint and
polish than he does of a ship’s lines.”

But Horace had seen enough of boats to be able to appreciate to some
extent the easy lines of her bow and her fine run, and the Greek was
delighted with her. Below she was in good order, except that she
wanted a coat of paint. The cabins were of course entirely dismantled,
but Horace was surprised at their roominess, accustomed as he was to
the close little fo’castles of the fishing-boats.

“She was fitted up in a regular man-of-war fashion,” Martyn said.
“This was just a captain’s cabin on board a frigate, but on a small
scale, and so was the state-room. We did not see the furniture, but it
is all upstairs in an attic of the cottage we went to.”

“How long would it take to get her ready?” Horace asked.

“About ten days. Most of her ballast is out of her, but the rest ought
to come out so as to give her a regular clean down, and a coat of
whitewash below, before it is all put in again. If you like, young
’un, I will look after that. I have got nothing to do, and it will be
an amusement to me. I am looking for a berth at present in a
merchantman, but there are such a number of men out of harness that it
isn’t easy to get a job. Look here, if you really want to learn some
day to be fit to take charge of this craft yourself, you could not do
better than persuade your father to let you come over here and see her
fitted up, then you will know where every rope goes, and learn more
than you would sitting about on deck in the course of a year. There
will be no difficulty in getting a couple of rooms ready for you and
your man in the town.”

“Can we get home to-night, sir?”

“Yes, the coach goes through here at six o’clock.”

“My father will write to-morrow, at least I expect he will,” Horace
said. “It isn’t very easy to get him to do things, but I expect I
shall manage.”

“He will write,” Marco said confidently; and as the boy knew that the
Greek had far more opportunities of getting at his father than he had,
he felt sure that he would manage it.

“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Martyn,” he said.

“All right, young sir. If your father decides to take the boat get him
to write to me; or if he is bad at writing, write to me yourself after
settling it with him, and I will put on men and see that she is ready
for sea in a fortnight.”

“Do you feel sure father will let me have the boat, Marco?” Horace
said as soon as they were alone.

“It is done,” the Greek said with a wave of his hand. “He said to me,
‘Go and buy a proper boat, see that everything is right about it, but
don’t worry me.’ So when I say, ‘I have bought the boat; it is just
the thing we want; it will cost a hundred pounds by the time it is
ready for sea,’ he will say he is glad to hear it, and there will be
an end of it. Mr. Beveridge never troubles.”

“And will you tell him that it would be a good thing for me to go over
and see her fitted up?”

“I will tell him. He will be glad to know that you have got something
to do.”

It was half-past ten o’clock when they got home. The other Greek
opened the door.

“Is the master in bed yet, Zaimes?”

“He went upstairs ten minutes ago. I think he had forgotten all about
Horace not being at home. He did not mention his name to me.”

“What a nuisance!” Horace said. “Now I shall have to wait till
morning before I know about it, and I am so anxious to hear what he
says.”

“It will be all the pleasanter when you hear,” Zaimes said quietly.

The two men were brothers, Zaimes being ten years senior. He was Mr.
Beveridge’s valet, his brother being a sort of general assistant,
waiting at meals except when Horace was at home, when he was
considered specially told off to him. They lived apart from the other
servants, having a room of their own where they cooked their meals in
their own fashion. Both were extremely attached to their master, and
would have given their lives for him.

“Marco will tell me all about it, and I will talk to the master while
I am dressing him. You are making Marco again a boy like yourself,
Horace. He is as eager about this boat as you are”; and he smiled
indulgently at his brother, whom he still regarded as a boy, although
he was now nearly forty.

“That will be the best plan, Zaimes. I shall be glad for him to know
all about it before breakfast time, for I am sure I should not like to
tell him that we had fixed on a boat like that.”

Horace was a long time before he got to sleep. He had never dreamt of
anything bigger than an open boat, and the thought of having a craft
that he could sail anywhere along the coast, and even sleep on board,
seemed almost too good to be true. He woke an hour before his time,
dressed hastily, went out into the garden, and stood there looking
over the sea. The fishing-boats were going out, and he pictured to
himself the boat he had seen, gliding along among them, bigger and
ever so much handsomer than any of them; and how he would be able to
take out his cousins, and perhaps some day have a school friend to
spend the holidays with him and cruise about. So deep was he in his
thoughts that he was surprised when he heard the bell ring for
breakfast.

“Now, then,” he said to himself as he walked back to the house, “I
shall know. Of course it will be a horrible disappointment if he says
no, but I sha’n’t show it, because it is too much to expect him to do
this. I should never have dreamt of such a thing if it had not been
for Marco. Well, here goes”; and he walked into the parlour.

“Good morning, father!”

“Good morning, Horace. I am glad to hear that Marco has found just the
boat that he thinks will suit the place. He tells me you want to go
over and see her fitted out. I think that that will be a very good
plan. When you do a thing, Horace, do it well if it is worth doing at
all. Marco will go back with you by the coach this morning.”

“Oh, thank you, father; it is awfully kind of you!”

“I wish you to enjoy yourself,” his father said; “it is no more than
the price of another horse. It is a fine sport and a healthy one, and
I don’t know that it is more dangerous than galloping about the
country on horseback. I have told Marco to make all arrangements, and
not to worry me about things. At the beginning of each holiday he will
say how much he will require for provisions on board, and the payment
of the wages of a man and a boy. I shall give him a cheque, and there
will be an end of it as far as I am concerned. I shall be much more at
my ease knowing that you are enjoying yourself on board than wondering
what you will do to amuse yourself from day to day.”

Thinking that all that was necessary had been said, Mr. Beveridge then
opened a Greek book that lay as usual beside his plate, and speedily
became absorbed in it. When he himself had finished, Horace slipped
away. He knew that his father would be at least two hours over the
meal, which he only turned to when Zaimes made a movement to attract
his attention, everything being kept down by the fire, which was lit
specially for that purpose, even in summer.

“It is all settled, Marco; think of that! Won’t it be glorious?”

“It will be very good, Horace. I shall like it almost as much as you
will. I love the sea, even this gray ugly sea of yours, which is so
different from the blue of the Ægean. I too mope a little sometimes
when you are not at home, for though I have the kindest and best of
masters, one longs sometimes for change. I told you your father would
agree. It is just what I told him we should want. An open boat is no
use except when the weather is fine, and then one must always keep
close to port in case the wind should drop, and when it comes calm you
have to break your back with rowing. Oh, we will have fine sails
together, and as you grow older we can go farther away, for she should
be safe anywhere. When you become a man I daresay he will get for you
something bigger, and then perhaps we can sail together to Greece, and
perhaps the master will go with you, for he loves Greece as much as we
do.”

There was a fortnight of hard work. William Martyn was in command, and
kept Horace at work as if he had been a young midshipman under his
orders; while Marco turned his hand to everything, singing snatches of
sailor songs he had sung as he fished when a boy, chattering in Greek
to Horace, and in broken English to the two men.

“You are going to be skipper, I hear,” William Martyn said to him one
day.

“Going to skip!” Marco repeated vaguely. “I know not what you mean.”

“Going to be captain--padrone.”

Marco shook his head. “No, sir. Can sail open boat good, but not fit
to take charge of boat like this. Going to have man at Seaport, a good
fisherman. He sailed a long time in big ships. Man-of-war’s man. When
war over, came back to fish. I shall look after young master, cook
food for him, pull at rope, steer sometimes; but other man be captain
and sail boat.”

William Martyn nodded. “Quite right, Marco; these fishermen know the
coast, and the weather, and the ports and creeks to run into. It is
all very well in fine weather, but when you get a blow, a craft like
this wants a man who can handle her well.”

Horace’s pride in the craft increased every day. As she lay
weather-beaten and dismantled on the mud she had seemed to him larger
but not superior in appearance to the fishing craft of Seaport, which
were most of them boats of ten or twelve tons; but each day her
appearance changed, and at the end of ten days--with all her rigging
in place, her masts and spars scraped, her deck fairly white, and her
sides glossy with black paint--she seemed to him a thing of perfect
beauty. It was just the fortnight when the paint and varnish of the
cabins were dry, the furniture in its place, and everything ready for
sea. Horace’s delight culminated when the anchor was got up, sail set
on her, and William Martyn took the helm, as with a light wind she ran
down through the craft in the harbour for a trial trip.

“She is a wonderfully handy little craft,” the mate said approvingly,
as she began to rise and fall on the swell outside; “the old captain
knew what he was doing when he laid down her lines. She is like a duck
on the water. I have been out in her when big ships were putting their
noses into it, and she never shipped a pailful of water. I can tell
you you are in luck, youngster. How are you going to take her round?”

“I was going to write to-night for Tom Burdett--that is the man Marco
spoke about--to come over by coach.”

“I will tell you what I will do, youngster; I will take her over for
you. I shall enjoy the trip. If you like we will start to-morrow
morning.”

“I should like that immensely,” Horace said; “we shall astonish them
when we sail into the port.”

“Very well, then, that is agreed; you had better get some stores on
board; I mean provisions. Of course if the weather holds like this we
should be there in the evening; but it is a good rule at sea never to
trust the weather. Always have enough grub and water for a week on
board; then, if you happen to be blown off shore, or anything of that
sort, it is of no consequence.”




CHAPTER II

A YACHT


Marco, who acted as banker and appeared to Horace to be provided with
an unlimited amount of money, was busy all the evening getting
crockery, cooking-utensils, knives and forks, table-cloths, towels,
and other necessaries.

“Why, it is like fitting out a house, Marco.”

“Well, it is a little floating house,” the Greek said; “it is much
better to have your own things, and not to have to borrow from the
house every time. Now we will get some provisions, two or three
bottles of rum for bad weather, or when we have visitors on board, and
then we shall be complete. Mr. Martyn said he would see to the water.
Now, we will go to bed soon, for we are to be down at the wharf at six
o’clock; and if we are not there in time you may be sure that you will
get a rating.”

“There is no fear of my being late, Marco. I don’t think I shall sleep
all night.”

“Ah! we shall see. You have been on your feet since seven this
morning. I shall have to pull you by your ear to wake you in the
morning.”

This, however, was not necessary. The boy was fast asleep in five
minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow; he woke soon after
daylight, dropped off to sleep several times, but turned out at five,
opened the door of the Greek’s room, and shouted:

“Now, then, Marco, time to get up: if you do not, it is I who will do
the ear-pulling.”

They were down at the wharf at a quarter to six. As the clock struck
the hour William Martyn came down.

“Good-morning, youngster! you are before your time, I see. You
wouldn’t be so ready to turn out after you had had a year or two on
board ship. Well, it looks as if we are going to have a grand day.
There is a nice little breeze, and I fancy it will freshen a good bit
later on. Now, then, tumble into the dinghy, I will take the sculls;
the tide is running out strong, and you might run her into the yacht
and damage the paint; that would be a nice beginning.”

As soon as they were on board, the mate said:

“Now, off with those shoes, youngster. You can go barefoot if you
like, or you can put on those slippers you bought; we have got the
deck fairly white, and we must not spoil it. You should make that a
rule: everyone who comes on board takes off his boots at once.”

The Greek made the dinghy fast, and then took off his shoes and
stockings. Horace put on the slippers, and the mate a pair of light
shoes he had brought on board with him.

“Now, then, off with the sail-covers; fold them up and put them down
under the seat of the cockpit. Knot up the tyers loosely together, and
put them there also. Never begin to hoist your sails till you have got
the covers and tyers snugly packed away. Now, Marco, get number two
jib out of the sail-locker. I don’t think we shall want number one
to-day. Now, hook on the halliards. No; don’t hoist yet, run it out
first by the outhaul to the end of the bowsprit. We won’t hoist it
till we have got the mainmast and mizzen up. Now, Marco, you take the
peak halliards, and I will take the main. Now, then, up she goes; ease
off the sheet a bit. Horace, we must top the boom a bit; that is high
enough. Marco, make fast; now up with the mizzen; that is right. Now,
Horace, before you do anything else always look round, see that
everything is right, the halliards properly coiled up and turned over
so as to run freely, in case you want to lower or reef sail, the
sheets ready to slacken out, the foresail and jib sheets brought aft
on their proper sides. There is nothing in our way now; but when there
are craft in the way, you want to have everything in perfect order,
and ready to draw the moment the anchor is off the ground. Otherwise
you might run foul of something before you got fairly off, and
nothing can look more lubberly than that. Now you take the helm, and
Marco and I will get up the anchor. The wind is nearly dead down the
river; don’t touch the tiller till I tell you.”

Horace stood by the helm till the mate said:

“The chain is nearly up and down; now put the tiller gently to
starboard.”

As he spoke he ran up the jib, and as the boat’s head payed off,
fastened the sheet to windward.

“Now, Marco, round with the windlass; that is right, the anchor is
clear now; up with it.”

As he spoke he ran up the foresail. “Slack off the main sheets, lad,
handsomely; that is right, let them go free; slack off the mizzen
sheets.”

The wind had caught the jib now, and, aided by the tide, brought the
boat’s head sharply round. The jib and foresheets were hauled to
leeward, and in less than a minute from the time the anchor had left
the ground the boat was running down the river with her sheets well
off before the wind.

“Helm a-port a little, Horace, so as to give us plenty of room in
passing that brig at anchor. That is enough. Steady! Now keep as you
are. Marco, I will help you get the anchor on board, and then we will
get up the topsail and set it.”

In ten minutes the anchor was stowed, topsail set, and the ropes
coiled down. Then a small triangular blue flag with the word “Surf”
was run up to the masthead.

“Properly speaking, Horace, flags are not shown till eight o’clock in
the morning; but we will make an exception this time. Gently with the
tiller, lad; you are not steering a fishing-boat now; a touch is
sufficient for this craft. Keep your eye on the flag, and see that it
flies out straight ahead. That is the easiest thing to steer by when
you are dead before the wind. There is more care required for that
than for steering close-hauled, for a moment’s carelessness might
bring the sail across with a jerk that would pretty well take the mast
out of her. It is easy enough now in smooth water; but with a
following sea it needs a careful helmsman to keep a craft from yawing
about.”

Marco had disappeared down the forecastle hatch as soon as he had
finished coiling down the topsail halliard, and a wreath of smoke now
came up through the stove-pipe.

“That is good,” the mate said. “We shall have breakfast before long.”

They ran three miles straight out, so as to get well clear of the
land; then the sheets were hauled in, and the _Surf’s_ head pointed
east, and lying down to her gunwale she sped along parallel with the
shore.

“We are going along a good seven knots through the water,” the mate
said. “She has got just as much sail as she wants, though she would
stand a good deal more wind, if there were any occasion to press her;
but as a rule, Horace, always err on the right side; there is never
any good in carrying too much sail. You can always make more sail if
the wind drops, while if it rises it is not always easy to get it in.
Give me the helm. Now go down to Marco and tell him to come up a few
minutes before breakfast is ready. We will get the topsail off her
before we sit down, and eat our breakfast comfortably. There is no fun
in having your plate in your lap.”

By half-past seven the topsail was stowed and breakfast on the table.
Marco took the helm, while the mate and Horace went down to breakfast.
Horace thought that it was the most delightful meal he had ever taken;
and the mate said:

“That Greek of yours is a first-rate cook, Horace. An admiral could
not want to sit down to a better breakfast than this. There is not
much here to remind me of a midshipman’s mess. You would have had very
different food from this, youngster, if you had had your wish and gone
to sea. That father of yours must be a trump; I drink his health in
coffee. If he ever gets a bigger craft, and wants a captain, I am his
man if he will send your Greek on board as cook. Does he care for the
sea himself?”

“I think he used to like it. I have heard him talk about sailing among
the Greek islands; but as long as I have known him he has never been
away from home except for short runs up to London. He is always in his
library.”

“Fancy a man who could afford to keep a big craft and sail about as he
likes wasting his life over musty old books. It is a rum taste,
youngster. I think I would rather row in a galley.”

“There are no such things as galleys now, are there?”

“Oh, yes, there are in Italy; they have them still rowed by convicts,
and I fancy the Spanish gun-boats are rowed by prisoners too. It is
worse than a dog’s life, but for all that I would rather do it than be
shut up all my life in a library. You seem to talk Greek well,
youngster.”

“Yes; Marco has always been with me since I was a child, and we have
another Greek servant, his brother; and father generally talks Greek
to me. His mother was a Greek lady, and that is what made him so fond
of it at first. They say he is the best Greek scholar in England.”

“I suppose it differs a lot from the Greek you learn at school?”

“Yes, a lot. Still, of course, my knowing it helps me tremendously
with my old Greek. I get on first-rate at that, but I am very bad at
everything else.”

“Well, now we will go up and give Marco a spell,” the mate said. Marco
was relieved and went below. Horace took the helm; the mate lit a pipe
and seated himself on the weather bulwark. “We shall be at Seaport
before eleven if we go on like this,” he said.

“Oh, do let us take a run out to sea, Mr. Martyn; it is no use our
going in until four or five o’clock.”

“Just as you like, lad; I am in no hurry, and it is really a glorious
day for a sail. Put up the helm, I will see to the sheets.”

As they got farther from the protection of the land the sea got up a
bit, but the _Surf_ went over it lightly, and except that an
occasional splash of spray flew over her bow, her decks were perfectly
dry.

“Have you heard of a ship yet, Mr. Martyn?”

“Yes, I heard only yesterday of a berth as first-mate in a craft at
Plymouth. The first-mate got hurt coming down channel, and a friend of
my father’s, learning there was a vacancy, spoke to the owners. She
belongs there, and I am to join the day after to-morrow. She is bound
up the Mediterranean. I shall be very glad to be off; I have had a
dull time of it for the last four months except for this little job.”

“I am afraid you won’t get any vehicle to take you back to-night,”
Horace said.

“No, I didn’t expect that; the coach in the morning will do very well.
I have nothing to do but just to pack my kit, and shall go on by coach
next morning. I was thinking of sleeping on board here, if you have no
objection.”

“I am sure my father will be very glad to see you up at the house,”
Horace said eagerly.

“Thank you, lad, but I shall be much more comfortable on board. Marco
said he would get dinner at two, and there is sure to be plenty for me
to make a cold supper of, and as there is rum in the locker I shall be
as happy as a king. I can smoke my pipe as I like. If I were to go up
with you I should be uncomfortable, for I have nothing but my
sea-going togs. I should put your father out of his way, and he would
put me out of mine. So I think, on all accounts, I had much better
remain in good quarters now I have got them. How far is it to the
place where I catch the coach?”

“About four miles. We will send the carriage to take you there.”

“Thank you, I would much rather walk. I have nothing to carry but
myself, and a four miles’ walk across the hills will be just the thing
for me.”

At four o’clock the _Surf_ entered the little harbour of Seaport;
Horace was delighted with the surprise of the fishermen at the arrival
of the pretty craft.

“You are sure you won’t change your mind and come up with me to the
house?”

“Quite certain, thank you, lad. Marco has put out everything I can
possibly require. He offered to come down to get breakfast for me, but
I prefer to manage that for myself, then I can have it at any time I
fancy. I will lock up the cabin before I land. He will be there to
take the key.”

“I shall come down with him, of course, Mr. Martyn. I can’t tell you
how much I am obliged to you for what you have done for me, and I hope
that some day we may have another sail together.”

“If I am at home any time when you may happen to put in at Exmouth I
shall be glad to take a cruise with you, Horace.”

As the lad and Marco went up the hill to the house, Horace, to his
surprise, met his father coming down with Zaimes.

“Well, Horace, so you have brought your yacht home. Zaimes routed me
out from my work to come and look at her, and she really looks a very
pretty little vessel.”

“She is not little at all, father.”

“Perhaps not in comparison, Horace; but did you and Marco bring her
back by yourselves?”

“No, father; William Martyn, the officer who has seen to her fitting
up, and who recommended her, you know, said he would come with us. So,
of course, he has been in command, and Marco and I have been the crew.
He has been teaching me lots of things, just the same, he says, as if
I had been a newly joined midshipman.”

“But where is he now, Horace?”

“He is on board. He is going home by the coach to-morrow. I said that
I was sure you would be glad if he would come up to the house; but he
said he should feel more comfortable on board. Were you coming down to
look at her, father?”

“Yes, Horace, I was. It is quite a wonderful event my being outside
the grounds, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, father. I am so glad you are coming down. I am sure you
will like her, and then, perhaps, you will come sailing sometimes; I
do think, father, that you would enjoy such a sail as we had to-day,
it was splendid.”

“Well, we will see about it, Horace. Now I have once come out I may do
so again; I am not sure that a good blow might not clear my brain
sometimes.”

There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was
seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come
down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new
cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered
the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation
of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal
in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs,
to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or
misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always
remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut
himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted
that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the
country.

Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at
Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject
that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men
touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street,
looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly
wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his
position.

Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious
of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the
years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace,
and by the completion of so many works.

“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”

“All of them, I think, father.”

“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish
I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think
they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I
ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try
to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a
fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and
say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”

“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you
will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must
put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be
done.’”

“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You
remind me of that, will you?”

By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the
fishermen were still lounging discussing the _Surf_, which was lying
the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with
every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and
presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.

“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with
more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak
with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think
she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one
back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to
cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and
yet it seems but yesterday.”

“There is no reason why you should not sail again, master; even I long
to have my foot on the planks. One never loses one’s love of the sea.”

“I am getting to be an old man now, Zaimes.”

“No one would say so but yourself, master; you are but forty-three.
Sometimes, after being shut up for days, you look old--who would not
when the sun never shines on them--but now you look young, much
younger than you are.”

A stranger indeed would have had difficulty in guessing Mr.
Beveridge’s age. His forehead was broad, his skin delicate and almost
colourless, his light-brown hair was already of a silvery shade, his
face clean shaven, his hands white and thin. His eyes were generally
soft and dreamy, but at the present moment they were bright and
alert. His figure was scarcely that of a student, for the frame was
large, and there was at present none of the stoop habitual to those
who spend their lives over books; and now that he was roused, he
carried himself exceptionally upright, and a close observer might have
taken him for a vigorous man who had but lately recovered from an
attack of severe illness.

“We shall see, Zaimes, we shall see,” he said; “let us go on board.
You had better hail her, Horace.”

“_Surf_ ahoy!” Horace shouted, imitating as well as he could William
Martyn’s usual hail. A minute later the mate’s head appeared above the
companion. “My father is coming on board, Mr. Martyn. Will you please
bring the dinghy ashore.” The mate hauled up the dinghy, got into it,
and in a few strokes was alongside the quay.

Mr. Beveridge descended the steps first. “I am glad to meet you, Mr.
Martyn, and to thank you for the kindness you have shown my son in
finding this craft for him and seeing to its being fitted out.”

“It has been an amusement, sir,” the mate said. “I was knocking about
Exmouth with nothing to do, and it was pleasant to be at work on
something.”

“Get in, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said, “the dinghy won’t carry us all.
You can bring it back again for the others.”

The party stayed for half an hour on board. Mr. Beveridge was warm in
his approval of the arrangements.

“This is a snug cabin indeed,” he said. “I had no idea that such a
small craft could have had such good accommodation. One could wish for
nothing better except for a little more head-room, but after all that
is of no great consequence, one does not want to walk about below. It
is a place to eat and to sleep in, or, if it is wet, to read in. I
really wonder I never thought of having a sailing-boat before. I shall
certainly take a sail with you sometimes, Horace.”

“I am very glad of that, father, it would be very jolly having you
out. I don’t see much of you, you know, and I do think it would do you
good.”

William Martyn was not allowed to carry out his intention of staying
on board, nor did he resist very earnestly Mr. Beveridge’s pressing
invitation. His host differed widely from his preconceived notions of
him, and he saw that he need not be afraid of ceremony.

“You can smoke your pipe, you know, in the library after dinner, Mr.
Martyn. I have no objection whatever to smoke; indeed, I used to smoke
myself when I was in Greece as a young man--everyone did so there, and
I got to like it, though I gave it up afterwards. Why did I give it
up, Zaimes?”

“I think you gave it up, master, because you always let your cigar out
after smoking two or three whiffs, and never thought of it again for
the rest of the day.”

“Perhaps that was it; at any rate your smoking will in no way
incommode me, so I will take no denial.”

Accordingly the cabins were locked up, and William Martyn went up with
the others to the house and there spent a very pleasant evening. He
had in the course of his service sailed for some time in Greek waters,
and there was consequently much to talk about which interested both
himself and his host.

“I love Greece,” Mr. Beveridge said. “Had it not been that she lies
dead under the tyranny of the Turks I doubt if I should not have
settled there altogether.”

“I think you would have got tired of it, sir,” the mate said. “There
is nothing to be said against the country or the islands, except that
there are precious few good harbours among them; but I can’t say I
took to the people.”

“They have their faults,” Mr. Beveridge admitted, “but I think they
are the faults of their position more than of their natural character.
Slaves are seldom trustworthy, and I own that they are not as a rule
to be relied upon. Having no honourable career open to them, the upper
classes think of nothing but money; they are selfish, greedy, and
corrupt; but I believe in the bulk of the people.”

As William Martyn had no belief whatever in any section of the Greeks
he held his tongue.

“Greece will rise one of these days,” Mr. Beveridge went on, “and when
she does she will astonish Europe. The old spirit still lives among
the descendants of Leonidas and Miltiades.”

“I should be sorry to be one of the Turks who fell into their hands,”
William Martyn said gravely as he thought of the many instances in his
own experiences of the murders of sailors on leave ashore.

“It is probable that there will be sad scenes of bloodshed,” Mr.
Beveridge agreed; “that is only to be expected when you have a race of
men of a naturally impetuous and passionate character enslaved by a
people alien in race and in religion. Yes, I fear it will be so at the
commencement, but that will be all altered when they become
disciplined soldiers. Do you not think so?” he asked, as the sailor
remained silent.

“I have great doubts whether they will ever submit to discipline,” he
said bluntly. “Their idea of fighting for centuries has been simply to
shoot down an enemy from behind the shelter of rocks. I would as lief
undertake to discipline an army of Malays, who, in a good many
respects, especially in the handiness with which they use their
knives, are a good deal like the Greeks.”

“There is one broad distinction,” Mr. Beveridge said: “the Malays have
no past, the Greeks have never lost the remembrance of their ancient
glory. They have a high standard to act up to; they reverence the
names of the great men of old as if they had died but yesterday. With
them it would be a resurrection, accomplished, no doubt, after vast
pains and many troubles, the more so since the Greeks are a composite
people among whom the descendants of the veritable Greek of old are in
a great minority. The majority are of Albanian and Suliot blood, races
which even the Romans found untamable. When the struggle begins I fear
that this section of the race will display the savagery of their
nature; but the fighting over, the intellectual portion will, I doubt
not, regain their proper ascendency, and Greece will become the Greece
of old.”

William Martyn was wise enough not to pursue the subject. He had a
deep scar from the shoulder to the elbow of his right arm, and another
on the left shoulder, both reminiscences of an attack that had been
made upon him by half a dozen ruffians one night in the streets of
Athens, and in his private opinion the entire extirpation of the Greek
race would be no loss to the world in general.

“I am very sorry you have to leave to-morrow morning,” Mr. Beveridge
said presently. “I should have been very glad if you could have stayed
with us for a few days. It is some years since I had a visitor here,
and I can assure you that I am surprised at the pleasure it gives me.
However, I hope that whenever you happen to be at Exmouth you will run
over and see us, and if at any time I can be of the slightest service
to you I shall be really pleased.”

The next morning William Martyn, still refusing the offer of a
conveyance, walked across the hills to meet the coach, and as soon as
he had started Horace went down to the yacht. Marco had gone down into
the village early, had seen Tom Burdett, and in his master’s name
arranged for him to take charge of the _Surf_, and to engage a lad to
sail with him. When Horace reached the wharf Tom was already on board
with his nephew, Dick, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who at once
brought the dinghy ashore at Horace’s hail.

“Well, Dick, so you are going with us?”

“Ay, Master Horace, I am shipped as crew. She be a beauty. That cabin
is a wonderful lot better than the fo’castle of a fishing-lugger. She
is something like a craft to go a sailing in.”

“Good morning, Tom Burdett,” Horace said as the boat came alongside
the yacht; “or I ought to say Captain Burdett.”

“No, no,” the sailor laughed; “I have been too long aboard big craft
to go a captaining. I don’t so much mind being called a skipper, cos a
master of any sort of craft may be called skipper; but I ain’t going
to be called captain. Now, Dick, run that flag up to the mast-head.
That is yachting fashion, you know, Master Horace, to run the burgee
up when the owner comes on board. We ain’t got a burgee, seeing as we
don’t belong to a yacht-club; but the flag with the name does service
for it at present.”

“But I am not the owner, Tom, that is nonsense. My father got it to
please me, and very good of him it was; but it is nonsense to call the
boat mine.”

“Them’s the orders I got from your Greek chap down below, Mr. Horace.
Says he, ‘Master says as how Mr. Horace is to be regarded as owner of
this ’ere craft whenever he is aboard;’ so there you are, you see.
There ain’t nothing to be said against that.”

“Well, it is very jolly, isn’t it, Tom?”

“It suits me first-rate, sir. I feel for all the world as if we had
just captured a little prize, and they had put a young midshipmite in
command and sent me along with him just to keep him straight; that is
how I feel about it.”

“What sort of weather do you think we are going to have to-day, Tom?”

“I think the wind is going to shift, sir, and perhaps there will be
more of it. It has gone round four points to the east since I turned
out before sunrise.”

“And where do you think we had better go to-day, Tom?”

“Well, as the wind is now it would be first-rate for a run to
Dartmouth.”

“Yes, but we should have a dead-beat back, Tom; we should never get
back before dark.”

“No sir, but that Greek chap tells me as your father said as how there
were no occasion to be back to-night, if so be as you liked to make a
cruise of it.”

“Did he say that? That is capital. Then let us go to Dartmouth;
to-morrow we can start as early as we like so as to get back here.”

“I don’t reckon we shall have to beat back. According to my notion the
wind will be somewhere round to the south by to-morrow morning; that
will suit us nicely. Now then, sir, we will see about getting sail on
her.”

As soon as they began to throw the sail-covers off, Marco came on deck
and lent a hand, and in the course of three minutes the sails were up,
the mooring slipped, and the _Surf_ was gliding past the end of the
jetty.

“That was done in pretty good style, sir,” Tom Burdett said as he took
up his station by the side of Horace, who was at the tiller. “I reckon
when we have had a week’s practice together we shall get up sail as
smartly as a man-of-war captain would want to see. I do like to see
things done smart if it is only on a little craft like this, and with
three of us we ought to get all her lower sail on her in no time. That
Greek chap knows what he is about. Of course he has often been out
with you in the fishing-boats, but there has never been any call for
him to lend a hand there, and I was quite surprised just now when he
turned to at it. I only reckoned on Dick and myself, and put the Greek
down as steward and cook.”

“He used to work in a fishing-boat when he was a boy, Tom.”

“Ah, that accounts for it! They are smart sailors, some of them
Greeks, in their own craft, though I never reckoned they were any good
in a square-rigged ship; but in those feluccas of theirs they ain’t
easy to be beaten in anything like fine weather. But they ain’t
dependable, none of those Mediterranean chaps are, whether they are
Greeks or Italians or Spaniards, when it comes on to blow really hard,
and there is land under your lee, and no port to run to. When it comes
to a squeak like that they lose their nerve and begin to pray to the
saints, and wring their hands, and jabber like a lot of children. They
don’t seem to have no sort of backbone about them. But in fine weather
I allow they handle their craft as well as they could be handled. Mind
your helm, sir; you must always keep your attention to that, no matter
what is being said.”

“Are you going to get up the topsail, Tom?”

“Not at present, sir; with this wind there will be more sea on as we
get further out, and I don’t know the craft yet; I want to see what
her ways are afore we try her. She looks to me as if she would be
stiff under canvas; but running as we are we can’t judge much about
that, and you have always got to be careful with these light-draft
craft. When we get to know her we shall be able to calculate what she
will carry in all weathers; but there is no hurry about that. I have
seen spars carried away afore now, from young commanders cracking on
sail on craft they knew nothing about. This boat can run, there is no
mistake about that. Look at that fishing-boat ahead of us; that is
Jasper Hill’s _Kitty_; she went out ten minutes afore you came down.
We are overhauling her hand over hand, and she is reckoned one of the
fastest craft in Seaport. But then, this craft is bound to run fast
with her fine lines and shallow draft; we must wait to see how she
will do when there is lots of wind.”

In a couple of hours Horace was glad to hand over the tiller to the
skipper as the sea had got up a good deal, and the _Surf_ yawed so
much before the following waves that it needed more skill than he
possessed to keep her straight.

“Fetch the compass up, Dick,” the skipper said; “we are dropping the
land fast. Now get the mizzen off her, she will steer easier without
it, and it isn’t doing her much good. Do you begin to feel queer at
all, Mr. Horace?”

“Not a bit,” the boy laughed. “Why, you don’t suppose, after rolling
about in those fishing-boats when they are hanging to their nets, that
one would feel this easy motion.”

“No; you would think not, but it don’t always follow. I have seen a
man, who had been accustomed to knock about all his life in small
craft, as sick as a dog on board a frigate, and I have seen the first
lieutenant of a man-of-war knocked right over while lying off a bar on
boat service. One gets accustomed to one sort of motion, and when you
get another quite different it seems to take your innards all aback.”

The run to Dartmouth was quickly made, and to Horace’s delight they
passed several large ships on their way.

“Yes, she is going well,” Tom Burdett said when he expressed his
satisfaction; “but if the wind was to get up a bit more it would be
just the other way. We have got quite as much as we want, while they
could stand a good bit more. A small craft will generally hold her own
in a light wind, because why, she carries more sail in proportion to
her tonnage. When the big ship has got as much as she can do with, the
little one has to reef down and half her sails are taken off her.
Another thing is, the waves knock the way out of a small craft, while
the weight of a big one takes her through them without feeling it.
Still I don’t say the boat ain’t doing well, for she is first-rate,
and we shall make a very quick passage to port.”

Running up the pretty river, they rounded to, head to wind, dropped
the anchor a short distance from a ship of war, and lowered and stowed
their sails smartly. Then Horace went below to dinner. It had been
ready for some little time, but he had not liked leaving the deck, for
rolling, as she sometimes did, it would have been impossible to eat
comfortably. As soon as he dined, the others took their meal in the
fo’castle, Marco having insisted on waiting on him while at his
dinner. When they had finished, Marco and Dick rowed Horace ashore.
The lad took the boat back to the yacht, while the other two strolled
about the town for a couple of hours, and then went off again.

The next day the _Surf_ fully satisfied her skipper as to her
weatherly qualities. The wind was, as he had predicted, nearly
south-east, and there was a good deal of sea on. Before getting up
anchor, the topmast was lowered, two reefs put in the main-sail and
one in the mizzen, and a small jib substituted for that carried on the
previous day. Showers of spray fell on the deck as they put out from
the mouth of the river; but once fairly away she took the waves
easily, and though sometimes a few buckets of water tumbled over her
bows and swashed along the lee channels, nothing like a green sea came
on board. Tom Burdett was delighted with her.

“She is a beauty and no mistake,” he said enthusiastically. “There is
many a big ship will be making bad weather of it to-day; she goes over
it like a duck. After this, Mr. Horace, I sha’n’t mind what weather I
am out in her. I would not have believed a craft her size would have
behaved so well in a tumble like this. You see this is more trying for
her than a big sea would be. She would take it easier if the waves
were longer, and she had more time to take them one after the other.
That is why you hear of boats living in a sea that has beaten the life
out of a ship. A long craft does not feel a short choppy sea that a
small one would be putting her head into every wave: but in a long sea
the little one has the advantage. What do you think of her, sir?”

“She seems to me to heel over a long way, Tom.”

“Yes, she is well over; but you see, even in the puffs she doesn’t go
any further. Every vessel has got what you may call her bearing. It
mayn’t take much to get her over to that; but when she is there it
takes a wonderful lot to bring her any further. You see there is a lot
of sail we could take off her yet, if the wind were to freshen. We
could get in another reef in the main-sail, and stow her mizzen and
foresail altogether. She would stand pretty nigh a hurricane with that
canvas.”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the _Surf_ entered the
harbour. Horace was drenched with spray, and felt almost worn out
after the struggle with the wind and waves; when he landed his knees
were strangely weak, but he felt an immense satisfaction with the
trip, and believed implicitly Tom Burdett’s assertion that the yacht
could stand any weather.




CHAPTER III

THE WRECK


Those were glorious holidays for Horace Beveridge. He was seldom at
home; sometimes two of his cousins, the Hendons, accompanied him in
his trips, and they were away for three or four days at a time. Three
times Mr. Beveridge with Zaimes went out for a day’s sail, and Horace
was pleased to see that his father really enjoyed it, talking but
little, but sitting among some cushions Zaimes arranged for him
astern, and basking in the bright sun and fresh air. That he did enjoy
it was evident from the fact that, instead of having the yacht laid up
at the end of the holidays, Mr. Beveridge decided to keep her afloat,
and retained Tom Burdett’s services permanently.

“Do you think, Tom, we shall get any sailing in the winter holidays?”

“We are sure to, sir, if your father has not laid her up by that time.
There are plenty of days on this coast when the sailing is as pleasant
in winter as it is in summer. The harbour is a safe one though it is
so small, and I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be kept afloat.
Of course we shall have to put a stove in the cabin to make it snug;
but with that, a good thick pea-jacket, warm gloves, and high boots,
you would be as right as a nail.”

And so at Christmas and through the next summer holidays Horace
enjoyed almost constant sailing. He was now thoroughly at home in the
boat, could steer without the supervision of the skipper, and was as
handy with the ropes as Dick himself.

“This is the best job I ever fell into, Mr. Horace,” Tom Burdett said
at the end of the second summer. “Your father pays liberal; and as for
grub, when that Greek is on board a post-captain could not want
better. It is wonderful how that chap does cook, and he seems
downright to like it. Then you see I have got a first-rate crew. Dick
is as good as a man now; I will say for the Greek, he is a good sailor
as well as a good cook; and then you see you have got a deal bigger
and stronger than you were a year ago, and are just as handy either at
the tiller or the sheets as a man would be, so we are regular
strong-handed, and that makes a wonderful difference in the comfort on
a craft.”

That summer they sailed up to Portsmouth, and cruised for a week
inside the Isle of Wight, and as Horace had one of his school-fellows
spending the holidays with him, he enjoyed himself to the fullest of
his capacity. During the holidays Horace did not see much of his
father, who, quite content that the boy was enjoying himself, and
gaining health and strength, went on in his own way, and only once
went out with him during his stay at home, although, as Marco told
him, he generally went out once a week at other times.

The first morning after his return, at the following Christmas, Horace
did not as usual get up as soon as it was light. The rattle of the
window and the howl of the wind outside sufficed to tell him that
there would be no sailing that day. Being in no hurry to move, he sat
over breakfast longer than usual, talking to Zaimes of what had
happened at home and in the village since he last went away. His
father was absent, having gone up to town a week before, and Horace
had, on his arrival, found a letter from him, saying that he was sorry
not to be there for his return, but that he found he could not get
through the work on which he was engaged for another two days; he
should, however, be down at any rate by Christmas-eve.

After breakfast Horace went out and looked over the sea. The wind was
almost dead on shore, blowing in such violent gusts that he could
scarce keep his feet. The sky was a dull lead colour, the low clouds
hurrying past overhead. The sea was covered with white breakers, and
the roar of the surf, as it broke on the shore, could be heard even
above the noise of the wind. Putting on his pea-jacket and high
boots, he went down to the port. As it had been specially constructed
as a shelter against south-westerly winds, with the western pier
overlapping the other, the sea did not make a direct sweep into it;
but the craft inside were all rolling heavily in the swell.

“How are you, Tom? It is a wild day, isn’t it?”

“Don’t want to see a worse, sir. Glad to see you back again, Mr.
Horace. Quite well, I hope?”

“First-rate, Tom. It is a nuisance this gale the first day of coming
home. I have been looking forward to a sail. I am afraid there is no
chance of one to-day?”

“Well, sir, I should say they would take us and send us all to the
loonatic asylum at Exeter if they saw us getting ready to go out. Just
look at the sea coming over the west pier. It has carried away a bit
of that stone wall at the end.”

“Yes. I didn’t really think of going out, Tom, though I suppose if we
had been caught out in it we should have managed somehow.”

“We should have done our best, in course,” the sailor said, “and I
have that belief in the boat that I think she might weather it; but I
would not take six months’ pay to be out a quarter of an hour.”

“What would you do, Tom, if you were caught in a gale like this?”

“If there weren’t land under our lee I should lay to, sir, under the
storm-jib and a try-sail. Maybe I would unship the main-sail with the
boom and gaff, get the top-mast on deck and lash that to them; then
make a bridle with a strong rope, launch it overboard, lower all sail,
and ride to that; that would keep us nearer head on to the sea than we
could lie under any sail. That is what they call a floating anchor. I
never heard of a ship being hove-to that way; but I was out on boat
service in the Indian Ocean when we were caught in a heavy blow, and
the lieutenant who was in charge made us lash the mast and sails and
oars together and heave them overboard, and we rode to them right
through the gale. We had to bale a bit occasionally, but there was
never any danger, and I don’t think we should have lived through it
any other way. I made a note of it at the time, and if ever I am
caught in the same way again that is what I shall do, and what would
be good for a boat would be good for a craft like the _Surf_.”

This conversation was carried on with some difficulty, although they
were standing under the lee of the wall of a cottage.

“She rolls about heavily, Tom.”

“She does that, sir. It is lucky we have got our moorings in the
middle of the harbour, and none of the fishing-boats are near enough
to interfere with her. You see most of them have got their sails and
nets rolled up as fenders, but in spite of that they have been ripping
and tearing each other shocking. There will be jobs for the carpenter
for some time to come. Five or six of them have torn away their
bulwarks already.”

After waiting down by the port for an hour Horace returned to the
house. When luncheon was over he was just about to start again for the
port, when Marco said to him:

“Dick has just been in, sir. There is going to be a wreck. There are a
lot of fishermen gathered on the cliff half a mile away to the right.
They say there is a ship that will come ashore somewhere along there.”

“Come on, then, Marco. Did you hear whether they thought that anything
could be done?”

“I did not hear anything about it. I don’t think they know where she
will go ashore yet.”

In a few minutes they reached the group of fishermen standing on the
cliff. It was a headland beyond which the land fell away, forming a
bay some three miles across. A large barque was to be seen some two
miles off shore. She was wallowing heavily in the seas, and each wave
seemed to smother her in spray. Tom Burdett was among the group, and
Horace went up to him at once.

“What’s to prevent her from beating off, Tom? She ought to be able to
work out without difficulty.”

“So she would at ordinary times,” the skipper said; “but she is
evidently a heavy sailer and deep laden. She could do it now if they
could put more sail on her, but I expect her canvas is all old. You
see her topsails are all in ribbons. Each of them seas heaves her
bodily to leeward. She is a doomed ship, sir, there ain’t no sort of
doubt about that; the question is, Where is she coming ashore?”

“Will it make much difference, Tom?”

“Well, it might make a difference if her master knew the coast. The
best thing he could do would be to get her round and run straight in
for this point. The water is deeper here than it is in the bay, and
she would get nearer ashore before she struck, and we might save a few
of them if they lashed themselves to spars and her coops and such
like. Deep as she is she would strike half a mile out if she went
straight up the bay. The tide is nearly dead low, and in that case not
a man will get ashore through that line of breakers. Then, again, she
might strike near Ram’s Head over there, which is like enough if she
holds on as she is doing at present. The Head runs a long way out
under water, and it is shallower half a mile out than it is nearer the
point. There is a clump of rocks there.”

“I don’t remember anything about them, Tom, and we have sailed along
there a score of times.”

“No, sir, we don’t take no account of them in small craft, and there
is a fathom and a half of water over them even in spring-tides.
Springs are on now, and there ain’t much above nine foot just now; and
that craft draws two fathom and a half or thereabouts, over twelve
foot anyhow. But it don’t make much difference; wherever she strikes
she will go to pieces in this sea in a few minutes.”

“Surely there is something to be done, Tom?”

“Some of us are just going down to get ropes and go along the shore,
Mr. Horace; but Lor’ bless you, one just does it for the sake of doing
something. One knows well enough that it ain’t likely we shall get a
chance of saving a soul.”

“But couldn’t some of the boats go out, Tom? There would be plenty of
water for them where she strikes.”

“The fishermen have been talking about it, sir; but they are all of
one opinion; the sea is altogether too heavy for them.”

“But the _Surf_ could go, couldn’t she, Tom? You have always said she
could stand any sea.”

“Any reasonable sort of sea, Mr. Horace, but this is a downright
onreasonable sort of sea for a craft of her size, and it is a deal
worse near shore where the water begins to shallow than it would be
out in the channel.”

But though Tom Burdett spoke strongly, Horace noticed that his tone
was not so decided as when he said that the fishing-boats could not go
out.

“Look here, Tom,” he said, “I suppose there must be thirty hands on
board that ship. We can’t see them drowned without making a try to
save them. We have got the best boat here on the coast. We have been
out in some bad weather in her, and she has always behaved splendidly.
I vote we try. She can fetch out between the piers all right from
where she is moored; and if, when we get fairly out, we find it is
altogether too much for her, we could put back again.”

Tom made no answer. He was standing looking at the ship. He had been
already turning it over in his mind whether it would not be possible
for the _Surf_ to put out. He had himself an immense faith in her
sea-going qualities, and believed that she might be able to stand even
this sea.

“But you wouldn’t be thinking of going in her, Mr. Horace?” he said
doubtfully at last.

“Of course I should,” the lad said indignantly. “You don’t suppose
that I would let the _Surf_ go out if I were afraid to go in her
myself.”

“Your father would never agree to that if he were at home, sir.”

“Yes, he would,” Horace said. “I am sure my father would say that
if the _Surf_ went out I ought to go in her, and that it would be
cowardly to let other people do what one is afraid to do one’s self.
Besides, I can swim better than either you or Dick, and should have
more chance of getting ashore if she went down; but I don’t think she
would go down. I am nearly sixteen now; and as my father isn’t here I
shall have my own way. If you say that you think there is no chance of
the _Surf_ getting out to her there is an end of it; but if you say
that you think she could live through it, we will go.”

[Illustration: HORACE SUGGESTS A RESCUE]

“I think she might do it, Mr. Horace; I have been a saying so to the
others. They all say that it would be just madness, but then they
don’t know the craft as I do.”

“Well, look here, Tom, I will put it this way: if the storm had been
yesterday, and my father and I had both been away, wouldn’t you have
taken her out?”

“Well, sir, I should; I can’t say the contrary. I have always said
that the boat could go anywhere, and I believe she could, and I ain’t
going to back down now from my opinion; but I say as it ain’t right
for you to go.”

“That is my business,” Horace said. “Marco, I am going out in the
_Surf_ to try to save some of the men on board that ship. Are you
disposed to come too?”

“I will go if you go,” the Greek said slowly; “but I don’t know what
your father would say.”

“He would say, if there was a chance of saving life it ought to be
tried, Marco. Of course there is some danger in it, but Tom thinks she
can do it, and so do I. We can’t stand here and see thirty men drowned
without making an effort to save them. I have quite made up my mind to
go.”

“Very well, sir, then I will go.”

Horace went back to Tom Burdett, who was talking with Dick apart from
the rest.

“We will take a couple of extra hands if we can get them,” the skipper
said. “We shall want to be strong-handed.”

He went to the group of fishermen and said:

“We are going out in the _Surf_ to see if we can lend a hand to bring
some of those poor fellows ashore. Young Mr. Beveridge is coming, but
we want a couple more hands. Who will go with us?”

There was silence for a minute, and then a young fisherman said:

“I will go, Tom. My brother Nat is big enough to take my place in the
boat if I don’t come back again. I am willing to try it with you,
though I doubt if the yacht will get twice her own length beyond the
pier.”

“And I will go with you, Tom,” an older man said. “If my son Dick is
going, I don’t see why I should hang back.”

“That will do, then, that makes up our crew. Now we had best be
starting at once. That barque will be ashore in another hour, and she
will go to pieces pretty near as soon as she strikes. So if we are
going to do anything, there ain’t no time to be lost. The rest of you
had better go along with stout ropes as you was talking of just now;
that will give us a bit of a chance if things go wrong.”

The six hurried along the cliff and then down to the port, followed by
the whole of the fishermen. A couple of trips with the dinghy took
them on board.

“Now, then,” Tom Burdett said to Dick’s father, “we will get the
fore-sail out and rig it as a try-sail. Dick, you cut the lashings and
get the main-sail off the hoops. We will leave it and the spars here;
do you lend him a hand, Jack Thompson.”

In five minutes the main-sail with its boom and gaff was taken off the
mast and tied together. A rope was attached to them and the end flung
ashore, where they were at once hauled in by the fishermen, who
crowded the wharf, every soul in the village having come down at the
news that the _Surf_ was going out. By this time holes had been made
along the leach of the sail, and by these it was lashed to the
mast-hoops. The top-mast was sent down to the deck, launched
overboard, and hauled ashore; the mizzen was closely reefed, but not
hoisted.

“We will see how she does without it,” Tom said; “she may like it and
she may not. Now, up with the try-sail and jib, and stand by to cast
off the moorings as she gets weigh on her; I will take the tiller.
Marco, do you and Mr. Horace stand by the mizzen-halliards ready to
hoist if I tell you.”

As the _Surf_ began to move through the water a loud cheer broke from
the crowd on shore, followed by a dead silence. She moved but slowly
as she was under the lee of the west pier.

“Ben, do you and the other two kick out the lower plank of the
bulwark,” Tom Burdett said; “we shall want to get rid of the water as
fast as it comes on board.”

The three men with their heavy sea-boots knocked out the plank with a
few kicks.

“Now, the one on the other side,” Tom said; and this was done just as
they reached the entrance between the piers. She was gathering way
fast now.

“Ease off that jib-sheet, Dick,” the skipper cried. “Stand by to haul
it in as soon as the wind catches the try-sail.”

Tom put down the helm as he reached the end of the pier, but a great
wave caught her head and swept her half round. A moment later the wind
in its full force struck the try-sail and she heeled far over with the
blow.

“Up with the mizzen!” Tom shouted. “Give her more sheet, Dick!” As the
mizzen drew, its action and that of the helm told, and the _Surf_
swept up into the wind. “Haul in the jib-sheet, Dick. That is enough;
make it fast. Ease off the mizzen-sheet a little, Marco! That will do.
Now lash yourselves with lines to the bulwark.”

For the first minute or two it seemed to Horace that the _Surf_, good
boat as she was, could not live through those tremendous waves, each
of which seemed as if it must overwhelm her; but although the water
poured in torrents across her deck it went off as quickly through the
hole in the lee bulwark, and but little came over her bow.

“She will do, sir!” Tom, close to whom he had lashed himself,
shouted. “It will be better when we get a bit farther out. She is a
beauty, she is, and she answers to her helm well.”

Gradually the _Surf_ drew out from the shore.

“Are you going to come about, Tom?”

“Not yet, sir; we must get more sea-room before we try. Like enough
she may miss stays in this sea. If she does we must wear her round.”

“Now we will try,” he said five minutes later. “Get those lashings
off. Mr. Horace, you will have to go up to the other side when she is
round. Get ready to go about!” he shouted. “I will put the helm down
at the first lull. Now!”

The _Surf_ came round like a top, and had gathered way on the other
tack before the next big wave struck her.

“Well done!” Tom Burdett shouted joyously, and the others echoed the
shout. In ten minutes they were far enough out to get a sight of the
ship as they rose on the waves.

“Just as I thought,” Ben muttered; “he thinks he will weather Ram’s
Head, and he will go ashore somewhere on that reef of rocks to a
certainty.”

In another five minutes the course was again changed, and the _Surf_
bore directly for the barque. In spite of the small sail she carried
the water was two feet up the lee planks of her deck, and she was
deluged every time by the seas, which struck her now almost abeam. But
everything was battened down, and they heeded the water but little.

“What do you think of her now?” Tom shouted to his brother-in-law.
“Didn’t I tell you she would stand a sea when your fishing-boats dare
not show their noses out of the port?”

“She is a good ’un and no mistake, Tom. I did not think a craft her
size could have lived in such a sea as this. You may brag about her as
you like in future, and there ain’t a man in Seaport as will
contradict you.”

They were going through the water four feet to the barque’s one, and
they were but a quarter of a mile astern of her when Horace
exclaimed, “She has struck!” and at the same moment her main and
foremast went over the side.

“She is just about on the shallowest point of the reef,” Ben Harper
said. “Now, how are you going to manage this job, Tom?”

“There is only one way to do it,” the skipper said. “There is water
enough for us. Tide has flowed an hour and a half, and there must be
two fathoms where she is lying. We must run up under her lee close
enough to chuck a rope on board. Get a light rope bent on to the
hawser. They must pull that on board, and we will hang to it as near
as we dare.”

“You must go near her stern, Tom, or we shall get stove in with the
masts and spars.”

“Yes, it is lucky the mizzen is standing, else we could not have gone
alongside till they got rid of them all, and they would never do that
afore she broke up.”

Horace, as he watched the ship, expected to see her go to pieces every
moment. Each wave struck her with tremendous force, sending cataracts
of water over her weather gunwale and across her deck. Many of the
seas broke before they reached her, and the line of the reef could be
traced far beyond her by the white and broken water.

“Now, then,” the skipper shouted, “I shall keep the _Surf_ about twice
her own length from the wreck, and then put the helm hard down and
shoot right up to her.”

“That will be the safest plan, Tom. There are two men with ropes
standing ready in the mizzen-shrouds.”

“I shall bring her in a little beyond that, Ben, if the wreck of the
mainmast isn’t in the way; the mizzen may come out of her any moment,
and if it fell on our decks it would be good-bye to us all.”

A cheer broke from the men huddled up under shelter of the weather
bulwark as the little craft swept past her stern.

“Mind the wreck!” a voice shouted.

Tom held up his hand, and a moment later put the helm down hard. The
_Surf_ swept round towards the ship, and her way carried her on until
the end of the bowsprit was but five or six yards distant. Then Tom
shouted:

“Now is your time, Dick;” and the rope was thrown right across the
barque, where it was grasped by half a dozen hands.

“Haul in till you get the hawser,” Dick shouted; “then make it fast.”
At the same moment two ropes from the ship were thrown, and caught by
Marco and Ben. Tom left the tiller now and lowered the try-sail. By
the time the hawser was fast on board, the _Surf_ had drifted twice
her own length from the ship. “That will do, Ben; make the hawser fast
there.” Two strong hawsers were hauled in from the ship and also made
fast.

“Now you can come as soon as you like,” Tom shouted. As the hawsers
were fastened to the weather-side of the vessel, which was now heeled
far over, it was a sharp incline down to the deck of the _Surf_, and
the crew, throwing their arms and legs round the hawsers, slid down
without difficulty, the pressure of the wind on the yacht keeping the
ropes perfectly taut. As the men came within reach, Tom Burdett and
Ben seized them by the collars and hauled them on board.

“Any woman on board?” he asked the first.

“No, we have no passengers.”

“That is a comfort. How many of a crew?”

“There were thirty-three all told, but four were killed by the falling
mast, and three were washed overboard before we struck, so there are
twenty-six now.”

In five minutes from the ropes being thrown the captain, who was last
man, was on board the yacht. The _Surf’s_ own hawser had been thrown
off by him before he left, drawn in, and coiled down, and as soon as
he was safe on board the other two hawsers were thrown off.

“Haul the jib a-weather, Dick,” Tom Burdett shouted as he took the
helm again. “Slack the mizzen-sheet off altogether, Marco; up with the
try-sail again.”

For a short distance the yacht drifted astern, and then, as the
pressure of the jib began to make itself felt, her head gradually
payed off. “Haul in the try-sail and jib-sheets. Let go the
weather-sheet, Dick, and haul in the other. That is it, now she begins
to move again.”

“You are only just in time,” the captain said to Tom; “she was just
beginning to part in the middle when I left. You have saved all our
lives, and I thank you heartily.”

“This is the owner of the yacht, sir,” Tom said, motioning to Horace.
“It is his doing that we came out.”

“Oh, that is all nonsense, Tom! You would have come just the same if I
hadn’t been there.”

“Well, sir, it has been a gallant rescue,” the captain said. “I could
hardly believe my eyes when I saw your sail coming after us, and I
expected every moment to see it disappear.”

“Now, captain,” Tom said, “make all your men sit down as close as they
can pack under the weather bulwark; we ain’t in yet.”

It was an anxious time as they struggled through the heavy sea on the
way back, but the _Surf_ stood it bravely, and the weight to windward
enabled her to stand up more stiffly to her canvas. When they were
abreast of the port half the men went over to the other side, the helm
was put up, and she rushed towards the shore dead before the wind. The
extra weight on deck told on her now, and it needed the most careful
steering on Tom’s part to keep her straight before the waves, several
of which broke over her taffrail and swept along the deck, one of them
bursting out her bulwarks at the bow.

“Get ready to haul in the sheets smartly,” Tom shouted as they neared
the pier.

He kept her course close to the pier-head, and as the _Surf_ came
abreast of it jammed down the tiller, while Ben and Dick hauled in the
mizzen-sheet. A moment later she was shooting along under the shelter
of the wall, while a loud shout of welcome rose above the howling of
the wind from those on shore.

“Now, sir, I will see about getting her moored,” Tom said, “if you
will run down and get some rum bottles out of the locker; I am pretty
well frozen and these poor fellows must be nigh perished, but it would
never have done to open the hatchway in that sea.”

“Come down, men,” Horace cried, as he dived below. “We had no time to
light the fire before starting, but a glass of spirits will do you
good all round.”

Two or three of the fishermen rowed out as soon as the yacht was
moored, and in a few minutes all were ashore.

“Now you had better run up to the house and change, Mr. Horace,” Tom
Burdett said. “We will look after the men here and get them some dry
things, and put them up amongst us. We have done a big thing, sir, and
the _Surf_ has been tried as I hope she will never be tried again as
long as we have anything to do with her.”

“All right, Tom! Will you come up with me, captain? There is no one at
home but myself, and we will manage to rig you up somehow.”

The captain, however, declined the invitation, saying that he would
rather see after his men and put up himself at the public-house on the
beach.

“I will come up later, sir, when I have seen everything all snug
here.”

Horace had some difficulty in making his way up through the crowd, for
both men and women wished to shake hands with him. At last he got
through, and, followed by Marco, ran up through the village to the
house. Zaimes had been among the crowd assembled to see the _Surf_
re-enter the port; and when Horace changed his things and came down
stairs he found a bowl of hot soup ready for him.

“You have given me a nice fright, Mr. Horace,” the Greek said as he
entered the room. “I have been scolding Marco, I can tell you.”

“It was not his fault, Zaimes. I made up my mind to go, and told him
so, and he had the choice whether he would go or stay behind, and he
went.”

“Of course he went,” Zaimes said; “but he ought to have come and told
me. Then I should have gone too. How could I have met your father, do
you think, if you had been drowned?”

“Well, you would not have been to blame, Zaimes, as you knew nothing
about it until after we had started.”

“No, you had been gone half an hour before someone from the village
came up and told them in the kitchen. Then one of the servants brought
me the news, and I ran down like a madman, without even stopping to
get a hat. Then I found that most of the men had gone up to the cliff
to keep you in sight, and I went up there and waited with them until
you were nearly back again. Once or twice, as you were running in to
the pier, I thought the yacht was gone.”

“That was the worst bit, Zaimes. The sea came tumbling over her stern,
and I was washed off my feet two or three times. I almost thought that
she was going down head-foremost. Well, I am glad I was at home this
morning. I would not have missed it for anything.”

“No, it is a good thing, now it is done, and something to be proud of.
I am told very few of the fishermen thought that you would ever come
back again.”

“They didn’t know the boat as we did, Zaimes. I felt sure she would go
through anything; and, besides, Tom kicked out the lower plank of the
bulwarks on each side, so as to help her to free herself from water as
it came on board, and flush-decked as she is, there was nothing to
carry away; but she hasn’t taken a cupful of water down below.”

In the evening the captain of the barque came up, and Horace learned
from him that she was on her way from New Orleans laden with cotton.

“The ship and cargo are insured,” the captain said; “and, as far as
that goes, it is a good thing she is knocked into match-wood. She was
a dull sailer at the best of times, and when laden you could not get
her to lay anywhere near the wind. She would have done better than she
did, though, hadn’t her rudder got damaged somehow in the night. She
ought to have clawed off the shore easy enough; but, as you saw, she
sagged to leeward a foot for every foot she went for’ard. I was
part-owner in her, and I am not sorry she has gone. We tried to sell
her last year, but they have been selling so many ships out of the
navy that we could not get anything of a price for her; but as she was
well insured, I shall get a handier craft next time. I was well off
shore when the storm began to get heavy last night, and felt no
anxiety about our position till the rudder went wrong. But when I saw
the coast this morning, I felt sure that unless there was a change in
the weather nothing could save her. Well, if it hadn’t been for the
loss of those seven hands, I should, thanks to you, have nothing to
complain of.”

Fires had been lit on the shore as night came on; but except fragments
of the wreck and a number of bales of cotton nothing was recovered. In
the morning the captain and crew left Seaport, two hands remaining
behind to look after the cotton and recover as much as they could. Two
days later Mr. Beveridge returned home.

“I saw in the paper before I left town, Horace, an account of your
going out to the wreck and saving the lives of those, on board. I am
very glad I was not here, my lad. I don’t think I should have let you
go; but as I knew nothing about it until it was all over, I had no
anxiety about it, and felt quite proud of you when I read the account.
The money was well laid out on that yacht, my boy. I don’t say that I
didn’t think so before, but I certainly think so now. However,
directly I read it I wrote to the Lifeboat Society and told them that
I would pay for a boat to be placed here. Then there will be no
occasion to tempt Providence the next time a vessel comes ashore on
this part of the coast. You succeeded once, Horace, but you might not
succeed another time; and knowing what a sea sets in here in a
south-westerly gale, I quite tremble now at the thought of your being
out in it in that little craft.”

The news that Mr. Beveridge had ordered a lifeboat for the port gave
great satisfaction among the fishermen, not so much perhaps because it
would enable them to go out to wrecks, as because any of their own
craft approaching the harbour in bad weather, and needing assistance,
could then receive it.

Horace became very popular in Seaport after the rescue, and was spoken
of affectionately as the young squire, although they were unable to
associate the term with his father; but the latter’s interest in the
sea, and his occasionally going out in the yacht, seemed to have
brought him nearer to the fishing people. There had before been
absolutely nothing in common between them and the studious recluse,
and even the Greeks, who had before been held in marked disfavour in
the village as outlandish followers, were now regarded with different
eyes when it was learned that Marco had been a fisherman too in his
time, and his share in the adventure of the _Surf_ dissipated the last
shadow of prejudice against them.

The weather continued more or less broken through the whole of the
holidays, and Horace had but little sailing. He spent a good deal of
his time over at his cousins’, rode occasionally after the hounds with
them, and did some shooting. A week after coming home his father had
again gone up to town, and remained there until after Horace had
returned to Eton. He was, the lad observed, more abstracted even than
usual, but was at the same time restless and unsettled. He looked
eagerly for the post, and received and despatched a large number of
letters. Horace supposed that he must be engaged in some very sharp
and interesting controversy as to a disputed reading, or the meaning
of some obscure passage, until the evening before he went away his
father said:

“I suppose, Horace, you are following with interest the course of
events in Thessaly?”

“Well, father, we see the papers of course. There seems to be a row
going on there; they are always fighting about something. From what I
could understand of it, Ali Pasha of Janina has revolted against the
Sultan, and the Turks are besieging him. What sort of a chap is he? He
is an Albanian, isn’t he?”

“Yes, with all the virtues and vices of his race--ambitious,
avaricious, revengeful, and cruel, but brave and astute. He has been
the instrument of the Porte in breaking down the last remnants of
independence in the wide districts he rules. As you know, very many of
the Christian and Mussulman villages possessed armed guards called
armatoli, who are responsible not only for the safety of the village,
but for the security of the roads; the defence of the passes was
committed to them, and they were able to keep the numerous bands of
brigands within moderate bounds. This organization Ali Pasha set
himself to work to weaken as soon as he came into power. He played off
one party against the other--the Mussulmans against the Christians,
the brigands against the armatoli, one powerful chief against another.
He crushed the Suliots, who possessed a greater amount of
independence, perhaps, than any of the other tribes, and who, it must
be owned, were a scourge to all their neighbours. He took away all
real power from the armatoli, crippled the Mussulman communities as
well as weakened the Christian villages; inspired terror in the whole
population by the massacre of such as resisted his will, and those
whom he could not crush by force he removed by poison; finally, he
became so strong that it was evident his design was to become
altogether independent of the Sultan. But he miscalculated his power,
his armies fled almost without striking a blow; his sons, who
commanded them, are either fugitives or prisoners; and now we hear
that he is besieged in his fortress, which is capable of withstanding
a very long siege.”

“He must be a thorough old scoundrel, I should say, father.”

“Yes,” Mr. Beveridge assented somewhat unwillingly. “No doubt he is a
bad man, Horace; but he might have been--he may even yet be, useful to
Greece. When it first became evident that matters would come to a
struggle between him and the Porte he issued proclamations calling
upon the Christians to assist him and make common cause against the
Turks, and specially invited Greece to declare her independence of
Turkey, and to join him.”

“But I should say, father, the Albanians would be even worse masters
than the Turks.”

“No doubt, Horace, no doubt. The Turks, I may own, have not on the
whole been hard masters to the Christians. They are much harder upon
the Mussulman population than upon the Christian, as the latter can
complain to the Russians, who, as their co-religionists, claim to
exercise a special protection over them. But, indeed, all the
Christian powers give protection, more or less, to the Christian
Greeks, who, especially in the Morea, have something approaching
municipal institutions, and are governed largely by men chosen by
themselves. Therefore the pashas take good care not to bring trouble
on themselves or the Porte by interfering with them so long as they
pay their taxes, which are by no means excessive; while the Mussulman
part of the population, having no protectors, are exposed to all sorts
of exactions, which are limited only by the fear of driving them into
insurrection. Still this rebellion of Ali Pasha has naturally excited
hopes in the minds of the Greeks and their friends that some results
may arise from it, and no better opportunity is likely to occur for
them to make an effort to shake off the yoke of the Turks. You may
imagine, Horace, how exciting all this is to one who, like myself, is
the son of a Greek mother, and to whom, therefore, the glorious
traditions of Greece are the story of his own people. As yet my hopes
are faint, but there is a greater prospect now than there has been for
the last two hundred years, and I would give all I am worth in the
world to live to see Greece recover her independence.”




CHAPTER IV

A STARTLING PROPOSAL


After Horace returned to Eton, remembering the intense interest of his
father in the affairs of Greece, he read up as far as he could
everything relating to late events there. That he should obtain a
really fair view of the situation was impossible. The Greeks had
countrymen in every commercial city in the world; they were active and
intelligent, and passionately desirous of interesting Europe in their
cause. Upon the other hand the Turks were voiceless. Hence Europe only
heard the Greek version of the state of affairs; their wrongs were
exaggerated and events distorted with an utter disregard for truth,
while no whisper of the other side of the question was ever heard.

At that time the term Greek was applied to persons of Greek religion
rather than of Greek nationality. The population of European Turkey,
of pure Greek blood, was extremely small, while those who held the
Greek form of religion were very numerous, and the influence possessed
by them was even greater. The Christians were in point of
intelligence, activity, and wealth superior to the Turks. They were
subservient and cringing when it suited their purpose, and were as a
rule utterly unscrupulous. The consequence was that they worked their
way into posts of responsibility and emolument in great numbers, being
selected by the Porte in preference to the duller and less pushing
Turks. In some portions of European Turkey they were all-powerful: in
the Transylvanian provinces of Moldavia and Wallachia every post was
held by Greeks, and there were but a few small and scattered Turkish
garrisons. Yet here the population were incomparably more cruelly
fleeced and ground down by their Greek masters than were the
Christians in the more Turkish provinces.

In Servia and parts of Bulgaria the numbers were more even, but here
also the Greeks held most of the responsible posts. In Greece proper
the Christians vastly predominated, while in Northern Thessaly the
numbers of the Christians and Mussulmans were about the same.

The Greek metropolitan of Constantinople and his council exercised a
large authority by means of the bishops and priests over the whole
Christian population, while for some time a secret society named the
Philike Hetaireia had been at work preparing them for a rising. It was
started originally among the Greeks at Odessa, and was secretly
patronized by Russia, which then, as since, had designs upon
Constantinople.

The first outbreak had occurred in March, 1821, when Prince Alexander
Hypsilantes, who had been an officer in the Russian service, crossed
the Pruth, and was joined by the Greek officials and tax-gatherers of
the Transylvanian provinces. He was a vain, empty-headed, and utterly
incompetent adventurer. A small band of youths belonging to good
families enrolled themselves under the title of the Sacred Band, and
the army also joined him, but beyond the cold-blooded massacre of a
considerable number of Turks and their families he did absolutely
nothing. The main body of the population, who bitterly hated their
Greek oppressors, remained quiescent. Russia, seeing his utter
incapacity, repudiated him, and after keeping alive the hopes of his
followers by lying proclamations Hypsilantes secured his own safety by
flight across the Austrian frontier when the Turkish army approached.
The five hundred young men of the Sacred Battalion fought nobly and
were killed almost to a man; but with the exception of a band of
officers who refused to surrender, and shut themselves up in Skulani
and in the monastery of Seko and there defended themselves bravely
until the last, no resistance was offered to the Turks, and the
insurrection was stamped out by the beginning of June. But in the
meantime Greece proper was rising, and though the news came but slowly
Horace saw that his father’s hopes were likely to be gratified, and
that the Greeks would probably strike a blow at least for national
independence, and he more than shared the general excitement that the
news caused among educated men throughout Europe.

The summer holidays passed uneventfully. Horace took long cruises in
the _Surf_. He saw but little of his father, who was constantly absent
in London. August came, and Horace returned from his last trip and was
feeling rather depressed at the thought of going back to school in two
days’ time. He met Zaimes as he entered the house.

“Is my father back from town, Zaimes?”

“Yes, Mr. Horace, and he told me to tell you as soon as you returned
that he wished you to go to him at once in the library.”

It was so unlike his father to want to see him particularly about
anything, that Horace went in in some wonder as to what could be the
matter. Mr. Beveridge was walking up and down the room.

“Is your mind very much set on going back to Eton, Horace?” he asked
abruptly.

“I don’t know, father,” Horace said, taken somewhat aback at the
question. “Well, I would very much rather go back, father, than be
doing nothing here. I am very fond of sailing as an amusement, but one
would not want to be at it always. Of course if there is anything
really to do it would be different.”

“Well, I think there is something else to do, Horace. You know my
feeling with regard to this insurrection in Greece.”

“Yes, father,” Horace, who was indeed rather tired of the subject,
replied.

“Well, you see, my boy, they have now resisted the Turks for some five
months and have gained rather than lost ground. That seems to show
decisively that this is no mere hasty rising, but that the people are
in earnest in the determination to win their liberty. Now that I am
thoroughly convinced of this my course is clear, and I have determined
upon going out to give such assistance as I can.”

Horace was astounded. “Going out to fight, father?”

“Yes, if necessary to fight, but I can be of more use than in merely
fighting. I have never, since I came into the property some
twenty-four years ago, spent anything like a third of my income.
Indeed, since my return from Greece my expenses here have been but a
few hundreds a year. I have always hoped that I should have the
opportunity of devoting the savings to help Greece to regain her
independence. That moment has come. At first I feared that the
movement would speedily die out; but the letters that I receive show
that it is increasing daily, and indeed that the Greeks have placed
themselves beyond the hope of forgiveness by, I am sorry to say, the
massacre of large numbers of Turks. It is, of course, to be regretted
that so glorious a cause should have been sullied by such conduct; but
one cannot be surprised. Slaves are always cruel, and after the wrongs
they have suffered, it could hardly be expected that they would forego
their revenge when the opportunity at last came. However, the
important point of the matter is, that there can be no drawing back
now.

“For better or for worse the revolution has begun. Now, Horace, you
are but sixteen, but you are a sensible lad, and I have stood so much
apart from other men from my boyhood that I am what you might call
unpractical; while I take it that you from your temperament, and from
being at a great public school, are eminently practical, therefore, I
shall be glad to hear your opinion as to how this thing had best be
set about. I take it, of course, that you are as interested in the
struggle as I am.”

“Well, not so interested perhaps, father. I feel, of course, that it
is a horrible thing that a people like the Greeks, to whom we all owe
so much, should be kept in slavery by the Turks, who have never done
any good to mankind that I know of, and I should certainly be glad to
do everything in my power to help; but of course it all comes so
suddenly upon me that just at present I don’t see what had best be
done.”

“I heard from my friends in London that many young men are already
starting to assist the Greeks. What they will need most is not men,
but arms and money, so at least my Greek friends write me.”

“Well, father,” Horace said bluntly; “I should say you had much better
give them arms than money. I have been reading the thing up as much as
I could since it began, and as far as I can see the upper class
Greeks, the men who, I suppose, will be the leaders, are a pretty bad
lot--quite as bad, I should say, as the Turkish pashas.”

“Yes, I quite agree with you there, Horace. You see in a country that
is enslaved, political and other careers are closed, and the young men
devote themselves to making money. You see that in the history of the
Jews. All through the middle ages they were everywhere persecuted,
every avenue to honourable employment was closed to them, consequently
they devoted themselves to making money, and have been the bankers of
kings for hundreds of years. No doubt it is the same thing with the
Greeks; but the mass of the people are uncorrupted, and with the deeds
of their great forefathers always before them they will, I am sure,
show themselves worthy of their name.”

“No doubt, father; I think so too.”

“You don’t mind my spending this money on the Cause, Horace,” his
father asked anxiously, “because, though it is my savings, it would in
the natural course of things come to you some day.”

“Not at all, father; it is, as you say, your savings, and having at
heart, as you have, the independence of Greece, I think it cannot be
better laid out than assisting it. But I should certainly like it to
be laid out for that, and not to go into the pockets of a lot of
fellows who think more of feathering their own nests than of the
freedom of Greece. So I should say the best thing would be to send out
a cargo of arms and ammunition, as a beginning; other cargoes can go
out as they are required. And you might, of course, take a certain
amount of money to distribute yourself as you see it is required. I
hope you mean to take me with you.”

“I think so, Horace. You are young to do any fighting at present, but
you will be a great support and comfort to me.”

Horace could scarcely resist a smile, for he thought that if there was
any fighting to be done he would be of considerably more use than his
father.

“Well, I suppose the next thing, Horace, will be to go up to town to
inquire about arms. My Greek friends there will advise me as to their
purchase, and so on.”

“Yes, father,” Horace said a little doubtfully; “but as it is late now
I think, if you don’t mind, I will get some supper and turn in. I will
think it over. I think we had better talk it over quietly and quite
make up our minds what is best to be done before we set about
anything; a few hours won’t make any difference.”

“Quite so, Horace; it is no use our beginning by making mistakes. It
is a great comfort to me, my boy, to have you with me. At any rate I
will write to-night to your headmaster and say that circumstances will
prevent your return to Eton this term.”

Horace went into the next room, had some supper, and then went
thoughtfully up to bed. The idea of going out to fight for the
independence of Greece was one which at any other time he would have
regarded with enthusiasm, but under the present circumstances he felt
depressed rather than excited. He admired his father for his great
learning, and loved him for the kindness of his intentions towards
him; but he had during the last two or three years been more and more
impressed with the fact that in everything unconnected with his
favourite subject his father was, as he said himself, utterly
unpractical. He left the management of his estate to the steward, the
management of the house to Zaimes, both happily, as it chanced, honest
and capable men; but had they been rogues they could have victimized
him to any extent. That his father, who lived in his library and who
was absorbed in the past, should plunge into the turmoil of an
insurrection was an almost bewildering idea. He would be plundered
right and left, and would believe every story told him; while as for
his fighting, the thing seemed absolutely absurd. Horace felt that the
whole responsibility would be on his shoulders, and this seemed
altogether too much for him. Then the admission of his father that
abominable massacres had been perpetrated by the Greeks shook his
enthusiasm in the Cause.

“I should be glad to see them free and independent, and all that,” he
said, “but I don’t want to be fighting side by side with murderers.
Among such fellows as these, my father, who is a great deal more Greek
than any Greek of the present day, I should say, would be made utterly
miserable. He admits that the upper class are untrustworthy and
avaricious. Now he says that the lower class have massacred people in
cold blood. It does not affect him much in the distance, but if he
were in the middle of it all it would be such a shock to him that I
believe it would kill him. Besides, fancy his going long marches in
the mountains, sleeping in the wet, and all that sort of thing, when
he has never walked half a mile as far back as I can remember.”

He lay tossing about for a couple of hours, and then sat suddenly up
in bed. “That’s it,” he exclaimed, “that is a splendid idea. What a
fool I was not to think of it before! If William Martyn is but at home
that would be the thing above all.”

Then he lay down, thought the matter over for another half-hour, and
then went quietly off to sleep.

“Well, Horace, have you been turning the matter over in your mind?”
his father asked as soon as they sat down to breakfast.

“I have, father, and I have hit upon a plan that seems to me the very
best thing possible in all ways.”

“What is it, Horace?”

“Well, father, it seems to me that if we take out war material to
Athens it will very likely get into wrong hands altogether, and when
arms are really wanted by the people of the mountains, and I expect
that it is they who will do the fighting and not the people of the
towns, there won’t be any to give them. The next thing is, if we go to
Athens, and people know that you are a rich Englishman, you will get
surrounded by sharks, and before you have time to know who is to be
trusted, or anything about it, all your money will be gone. Then I am
sure that you could not in that way take any active part in helping to
free Greece, you never could stand marches in the mountains and
sleeping in the open air, bad food, and all that sort of thing, after
living the quiet indoor life you have for so many years. I know you
would stick to it, father, as long as you could, but it seems to me
you would be sure to get knocked up.”

“Yes, I ought to have prepared for this, Horace. It would have been
better for me to have taken regular exercise every day, even if I did
get through a little less work. Still I am stronger than you think. I
am only forty-four, and a man at forty-four ought to be able to do
nearly as much as he ever could do.”

“Yes, father, if he had lived an active life and exercised his
muscles. I have no doubt you are just as strong in many things as
other men; I never remember your being ill for a day; but I am sure
you are not fit for knocking about among the mountains. What I have
been thinking of is this. If you approve of it I will go over to
Exmouth this morning and see if William Martyn is there. He is likely
to be at home if his vessel is in port. If he is not, I will get his
father to recommend some one. There must be lots of young lieutenants
on half-pay who would jump at the idea. First I should engage with
Martyn if he is there, or go to the man whom his father recommended to
me at Plymouth, and get him to buy for you a fast schooner or
brig--one that had either been an English privateer or a captured
Frenchman would be about the thing--arrange with him to be the captain
and engage officers and crew, and get him to arm her with as many guns
as she will carry. He would be able probably to put us into the best
way of buying muskets. As such immense numbers of soldiers have been
paid off, no doubt there have been great sales of muskets by
government, and we might get them at a quarter the price we should
have to pay for new ones. Of course we should take in ammunition in
large quantities. All these mountaineers have no doubt got guns, and
ammunition will be the thing most wanted of all. We could also pick up
some cannon. No doubt they are to be bought for scrap iron. The Greeks
will want them to arm their ships and batteries. In that way you see,
father, you would have everything under your own hands. Nobody would
know how many muskets you have got on board, and you could serve them
out when or how they were required.

“The same with money. We could cruise about and pop into quiet places,
and send arms and ammunition up into the hills. Of course directly you
got out there you would put the ship under the Greek flag, and by
harassing the Turks at sea we might do a hundred times more good than
we could by land. There would be no fatigue and no discomfort. You
would always be comfortable on board, and could take Zaimes and Marco
with you. We would take Tom Burdett as boatswain. He was boatswain in
the navy, you know. If he goes I daresay Dick will also go with us.”

“That is an excellent plan, Horace. It seems to meet all the
difficulties, and I was really feeling uncomfortable at the thought of
being mixed up in all the confusion and excitement there will, no
doubt, be at Athens. It is a most happy idea. We will not lose a
moment about it. I like that young fellow Martyn, and I hope you will
be able to get hold of him. Let him name his own terms. I have not the
least idea whether the captain of a vessel of that sort is paid five
pounds a week or twenty-five. Of course it will be dangerous service,
and should be liberally paid for. Well, you had better pack up your
bag directly we have finished breakfast. You may be away for a week or
ten days.”

“I can’t start to-day, father, surely.”

“No! why not, Horace?”

“Because, you know, you arranged we should both go over to dine at
aunt’s.”

“Of course, Horace; I quite forgot that. It is very annoying, but I
suppose it can’t be helped.”

Horace laughed. “A day won’t make much difference, father. I am sure
aunt would be very vexed if we did not turn up. Do you mean to tell
her anything about it?”

Mr. Beveridge was silent for a minute. “I don’t think there is any
occasion; do you, Horace?” he said doubtfully. “She might raise
objections, you know; though that, of course, would make no
difference; arguments are always to be avoided, and your aunt was
always a very positive woman.”

“I think it is just as well to say nothing about it,” Horace said with
a slight smile, for he felt sure that his aunt would oppose the
project tooth and nail if she were aware of it, and that she would be
backed by the whole strength of his mother’s family. He did not say
this, but went on, “It is a nuisance being asked a tremendous lot of
questions about things, especially when you don’t know much about them
yourself. No, I think, father, we had better keep it quite quiet. It
will be time enough to write a line to aunt and tell her that we are
off, the last thing before we get up anchor.”

“I agree with you, Horace, so we will say nothing about this trip of
ours. Well, as it seems you can’t go to-day, you had better make your
arrangements to catch the coach to-morrow morning. I will sign a dozen
blank cheques, which you can fill up as required. Of course whoever
accepts the post of captain will know all that will be wanted for the
ship, and if he doesn’t know himself about the arms and ammunition he
may be able to introduce you to some officer who does. Will you take
Marco with you?”

“No, I don’t think so, father. I don’t see that he would be any use,
and having a man going about with you looks as if one was being taken
care of.”

Horace caught the coach and alighted at Exmouth, and hurried to the
revenue officer’s house.

“Is Mr. William Martyn in?” he asked the servant who opened the door.

“He is not in just at present, sir; I think he went down to the
river.”

“How long has he been home?” Horace asked, delighted at the news.

“He only got in last week, sir; his ship got wrecked, and Mr. William
turned up without any clothes, or anything except just what he stood
up in.”

“Hurrah!” Horace exclaimed, to the astonishment of the woman, and then
without another word ran down to the wharfs. He soon saw the figure he
was in search of talking to two or three old sailors.

“Hullo, youngster!” Martyn said in surprise, as Horace came up, “where
have you sprung from?”

“Off the top of the coach.”

“I suppose so. I have been having a bit of bad luck and lost my ship.
We were wrecked off St. Catharine’s Point, at the back of the Isle of
Wight, and there were only seven of us saved among a crew of
thirty-five all told.”

“Yes, I heard from your servant you had been wrecked,” Horace said.
“She didn’t say that any lives had been lost; but I must have
astonished her, now I think of it, for I said ‘Hurrah!’ when she told
me.”

“What did you say hurrah for?” the mate asked gruffly.

“Because I wanted to find you here, and was so pleased that you were
not going to sail away again directly.”

“No,” Will Martyn said gloomily, “it is bad enough to have lost one’s
kit and everything, and now I shall have to look about for another
berth, for I think the vessel was only partly insured, and as the
owners only have one or two ships I expect it will hit them rather
hard, and that they won’t have another craft ready for some time, so
it will be no use my waiting for that.”

The sailors had moved away when Horace came up, so that he was able at
once to open the subject of his visit to the mate.

“Well, that was just what I was hoping when I heard that you were
wrecked, Will, for I had come over on purpose to see if you were
disengaged and disposed to take a new berth.”

“What! is your father going in for a big yacht instead of the _Surf_,
Horace?”

“Well, not exactly, but something of that sort. You know I told you
how enthusiastic he was about Greece and everything connected with it.
Of course he is tremendously excited about this rising out there, and
he is going to send out a lot of arms and ammunition. So we have
talked it over and agreed that the best thing to do would be to buy a
fast schooner or brig, fit her up as a privateer, fill her with arms
and ammunition, and go out, hoist the Greek flag, and do what we can
to help them against the Turks. Of course we thought at once of you to
carry out the thing, and to act as captain. What do you say to it?”

“The very thing I should like, Horace; nothing could suit me better.
Mind I am not giving any opinion as to whether it is a wise thing on
the part of your father; that is his business. But as far as I am
concerned I am your man.”

“My father said you were to name your own terms. He didn’t know
anything about what the pay should be, but he particularly said that
as it would be a service of danger it ought to be paid for liberally.”

“Of course there will be danger,” the mate said, “but that adds to the
pleasure of it. If I were a married man of course I should have to
look at it in a different light; but as I ain’t, and have no idea of
getting spliced, the danger does not trouble me. I have been getting
eight pounds a month as third mate, and I should have got ten next
voyage, as I was going second. As I shall be skipper on board this
craft of yours, suppose we say twelve pounds a month.”

“My father expected to pay more than that a good deal,” Horace said;
“and as everything will depend upon you it would not be at all fair to
pay the same sort of pay as if you were merely sailing in a merchant’s
ship. However, he will write to you about it. There will be a
tremendous lot to do before we start, and we want to be off as soon as
possible. There is a ship to buy and fit out, and officers to get, and
a crew. Then we want to find out where we can buy muskets. It seemed
to me that as government must have been selling great quantities, we
should be able to get them pretty cheap.”

“I could find out all about that at the port where we fit out,” Will
Martyn said. “As for cannon, they can be had almost for taking away.
There are thousands and thousands of them to be had at every port.
Five years ago every vessel went to sea armed. Now even the biggest
craft only carry a gun or two for firing signals with, unless, of
course, they are going to sail in Eastern waters. Well, this is a big
job--a different sort of order altogether to buying the _Surf_ for
you. I hope it will turn out as well.”

“Of course Plymouth will be the best port to go to.”

“I don’t know. During the war certainly either that or Portsmouth
would have been the best. Vessels were constantly coming in with
prizes; but now, I should say either London or Liverpool would be the
best for picking up the sort of craft we want. Still, as Plymouth is
so much the nearest here, I should say we had best try there first.
Then if we can’t find what we want we will take a passage by coaster
to Portsmouth, if the wind is favourable; if not, go by coach. But how
are you off for money, because I am at dead low-water? I have got a
few pounds owing to me, but I can’t handle that till I get to London.”

“I have twenty pounds,” Horace said. “We didn’t think, when I started,
of going farther than Plymouth; but I have some blank cheques for
paying for things.”

“Twenty pounds ought to be ample; but if we find at Plymouth we want
more I can easily get one cashed for you. I know plenty of people
there.”

“Well, when can you start, Will? My father is anxious not to lose a
moment.”

“I can start in ten minutes if my father is at home. I should want to
have just a short chat with him; but I can do that while they are
getting the chaise ready. Our best plan would be to drive to Exeter
and take the evening coach going through there. There is one comes
through about six o’clock. I have come down by it several times. It
will take us into Plymouth by twelve o’clock; so we should gain
nothing if we started earlier.”

“Well, I will go to the inn,” Horace said.

“No; that you won’t, Horace. You come round with me. I expect dinner
is ready by this time. We generally dine at one. My father went out in
the cutter to look after a wreck four or five miles along the coast,
and he said he did not expect to be back till between two and three;
so we settled to dine at three. There is the cutter coming up the
river now.”

“But you would rather be with your father alone,” Horace said.

“Not a bit of it. I have got nothing private to say to him, except to
get him to let me draw twenty pounds from his agent to get a fresh
rig-out with. He would like to see you again, especially as I am going
to sail with you, and he maybe able to put us up to a few wrinkles as
to getting our powder on board, and so on. Of course I have been
accustomed to seeing it got in from government powder hulks. We will
just walk up to the house now if you don’t mind, to tell the girl to
put an extra knife and fork on the table, then we will go down and
meet my father when he lands.”

The servant looked with such strong disapprobation upon Horace when
she opened the door that he burst into a fit of laughter. “You are
thinking about my saying hurrah when I heard Mr. Martyn was wrecked?”
he said. “Well, I did not exactly mean that, only I was very glad,
because I thought if he had not been wrecked he could not have shipped
just at present, and I wanted him very badly.”

“Yes, I am off again, Hesba,” the mate said. “Going right away this
afternoon. That is a bit of luck, isn’t it? I have just come back to
tell you to put another knife and fork upon the table, as Mr.
Beveridge is going to dine with us; and if you have time to kill a
fatted calf, or anything of that sort, do so.”

“Lor’, Mr. William, you know very well there ain’t no fatted calf, and
if there was it would take ever so long to kill it and get some meat
cooked, if it was only cutlets.”

“Well,” Martyn laughed, “never mind the calf, Hesba; but if dinner is
short run straight down to the butcher’s and get a good big tender
steak, and look sharp about it, for my father will be here in a
quarter of an hour.”

As Horace had seen Captain Martyn (as he was by courtesy called, being
in command of a revenue cutter, although only in fact a lieutenant)
several times while fitting out the _Surf_ the officer knew him as he
saw him standing at the top of the stairs with his son.

“Well, Master Beveridge,” he said as he climbed up the stairs, “I
haven’t seen you since you sailed away in that little craft. I hear
you did a brave deed in her, going out in that gale to rescue the crew
of the _Caledon_. It is lucky you caught Will in.” He was by this time
ashore and shaking hands heartily with Horace.

“He has come to take me away, father,” Will said. “Mr. Beveridge is
going to get a fast craft to carry out arms and ammunition to the
Greeks, and he has offered me the command.”

“I should not mind going myself, Will. I am sorry you are off so soon;
but you are likely to see some stirring scenes over there. When are
you going?”

“We are going to start directly we have had some dinner, father. We
will order a chaise as we go along. We intend to catch the six-o’clock
coach at Exeter, so as to get to Plymouth to-night. I am going to see
if we can pick up a likely craft there. If not, I shall try Portsmouth
and Southampton, and if they won’t do, London.”

“Well, that is sharp work, Will. But you have no kit to pack, so there
is no difficulty about it. However, there is no time to be lost.”

At a quarter to four the post-chaise was at the door, and Will Martyn
and Horace started. The horses were good, and they were in plenty of
time for the coach, and arrived duly in Plymouth. As soon as they had
breakfasted next morning they started out and went first to the
shipping office of a firm known to Will Martyn, and there got a list
of ships lying for sale in the port.

“What sort of craft are you looking for, Martyn?” the shipping agent
said. “We have a dozen at least on our own books, and you may as well
give us a turn before you look at any others.”

“I want a schooner or a brig--I don’t much care which it is--of about
a couple of hundred tons. She must be very fast and weatherly; the
sort of craft that was used as a privateer in the war; or as a slaver;
or something of that kind.”

“I have only one craft that answers to that description,” the agent
said; “but I should say that she was what you want. She was sent home
from the west coast of Africa six months ago, as a prize. Of course
she was sold, and was bought by a man I know. After he had got her he
found she had not enough carrying power for his business. She never
was built for cargo, and would be an expensive vessel to work, for she
has a large sail spread, and would want so strong a crew to work her
that she would never pay. He bought her cheap for that reason, and
will be glad to get the price he gave for her, or if the point were
pressed even to make some loss to get her off his hands. They call her
a hundred and fifty, and she looks a big vessel for that size. But if
she had eighty tons in her hold it would be as much as she could carry
with comfort.”

“That sounds promising,” Martyn said. “At any rate we will begin by
having a look at her. Where is she lying?”

“About three miles up the river. Tide is making; so we could run up
there in a sailing boat in half an hour. I will go with you myself.
There is a care-taker on board. Are you buying her for yourself,
Martyn?”

The mate laughed.

“As I have not captured an heiress I am not likely to become a ship
owner. No; Mr. Beveridge’s father is fond of the sea, and has
commissioned me to buy a comfortable craft that shall be at once fast
and seaworthy, and I am going to command her.”

“Well, I don’t think you would find anything that would suit your
purpose better than the _Creole_. She would make a splendid yacht for
a gentleman who had a fancy for long cruises.”

“What is her age?” the mate asked.

“Well, of course we can’t tell exactly; but the dockyard people
thought she couldn’t be above four or five years old. That is what
they put her down as when they sold her. At any rate she is sound, and
in as good condition as if she had just come off the stocks. She had
been hulled in two or three places in the fight when she was captured,
but she was made all right in the dockyard before she was put up for
sale. All her gear, sails, and so on are in excellent condition.”

“Where are they?”

“They are on board. As we had a care-taker it was cheaper to leave
them there and have good fires going occasionally to keep them dry
than it would have been to stow them away on shore.”

There was a brisk breeze blowing, and in less than the half hour
mentioned by the agent he said: “That’s her lying over on the farther
side.”

“She looks like a slaver all over,” Martyn said as he stood up to
examine the long low craft. “I suppose they caught her coming out of a
river, for she would show her heels, I should guess, to any cruiser
that was ever built, at any rate in light winds. If she is as good as
she looks she is just the thing for us.”

When they reached the vessel they rowed round her before going on
board.

“She is like a big _Surf_,” Will said to Horace; “finer in her
lines, and lighter. She ought to sail like a witch. I see she carried
four guns on each side.”

[Illustration: THEIR FIRST SIGHT OF THE SCHOONER]

“Yes, and a long pivot-gun. They are down in the hold now. She was
sold just as she stood; but I suppose they will be of no use to you.”

“Some of them may be,” Martyn said carelessly. “If we go cruising up
the Mediterranean it is just as well to have a gun or two on board.
Now let us look at her accommodation.

“Yes, she is a very roomy craft on deck,” he went on as he stepped on
board. “She has a wonderful lot of beam, much more than she looks to
have when you see her on the water, owing to her lines being so fine.”

“She has lots of head-room here,” Horace said as they went below. “I
thought that slavers had very low decks.”

“So they have,” the mate said. “I expect when she took a cargo on
board they rigged up a deck of planks here so as to have two tiers for
the slaves; that would give them about three foot three to each tier.”

They spent over two hours on board. Will Martyn examined everything
most carefully, prodding the planks and timbers with his knife, going
down into the hold and prying into the state of the timbers there,
getting into the boat, to examine the stern-post and rudder, and
afterwards overhauling a good deal of the gear. The inspection was in
all respects satisfactory.

“She will do if the price will do,” he said. “How much do they want
for her?”

“He paid fifteen hundred at the dockyard sale,” the agent said; “that
is ten pound a ton, with all her gear, fittings, and so on, thrown in.
As you see, there is the cabin furniture, and so on, all complete,
except the paint. There needn’t be a penny laid out on her.”

“Well, how much will he take off?” Martyn said. “Fifteen hundred was
anyone’s price, and as she don’t suit him, she won’t suit many people.
If he is likely to have her on his hands any time, eating her head
off and losing value, he ought to be glad to take anything near what
he gave for her. Well, frankly, how much will he take off? Business is
business. I have admitted the boat will suit me; now what is the limit
you are authorized to take?”

“He will take two hundred less. It is a ridiculously low price.”

“Of course it is,” Will agreed. “But shipping at present is a drug in
the market, and this ship is practically fit for nothing but a yacht
or the Levant trade. I expect I could get her a couple of hundred
pounds cheaper if I held off. What do you think, Horace?”

“I don’t think it would be fair to knock down the price lower than
that,” Horace said.

“It is fair to get a thing as cheap as you can. If you try to get it
for less than he will sell it for you don’t get it, that is all. He is
not obliged to sell, and you are not obliged to buy. Still, the price
is a very reasonable one, and we will take her at that. You have full
authority to sell, I suppose, without reference to your principal?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then, we will go to your office. Mr. Beveridge will give
you a cheque for thirteen hundred pounds, and you shall hand over
possession.”

“Good. It is eleven o’clock now, Johnson,” he said to the care-taker.
“Here is your money up to to-night, but from twelve o’clock to-day Mr.
Martyn takes possession as agent for the owners, so you will take your
orders from him.”

“You can go on as usual,” Will said. “We will pay you from twelve
o’clock, so you will make a half-day’s pay by the change.”




CHAPTER V

FITTING OUT


The cheque for the payment of the _Creole_ was filled up and handed
over, the agent giving a formal receipt and possession of the vessel,
and undertaking to sign the necessary papers as soon as they could be
drawn out.

“You are evidently lucky about ships,” William Martyn said as he left
the agent’s office with Horace. “You have got a little wonder in the
_Surf_, and there is no doubt about the _Creole_ being a bargain. When
the war was going on she would have been snapped up at double the
price, and would have been cheap at that. Now the first thing to do is
to get first and second mates. Directly I have got them I can put a
gang of riggers on board. I will go to the Naval Club, and see the
list of the officers on board the ships here. I am pretty sure to know
some of them, and shall find out from them whether there are any of my
old messmates down here. If they don’t know of any, we might hear of
men to suit at the Club. There are always plenty of men here and at
Portsmouth waiting about on the chance of meeting some officer they
have served under and getting him to put in a word for them at the
Admiralty.”

“I will walk down with you to the Club, but I won’t go in with you;
one is only in the way when people who know each other are talking.
And besides, Martyn, don’t you think before you do anything you ought
to see about your clothes?”

“Of course I ought; I never gave the matter a thought before. But I
certainly could not put my foot on the quarter-deck of one of His
Majesty’s ships in this turn-out. No. The first thing to do is to drop
into my father’s agent to draw some money. Then I will go into a
slop-shop and get a suit. I know a place where they keep really decent
togs. A man often has to join in a hurry, and wants a fit-out at half
an hour’s notice. Then I can order the rest of the things at the
tailor’s I used to get my clothes from. ’Pon my word, now you speak of
it, I am ashamed to be going out in these things. They were an old
suit that I put on when bad weather set in, and they have shrunk so
that the sleeves don’t come half-way down to the wrists, and the
trousers are up to the ankles. As a master’s mate it didn’t matter so
very much, for masters’ mates are very often out at elbows, but as
commander of the _Creole_ it is a different thing altogether.”

Martyn was lucky in picking up the undress uniform of a lieutenant
that just fitted him.

“I can let you have it at that price, because I got it a bargain,” the
man said. “The owner came in here a few weeks ago with a man beside
him. He had just come down to join his ship, which was to sail in a
few hours, and as he stepped off the coach was served with a writ by a
Jew he had borrowed money of two or three years before. It was only a
few pounds, but to make up the sum he had to sell some of his things,
and this suit was among them.”

“And nicely you ground him down in the price, I have no doubt,” Martyn
growled. “However, I have got the benefit of it. Now, Horace, I can
show at the Club. Just take your knife out and cut this strap off the
shoulder. I can’t go about as a full-fledged lieutenant, though I have
passed.”

They were walking up the main street when a voice exclaimed:

“Hullo, Martyn! is that you?” and a young officer shook him warmly by
the hand.

“Why, Dacent, this is luck. I am glad to see you indeed. It is three
years since we ran against each other last; five since we served
together in the _Nonpareil_. What are you doing?”

“I am third in the flagship here. What are you doing? I met O’Connor
the other day; he told me he had run across you at Malta, and that you
had gone into the merchant service like so many other of our old
friends.”

“That was so, Dacent. It was of no use kicking my heels on shore when
I hadn’t the ghost of a chance of getting appointed to a ship. So I
had to swallow my pride and ship in a merchantman. We were wrecked at
the back of the Wight in the storm last week, and I have had the luck
to get a fresh appointment, and that is what I am here for. I was just
on my way to the Club to see if I could find any of my old chums. You
are just the fellow to help me. But first let me introduce Mr.
Beveridge. He is the son of my owner. Half an hour ago he completed
the purchase of the craft that I am to command. She is a beauty. I
don’t know whether you know her. She is called the _Creole_, a
schooner of a hundred and fifty tons. She is lying up the river.”

“I know her well enough,” Dacent said, as he shook hands with Horace.
“She was brought in here the week after I joined. I thought she was as
pretty a looking craft as I ever set eyes on. I congratulate you, old
fellow. There are not many things that you won’t be able to show your
heels to. But what line is she going to be in? She would make a fine
craft for the Levant trade.”

“That is just where we are going, Dacent, but not to trade. I will
tell you what we are going to do, but it must be kept dark. I don’t
know whether they might not look upon it as a breach of the neutrality
laws. Mr. Beveridge is an enthusiast for the cause of Greece, and we
are going to take out a cargo of guns and ammunition, and then we
shall hoist the Greek flag, and do a little fighting on our own
account with the Turks as a Greek privateer.”

“By Jove, I envy you, Martyn. That is a thousand times better than
sticking in Plymouth Sound with nothing to do but to see the men
holy-stone the deck, and fetching and carrying messages. Now, what is
it I can do for you?”

“Well, in the first place, I want a couple of officers; for choice, I
would have one who has passed, and could take the command in case
anything happened to me. I don’t care whether the second is a mate or
a midshipman who has pretty nearly served his time.”

“I know just the man for you, for your first. There is Miller--you
remember him?”

“Of course; I was with him in the _Minerva_ frigate in the West
Indies. He was a capital fellow. Is he to be had?”

“Yes; I saw him only yesterday. He has been two years out of a berth,
and no chance of getting a ship, and he was looking out for a berth on
board a merchantman, but he had not heard of one when I saw him. He
gave me his address; here it is--the Anchor Inn; it is a little place
not far from the dock gates. I expect Jim has no money to spare. His
father is a clergyman near Falmouth. I asked him why he didn’t look
for a ship there. He laughed, and said he didn’t mind shipping into
the merchant service anywhere else; but he shouldn’t like to do it so
near home, after swaggering about there in the king’s uniform.”

“I will go down at once. It is just one o’clock, and we are likely to
catch him in.”

“Well, will you and your friend dine with me at the Club at six
o’clock, Martyn? We can chat there better than we can on board, and we
have lots to tell each other since we last parted.”

The invitation was accepted, and then Martyn and Horace set off to
find the Anchor.

“There is one thing I have not asked you,” the former said, as they
went along. “How about prize-money, because you know that makes a good
deal of difference. I don’t suppose there will be much to be got,
because there are not many craft flying the Turkish flag, and the seas
will be swarming with Greek craft who are half-pirates even in time of
peace. Still we may capture a Turkish man-of-war brig or something of
that sort, and she may have treasure on board such as pay for the
troops. I suppose we should share according to the ordinary privateer
scale.”

“Certainly,” Horace said. “My father has no idea of making money by
the thing, and I can certainly promise that he will agree to the usual
scale whatever it is.”

“That is right. I thought that it would be so, and, indeed, although
officers might go without, you would hardly get men to risk their
lives unless there was a chance of prize-money.”

“It would not be fair to ask them to do so,” Horace said. “Of course
that would be understood. All these sort of arrangements are in your
hands. My father particularly said so; he really knows nothing about
these matters. You must make all these arrangements just as if you
were the owner, and please arrange what you consider liberal terms to
everyone. My father has made up his mind to spend a certain sum of
money which he has long laid by for the purpose, and I am sure we are
more likely to succeed in helping the Greeks if everyone on board is
quite contented and happy. Oh, there is the Inn; I won’t go in with
you. You had much better talk it over with him by yourself.”

Ten minutes later Martyn came out with a short square-built young
fellow of about his own age, with a good-humoured merry face, which
was at present beaming with satisfaction.

“That is all settled,” Martyn said. “Mr. Beveridge, let me introduce
to you Mr. James Miller, first lieutenant of your father’s schooner,
the _Creole_.”

“It is a perfect godsend,” Miller said, as he shook hands with Horace.
“I began to despair of getting a ship here, and I am precious glad now
I didn’t, for I should have been mad if I had met Martyn, and found I
had missed this chance. It will be glorious fun, and it looked as if
one were never going to have a chance of that sort of thing again.”

“And he knows of a young fellow who will suit us for our second,”
Martyn said, “Jack Tarleton. He was with us in the _Minerva_. I
remember him only as a jolly little mid. I had just passed then, and
he was the youngest; but he lives close to Miller, and he says he has
grown up into a fine young fellow. He is about nineteen now. He has
not passed yet, for he was laid on the shelf four months before his
time was up, and not having passed, of course he is even worse off
than either of us. Not that it matters so much to him, for his father
has an estate; but as Jack is the second son, and loves his
profession, he is so anxious to be afloat again that he told Miller
the other day he would ship before the mast if he could not get a
berth before long. Miller will write to him this afternoon, and he
will be here to-morrow night or next morning. I have asked him to come
round and have lunch with us at the Falcon. Mr. Beveridge and his
father sail with us, Miller, in the double capacity, as I understand,
of owners and fighting men.”

Horace laughed. “In the first place, I am not going to be called Mr.
Beveridge or Mr. Anything,” he said. “I shall be regarded as a sort of
third officer, and do my work regularly while we are at sea. I know a
little about sailing already,” he said to Miller, “so I sha’n’t be
quite a green hand.”

“No, indeed,” Martyn said. “Horace, if I am to call him so, has got a
fifteen-ton yacht I picked up for him, and a first-rate little craft
she is. He went out in a big gale last winter, and rescued the crew of
a wreck, the _Celadon_.”

“I saw it in the paper,” Miller said warmly, “and thought what a
plucky thing it was. That is capital. Then you will be like one of
ourselves. Well, what are you going to do first, Martyn?”

“First we are going to lunch. Then you will write your letter to
Tarleton and post it. After that we will charter a boat and go up and
look at the _Creole_ again. You haven’t seen her yet, and we haven’t
seen her since the purchase was concluded, and a craft always looks
different when you know she is yours. After making an overhaul we will
go ashore to the nearest yard and arrange for her to be docked, and
her bottom cleaned and scrubbed; I expect it wants it pretty badly.
That will be enough for to-day. As soon as she is in the water again
we will set a gang of riggers at work. I shall take charge of that
part of the business, and I will leave it to you to hunt up a crew. We
have got a boatswain. At least I have no doubt we have.”

“How many men are you going to take, Martyn?”

“She mounts four guns each side and a long Tom--I don’t know what the
metal is yet--and she is heavily sparred. Of course she hasn’t got her
topmasts in place, but her masts are very long, and I have no doubt
she shows a good spread of sail; those craft always do. We shall want
a strong crew, for, if we fight at all, it will be against craft a
good deal bigger than ourselves. There is any amount of room on the
main deck, where they carried the slaves. Of course we needn’t settle
at present, but I should say we ought to carry from forty to fifty
men.”

“I think we ought certainly to have a strong crew,” Horace said, “so
as to be able to land a strong party if we wanted to; the extra
expense would be of no consequence.”

“We must pick our men, Miller--smart active fellows, and, of course,
men-of-war’s for choice. If we can’t get enough here, we will sail her
round to Portsmouth and fill up there. There ought to be plenty of
prime seamen to be had. They would jump at the chance of sailing in
such a craft as ours.”

Miller was delighted with the ship, and they now especially examined
the cabin arrangements. The saloon ran across the stern of the ship.
It was handsomely fitted up in mahogany. Leading off this, on the port
side, was a large cabin that had evidently been the captain’s. This,
of course, would be Mr. Beveridge’s. On the starboard side were three
cabins. Next to these was the steward’s pantry and cabin; and facing
this, on the port side, two other state-rooms.

“It could not have been better if it had been built for us,” Miller
said. “There are three cabins on the starboard side. Horace will take
one of the three, I suppose, and that will leave a spare cabin in case
we take a passenger we are likely to want.”

“What are you thinking of, Miller?”

“I was thinking that as we are going to fight, it is not by any means
impossible that some of us or the men may be wounded.”

“I should certainly say it was quite possible,” Martyn laughed.

“Well, you see as long as it is only a clip from a cutlass or a flesh
wound through the arm, I fancy we might patch it up between us with a
bit of plaster and a bandage; but if it comes to an amputation or
getting a bullet out of the body, or anything of that sort, who is
going to do it?”

“By Jove! you are right, Miller. I had not thought of that. I am
afraid we shall have to take a surgeon with us. It would never do to
go into action in the Levant, where there is no chance of finding an
English doctor, without having at least a surgeon’s-mate on board.”

“Of course not,” Horace agreed; “that is an absolute necessity. Will
you see about it at once, please.”

“There is no difficulty in getting surgeons,” Martyn said. “Of course
young fellows who have just done walking hospitals are as plentiful as
peas; but we had better get hold of a man who has been knocking about
for a few years in the navy, and who has had some experience in
gunshot wounds. There must be plenty of good men about, for they have
suffered just as we have by the reduction. I will speak to Dacent
about it this evening, and get him to ask one of the naval surgeons
here if he knows a man. One or other of them is almost sure to do so.
Well, the spare cabin will be for him. So now we are fixed
completely.”

“We shall have to take off a little bit from the main deck, because my
father’s two Greeks will certainly come with us. Only one can sleep in
the steward’s cabin, so we shall want a small cabin for the other and
a place for cooking. They are first-rate cooks, both of them; and I
expect they will undertake the cooking altogether for us.”

“That can very easily be managed,” Martyn said. “We can knock a door
through this bulkhead, and run another bulkhead up across the deck,
seven or eight feet farther forward. I have not forgotten that Greek’s
cooking; and if we live on board this craft as you did on the _Surf_,
I can tell you, Miller, we needn’t envy an admiral.”

“Well, I like a good dinner, I must own, Martyn, though I can do with
salt-horse if necessary.”

“But are you sure, Horace,” Martyn said, “that your father wouldn’t
prefer having the cabin astern all to yourselves? When we are about it
we could put the bulkhead farther forward, and make a ward-room for
us.”

“No, I am sure he would not wish that,” Horace said. “I will write to
him when we get ashore and ask him; but I am sure he would find it
more pleasant our being all together, and it would be much better for
him than being by himself. My father is a great scholar,” he explained
to Miller, “and is always poring over books. I am sure it will do him
a lot of good getting away from them altogether and being with people.
Besides, that private cabin of his is a good size, and there will be
plenty of room for him to have a table and an easy-chair in it
whenever he is disposed to shut himself up. However, I will hear what
he says.”

After leaving the ship a visit was paid to one of the shipbuilding
yards, and arrangements made for the _Creole_ to be brought into dock
at high-tide. On getting back to the inn Horace wrote to his father on
the various questions that had arisen, and then to Marco, telling him
to come over by coach, and to bring Tom Burdett with him. They then
went to dine at the club with Dacent, who entered with great zest into
their arrangements.

“I can’t tell you what is your best way of setting about getting the
arms; but I should say go to Durncombe’s. They are by far the largest
ship-chandlers here, and I should say that they could supply anything
from an anchor to a tallow-dip. They must have fitted out innumerable
privateers, and bought up the stores of as many prizes. They may not
be able to supply you with as many small-arms as you want; but if you
give them an order for a thousand cannon, I have not a doubt they
could execute it in twenty-four hours, and that at the price of old
iron. As to the muskets, they could no doubt collect a big lot here,
and get more still from Portsmouth. Those of course would be
principally ship’s muskets, no longer wanted or taken from prizes. I
don’t suppose they would get enough, and of course you would want
them in fair condition; but they would put advertisements for them in
the Birmingham papers, or, likely enough, would know firms in
Birmingham who had bought up muskets sold out of the army.”

“What do they buy them for?” Horace asked.

“Oh, they contract for the supply of those South American States, for
trade in Africa and the East, or for the supply of the armies of
native princes in India. I think, if I were you, I would not go to him
direct, but would get the agent you got the _Creole_ from to undertake
it, and get the terms settled. He would get them a good bit cheaper
than you could.”

“No doubt he would,” Martyn agreed, “especially if we agreed to pay
him so much for getting it, instead of so much commission. When a man
gets a commission he has no interest in keeping the price down; just
the contrary. I will ask him casually, to begin with, what is the cost
of muskets in fair condition, and at what price we could pick up
guns--say six, eight, and twelve pounders--complete, with carriages.”

“I don’t know about the carriages, Martyn; but I know the guns fetch
less by a good bit than their weight of old iron. They cost more to
break up, in fact, than they are worth; and they are using them for
posts, and things of that sort, for the sake of getting rid of them. I
should say that you could get a couple of hundred guns of those sizes
to-morrow for a pound apiece, and I believe that you might almost get
them for the trouble of carting away, for they are simply so much
lumber. Powder is a glut in the market too. I should say hundreds of
tons have been emptied into the sea in this port alone, for when the
merchant skippers found they no longer required to carry it, it was
cheaper for them to throw it overboard than to get rid of it in any
other way.”

When they returned to the Falcon that evening they found Miller had
shifted his quarters there from the little inn in which he had been
staying, and two days later Jack Tarleton also arrived there. He was a
good-looking young fellow, nearly six feet in height, slight at
present, but likely to fill out, with a somewhat quiet manner, but, as
Horace soon found, a quick appreciation of the humorous side of things
and a good deal of quiet fun. On the same day Marco arrived with Tom
Burdett, who was delighted when Horace disclosed the project to him.

“I should think I would like to go, Mr. Horace. Why, bless you, I have
been feeling almost as if I was rusting out at Seaport, except when
you were at home. Why, it will be like giving one a fresh lease of
life to get at one’s own work again.”

He was at once installed on board the _Creole_, which on that day had
been let out of the dock again with her copper scrubbed until it shone
like gold. Miller had as yet had no time to see about the men, and Tom
at once undertook this part of the business.

“I know every tavern down by the waterside and the places where men
are likely to be found. I will soon pick you up some prime hands. If I
can’t get enough of them here, I will take a run to Bristol. There is
a big trade there, and there will be plenty of men-of-war’s-men to be
had for the asking for such a job as this.”

“How about Seaport, Tom?” Horace asked.

“Well, we will take Dick; but there are not many I would care about
having from there. They are good enough in their fishing-boats, but I
would rather have men who are accustomed to bigger craft. Besides,
though fishermen are good sailors in some ways, they are not
accustomed to discipline, and are always slovenly in their way of
doing things. Besides, if I persuaded young fellows to come from
there, and any of them got killed, their fathers and mothers would
look black at me when I got back. No, I don’t think I will have anyone
but Dick.”

By this time a letter had come from Mr. Beveridge in answer to
Horace’s letter.

“I quite agree with you,” he said, “that the officers should be paid
fairly. I see that, as you say, it is not a thing that you could very
well arrange with them. Will you tell Mr. Martyn, from me, that the
terms I propose are twenty guineas a month for him, eighteen for the
second officer, and fifteen for the third; and that, in case of any of
them losing a limb or being disabled, I shall settle upon them a
pension the same as that to which they would have been entitled at
their rank in the navy in the same case. The ship appears to me to be
wonderfully cheap. I knew nothing about it, but quite expected that it
would cost three times as much. Certainly I should not wish for them
to have a separate cabin. It will be much more pleasant for me, if not
disagreeable to them, for us to live together. As for what you say
about prize-money, tell Mr. Martyn to arrange as he proposes,
according to the ordinary usage in privateers. It is a matter to which
I have given no thought, but he shall give me the particulars when we
meet. As you know, I have no intention of making profit out of the
enterprise.”

Two days later Martyn told Horace that Dacent had introduced him to
one of the surgeons, who knew a young doctor who would, he thought,
suit. “His name is Macfarlane; he is, of course, a Scotchman--most of
the naval doctors are either Irish or Scotch. He sailed with him as
surgeon’s-mate in a large frigate, where they had a good deal of
experience in wounds, and he has a high idea of his skill. He is a
very quiet sort of fellow, but a pleasant messmate. He has been full
surgeon for some time now. His ship was paid off a fortnight ago, and
the man who told me of him had a letter from him a few days since,
saying that, as he had no interest he thought that he had but little
chance of getting afloat again, and asking him to let him know if he
heard of any opening, either ashore or in an Indiaman. He thought he
would suit us very well, so I said that I would speak to you about
it.”

“I should think that will be just the thing, Martyn.”

“Very well, then, I will see the surgeon to-morrow, and get him to
write and offer him the berth at the regular naval rate of pay. Of
course we sha’n’t want him to join till we are ready to sail.”

Some days later a reply was received, accepting the berth.

For the next fortnight work proceeded rapidly. Stores of all kinds for
the voyage were brought on board and stowed away. Sixty cannon were
stowed down in the hold, with thirty carriages for them, the latter
taking up too much room to be carried for the whole of the guns. Eight
twelve-pounders, in place of the eight-pounders before carried by her,
and a long eighteen-pounder were placed in the hold in readiness to
mount on deck when they reached the Levant. The riggers and painters
had finished their work, the decks had been planed and holy-stoned
until they were spotlessly white, and the tall spars and gear were all
in their place. The guns had cost only about as much as Miller had
said, and they could have obtained any number at the same price. The
agent had made a contract with the ship’s chandlers for five thousand
muskets complete with bayonets, in good order, and delivered on board,
at ten shillings each. Some five hundred of these had been collected,
and--after passing muster, by an armourer sergeant Martyn engaged for
the purpose--put on board. The rest were to be sent by canal from
Birmingham to Liverpool, and thence shipped round to Plymouth. Five
tons of gunpowder in barrels, twenty tons of shot for the cannon, and
two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition for the muskets were also
arranged for. These were to be shipped at the last moment from
magazines at the mouth of the Sound.

Below, everything had been done to make the cabins as comfortable as
possible, and Dacent declared that she was altogether too neat and
comfortable for anything but an admiral’s yacht. Tom Burdett had
picked up at Plymouth twenty-five smart sailors, all of whom had
served in king’s ships; and then, going to Bristol, had brought as
many more from there. Uniforms, closely resembling those of men-of-war
sailors, had been served out to them, but instead of the straw hat
they wore red woollen caps. The officers had only to exchange their
navy buttons for others with an anchor to be complete; Horace had
donned similar attire.

It was just three weeks after Horace left home that he wrote to his
father saying that all was now in readiness, and that they could sail
within an hour of his arrival. They were at once going out to take
their powder on board, and would remain at anchor off the magazines,
and that he himself should be at the Falcon when it was time for the
first coach to arrive after the receipt of his letter, and should
remain there until his father came. Mr. Macfarlane, the surgeon,
arrived by the coach that evening, and was put down at the Falcon.
Martyn and Horace went out when they heard the coach stop.

“That is the doctor, for a guinea,” Martyn said, as a tall bony man
climbed down from the roof, and began very carefully to look after his
luggage.

“I think you must be Doctor Macfarlane?” he said, going up to him. “My
name is Martyn.”

“I am very glad to see you, Captain Martyn,” the doctor said; “I take
it as a sign that I shall have a pleasant time that my commander
should meet me as I get off the coach.”

“I am captain only by courtesy, and shall hardly consider that I have
got my brevet rank till we hoist the flag to-morrow. This is Mr.
Beveridge, the owner’s son, he will sail with us as third officer. I
have ordered a room for you, doctor. Boots will carry your things up.”

“Thank you; I will see to them myself, and join you in the
coffee-room. I am not fond of trusting to other folk;” and he followed
the servant upstairs with his baggage.

Martyn laughed as he went into the coffee-room with Horace. “Cautious
you see, Horace, and right enough to be so; I think we shall like him.
There is a pleasant tone in his voice, and I have no doubt he will
turn out a good fellow, though, perhaps, rather a character.”

The doctor soon came down.

“Eh, man,” he said, “but it is weary work sitting with your legs
doubled up all those hours on a coach. Four-and-twenty hours it is
since I got up at Salisbury. And so, Mr. Beveridge, we are going out
to fight for the Greeks. I misdoubt, sir, if they will do much
fighting for themselves. I was three years east of Malta. There is
good in them, we may take it that there is good in them, but it is
very difficult to get at; at least that was my experience.”

“They have not had much chance, I think, doctor, so far.”

“And how large is your ship, Captain Martyn?” the doctor said,
changing the subject suddenly.

“They call her a hundred and fifty, but she has a light draft of water
and would not carry that, yet she has excellent accommodation below,
as you will say when you see her to-morrow.”

The conversation then turned on naval matters, and the stations and
ships that both Martyn and the doctor knew; and when they separated
for the evening Martyn and Horace agreed that the doctor was likely to
be a pleasant acquisition to their party.

Marco had been intrusted with the entire charge of laying in stores
for the cabin, and these had arrived in such profusion that Will
Martyn had demanded whether he was victualling the ship with cabin
stores for a voyage round the world.

It had been given out that the ship was bound for Lisbon, but the news
of her destination had gradually leaked out, although pains had been
taken to get the military stores on board as quietly as possible.
Sympathy with Greece was general, however, and although the young
officers were quietly joked by their naval acquaintances as to their
cargo for Portugal, no official inquiries were made on the subject.

“I sha’n’t be sorry, Horace,” Will Martyn said, as they were rowed off
in the gig for the last time before getting up anchor, “when we get
some of our heavy stuff out of her. One way or another she will have a
hundred and twenty tons of stuff on board when we have taken in our
powder, and though I don’t at all say that she will be overladen she
will be a foot too low in the water to please me, and she wouldn’t be
able to do her best if she were chased in her present trim.”

“The little difference in speed won’t matter much on our way out,”
Horace said.

“No, not as to time, of course, a day more or less is no matter;
still, one always likes to get all one can out of one’s ship, Horace,
and it is a triumph to slip past other craft. If you have a slow craft
you don’t mind whether other things leave you behind in an hour or two
hours; you jog along and you don’t worry about it; you are like a man
driving a heavy cart. But when you are in a crack schooner you are
like a man on the road with a fast horse and a light gig, you expect
to go past other things, and you like to do it in good style.”

“Well, nothing will beat her in looks, I think, Will.”

“No, that is quite certain. She is a picture.”

Everything was done on board the _Creole_ in man-of-war fashion.
Tarleton stood at the top of the ladder to receive the captain as he
came on board. He touched his cap to Martyn, who touched his in
return.

“Everything ready for getting under weigh, Mr. Tarleton?”

“Everything quite ready, sir.”

“Then shorten the chain a bit; man the capstan.”

Jack Tarleton gave the order. Tom Burdett’s boatswain’s whistle rang
out loudly; the capstan-bars were already fixed, and a dozen men ran
merrily round with it till the whistle sounded again.

“The anchor is short, sir,” Tarleton sang out to Martyn.

“Very well, leave her so, Mr. Tarleton. Will you make sail, Mr.
Miller?”

The orders were given, the mainsail, foresail, and fore-staysail
hoisted, and the jibs run out on the bowsprit. As soon as the
halliards were belayed and coiled down, the capstan-bars were manned
again, and the anchor weighed. The tide had just turned to run out,
there was a gentle breeze blowing, and as the two jibs were run up the
_Creole_ began to steal through the water.

“Port your helm!” Martyn said to the man at the wheel; “let her come
round easy. Slack off the main-sheet; that will do now. Get her
topsails on her, Mr. Miller.”

Horace looked up with a feeling of pride and delight at the cloud of
white sail and at the smart active crew, all in duck trousers, blue
shirts, and red caps. Once out of the river the sheets were hauled in,
the yards of the fore-topsail were braced as much fore and aft as they
would stand, and the _Creole_ turned her head seaward, looking, as
Martyn said, almost into the wind’s eye. The red ensign was flying
from the peak of the mainsail, and from the mast-head a long pennant
bearing her name.

“She is slipping through the water rarely, Miller,” Will Martyn said,
as he looked over the side.

“Yes, she is going six knots through it, and that, considering how
close-hauled she is and that the wind is light, is wonderful.”

“She would go a good knot faster,” Martyn said, “if she had fifty tons
of that stuff out of her. Those slavers know how to build, and no
mistake, and I don’t think they ever turned out a better craft than
this.”

It was not until late in the afternoon that the _Creole_ dropped
anchor off the magazine, where she was to take in her powder, as
Martyn ran her out twenty miles to sea and back again to stretch her
ropes and, as he said, let things shape down a bit. When the trip was
over there was not a man on board but was in the state of the highest
satisfaction with the craft. Both close-hauled on the way out and free
on her return they had passed several vessels almost as if these had
been standing still, going three feet to their two; and although there
was but little sea on, there was enough to satisfy them that she had
no lack of buoyancy, even in her present trim.

As soon as the anchor was down and the sails stowed Marco announced
that dinner was ready, for all had been too much interested in the
behaviour of the schooner to think of going down for lunch. It was the
first meal that they had taken on board beyond a crust of bread and
cheese in the middle of the day, and as they sat down, Will Martyn
taking the head of the table, Horace, as his father’s representative,
facing him, and the others at the sides, Miller said with a laugh, as
he looked at the appointments, all of which had been sent over from
the house two days before by Zaimes: “This is rather a contrast,
Martyn, to the cockpit of a man-of-war.”

“Rather. I never did dine with an admiral, but this is the sort of
thing that I have always fancied it would be if it had entered into
the head of one to invite me. What do you think, Tarleton?”

“I feel shy at present, sir, and as if I oughtn’t to speak till spoken
to.”

“You will be spoken to pretty sharply if you say ‘sir’ down below. On
deck, as we agreed, we would have things in man-of-war fashion; but we
are not going to have anything of that sort when we are below
together.”

The dinner was an excellent one, and though the expectations of Miller
and Tarleton had been raised by Martyn’s encomiums of the Greek’s
cooking they were far surpassed by the reality. “It is a dinner fit
for a king,” Martyn said when the cloth was cleared away and a
decanter of port placed on the table.

“There is one misfortune in it. If this sort of thing is going to last
we shall never be fit for service in an ordinary craft again, we shall
become Sybarites. Is this the sort of dinner you always have at home,
Horace?”

“About the same, I think,” Horace laughed. “My father takes no
exercise and has not much appetite, and I think he likes nice things;
and it is one of the Greek’s great aims in life to tempt him to eat.
We always have a very good cook, but Zaimes insists on having a few
little things of his own cooking on the table, and as he is generally
at war with the cook, and they leave in consequence about every three
or four months, he often has the dinner altogether in his hands till a
fresh one arrives, and I am amused sometimes to see how Zaimes fidgets
when my father, which is often the case, is so occupied with his own
thoughts that he eats mechanically and does not notice what is before
him. Zaimes stands it for a minute or two and then asks some question
or makes some observation that calls my father’s attention back to
what he is doing. They have both been with him for two-and-twenty
years and are devoted to him. They are hardly like English servants,
and talk to him in a way English servants would not think of doing.
They are always perfectly respectful, you know, but they regard
themselves, as he regards them, as friends as well as servants.”

“Well, gentlemen, we will drink the usual toast, ‘The King, God bless
him;’ that is duty. Now fill up again, here is ‘Success to the
_Creole_.’” When the toast was drank Martyn went on:

“How did your father pick them up, Horace?”

“It was just after he went out to Greece, which was directly after he
left college. He was at Samos, and got leave from the Turkish governor
to visit the prison. In one of the cells were Zaimes and Marco, who
was then a boy about sixteen. They were condemned to death; they had
been smuggling, and a Turkish boat had overhauled them. They had
resisted. Four of the men with them had been killed in the fight, and
several of the Turks. These two had been both severely wounded and
made prisoners. My father was new to that sort of thing then. After he
had been a year or two in Greece he knew that it would take a king’s
fortune to buy out all the prisoners in the Turkish jails, but being
only out there a month or two he was touched at the sight of the two
prisoners. They were both very handsome, though, of course, pale and
pulled down by their wounds and imprisonment, and Zaimes, who was the
spokesman, had that courteous gentle manner that my father says all
the Greeks have when they are not excited.”

“At any rate he was very much interested and went off to the governor
again, and the Turk was glad enough for a bribe of a hundred pounds to
give him an order for the release of the two prisoners, on condition
that they were to be let out after dark and at once put on board a
craft that was sailing at daybreak next morning. My father went with
them, and after that they absolutely refused to leave him, and
travelled with him in Greece for some time and fought very pluckily
when some Klepts once tried to carry him away into the mountains. Then
he bought a small craft and established his head-quarters at Mitylene,
and for a year lived there and cruised about the islands. When he came
home he offered the felucca to them, but they refused to take it, and
begged so hard for him to take them home with him that he agreed to do
so, and they have proved invaluable to him ever since.”

“Your father is lucky in having got hold of two such men,” Martyn
said. “I believe the lower order of Greeks are fine fellows in their
way. They are quarrelsome and passionate, no doubt, and apt to whip
out their knives at the smallest provocation, and there is no trade
they take so kindly to as that of a bandit; otherwise I believe they
are honest hardworking fellows. But as for the upper class of Greeks,
the less I have to do with them the better. When they get a chance
they grind down their countrymen a deal worse than the Turks do. They
are slippery customers and no mistake. I would rather take a Turk’s
simple word than a solemn oath from a Greek.”

“No; veracity is hardly one of their conspicuous virtues,” the doctor
put in quietly. “I take it that the ancients were so accustomed to
swear by their gods, even after they had ceased to believe in them,
that they came to consider that an oath by them was not binding, and
so got into the way of lying generally, and their descendants have
never amended their ways in that particular since. On more than one
occasion, when there was trouble between our sailors and the Greeks, I
attended their courts, and for good downright hard swearing I never
heard them approached. I don’t wonder that the Turks refuse to allow
Christians to give evidence in their courts. We shall see when we get
out, but I have grave doubts whether there has been any revolution at
all, and whether it is not a got-up thing altogether, just to see
what the rest of the world says to it.”

The others laughed.

“There is one thing, doctor,” Miller said; “we have heard from
Europeans who are out there of what has been done, it does not come
from the Greeks only.”

“That is a confirmation, certainly, but it is well known that
travellers’ tales must always be received with caution. It has been so
since the days of Herodotus. When a man gets away from his own country
he is apt to get a certain looseness of the tongue. We will wait until
we get out there before we form any strong opinion about it.”

By this time they had finished their coffee, and Martyn, rising, said:
“Mr. Tarleton, I shall be glad if you will go along the main-deck and
see that the men are making themselves comfortable; to-morrow we will
divide them into watches and tell them off to their stations and get
things into working order.”

Accordingly, in the morning the crew were divided into two watches,
and the boat’s crews told off, and then the work of getting the powder
and small ammunition on board began; the latter did not take long, as
it was already in a flat into which it had been discharged three days
before from the coaster that had brought it from Liverpool. The flat
had therefore only to be towed alongside and the cases swung on board
and lowered into a portion of the hold that had been divided off from
the rest by thick bulkheads to form a magazine. The ammunition and
powder were all on board and stowed away, the ship was washed down,
and the men piped to dinner by eight bells. The officers went down and
divided the men into messes, examined the food, and saw that
everything was comfortable.

“More room here than there was on board the _Surf_, Dick,” Horace said
as he stopped a moment on his rounds to speak to the young sailor.

“Yes, sir, one can stand upright here. But the _Surf_ was a good boat
too.”

After dinner the men were told off to their various duties and divided
into crews for the guns, when these should be in place. The first
lieutenant (for it was agreed that they should be called lieutenants
and not mates) and Horace took the starboard watch, Tarleton and the
boatswain the port watch. The men were formed up, inspected, and put
through cutlass drill for an hour, after which the watches by turns
were exercised in setting sail, reefing, lowering, and furling, so
that each man should know his place and duty. Then they were
dismissed.

“They will be a first-rate crew when they have worked together for a
few days,” Martyn said. “I could not wish for a smarter set of men. If
we meet anything about our own size I shall have no fear of giving a
good account of her. I have no opinion whatever of the Turks as
sailors; they are good soldiers, and have always proved themselves so,
but more lubberly sailors never went to sea.”

“Well, we are not likely to meet anything else,” Horace said.

“I don’t know, lad. The Greeks at the best of times are pirates at
heart, and just at present they are not at all likely to be particular
who they lay hands on. I saw in the paper only yesterday, they had
attacked and plundered an Austrian craft, and it is probable that they
may have done the same to a dozen others, only as a rule they scuttle
any ship they may seize and nothing is ever known about her. Ships
can’t be too careful when they are in Greek waters, and a vessel
wrecked on any of the islands is looked upon as a lawful prize. There
is no fear of our being taken by surprise by the Turks, but I shall
take precious good care that we are never caught napping when we are
anchored anywhere in the Greek Archipelago. After dinner, Horace, I
will go ashore with you in the gig. I don’t think it likely your
father will be down by the night coach, as he would only get your
letter this morning, but he may come; at any rate you have got to wait
now at the Falcon till he turns up.”




CHAPTER VI

UNDER WEIGH


After seeing to a few matters that had been left till the last moment,
Will Martyn returned on board again. Horace dined at the club, of
which he had been made an honorary member, and then went back to the
Falcon. To his surprise Zaimes was standing at the door.

“Why, Zaimes, how on earth did you get here? Why, the coach does not
get in till twelve o’clock.”

“No, Mr. Horace, but we had everything ready to start this morning. Of
course your letter did not come in time for us to get over to the
early coach, but we were expecting it after what you wrote yesterday,
and your father had concluded that it would be much more comfortable
to post. He does not like being crowded, and it was doubtful whether
there would be room for the two of us; and there was the luggage, so
we had arranged for a post-chaise to come for us anyhow, and we
started half an hour after your letter came in, and have posted
comfortably. Your father is in the coffee-room. He would not have a
private room, as he did not know whether you would be taking him on
board this evening.”

Mr. Beveridge was sitting at a table by himself, and had just finished
his dinner when Horace came in. He looked up more briskly than usual.

“I am sorry I was not here to meet you, father,” Horace said; “but I
did not think you could be here until the night coach.”

“No; I did not expect to find you here, Horace, so it was no
disappointment. Well, you look bronzed and well, my boy, you and your
friends seem to have done wonders in getting everything done so soon.
I am quite anxious to see the ship. Are we to go on board this
evening?”

“If you don’t mind, father, I would much rather you didn’t go off
till morning. I said that if you came we would breakfast early and be
ready for the gig at half-past eight. They won’t be expecting us
to-night, and I am sure Martyn and the others will like to have
everything in the best possible order when you go on board. We have
been expecting those boxes of books you wrote about a week ago, but
they haven’t turned up. It will be a horrible nuisance if, after the
way we have been pushing everything forward, we should be kept waiting
two or three days for them.”

“Well, Horace, the fact is I changed my mind. The four boxes were
packed and in the hall. They really were very large boxes, and Zaimes
said: ‘Well, master, what you are going to do with all those books I
can’t imagine. Where are you going to put them? Why, they would fill
your cabin up solid. If I were you, sir, I would not take one of them.
Just give yourself a holiday. Don’t take a pen in your hand while you
are away. You will have plenty to see about and to think about, and I
am sure it would do you a deal of good to give it up altogether for a
time, and you will take it up freshly afterwards. Besides, you will
have people coming on board, and your advice will be asked, and you
will have to decide all sorts of things, and you know you won’t be
able to bring your mind out of your books if you have them on board.’
He said something like it when I first began to talk of packing, but
it seemed to me impossible that I could give up work altogether; but
the sight of those four great boxes staggered me. Then I said:
‘Zaimes, this is not like that little cabin on board the yacht. This
is quite a large vessel in comparison.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, ‘but
your cabin won’t be larger than the main cabin in the _Surf_, not so
large I should fancy.’ This surprised me altogether, but he assured me
it was so, and pressed me so much on the matter that I at last agreed
to leave them all behind.”

“That is a capital thing, father. Zaimes was quite right. Your
state-room is a very nice cabin, but except that it is a good deal
more lofty, it is certainly not so large by a good deal as the main
cabin in the _Surf_; besides, if you had your books you would be
always shut up there, and what I thought of all along, from the time
you first spoke about coming out, was what a good thing it would be
for you to have a thorough holiday, and to put aside the old work
altogether.”

“You don’t think it valuable, Horace?” Mr. Beveridge asked wistfully.

“I do, father. I think it most valuable, and no one can be prouder
than I am of your reputation, and that all learned men should
acknowledge the immense value of your works to Greek students. But,
father, after all, the number of men who go into all that is very
small, and I can’t see why your life should be entirely given up to
them. I think that at any rate it will be a first-rate thing for you,
and extremely pleasant for me, that you should be like the rest of us
while we are out on this expedition. As Zaimes says, you will have a
lot of things to decide upon, and we are going to lead an active,
stirring life, and it is new Greece we shall have to think about, and
not the Greece of two thousand years ago. It is your aim to raise, not
the Greeks of the time of Miltiades, but a people who in these two
thousand years have become a race, not only of slaves, but of ignorant
savages, for these massacres of unarmed people show that they are
nothing better; and not only to free them, but to make them worthy of
being a nation again. I think, father, there will be ample scope for
all your thoughts and attention in the present without giving a
thought to the niceties of the language spoken by Demosthenes, so I am
truly and heartily glad you decided to leave your books behind you.”

“I think you are right, Horace; I am sure you are right; but it is a
wrench to me to cut myself loose altogether from the habits of a
lifetime.”

“And now, father, what are you going to do about clothes?” Horace
said, looking at him closely.

“About clothes!” his father repeated vaguely. “I have brought two
large boxes full with me.”

“Yes, father, no doubt you have clothes, but I am sure that on board
ship--and you will be always living there, you know--it will be much
more comfortable for you to have clothes fit for the sea. Frilled
shirts, and ruffles, and tight breeches, and high-heeled Hessian
boots, and short-waisted tail-coats are all very well on shore, but
the first time you are out in a good brisk gale, you would wish them
anywhere. What you want is a couple of suits, at least, of blue cloth
like mine, with brass buttons, and a low cloth cap like this that will
keep on your head whilst it is blowing, in fact the sort of suit that
the owner of a big yacht would naturally wear. Of course when you go
ashore to see any of the Greek leaders, you might like to go in your
ordinary dress; but really for sea you want comfortable clothes, and a
good thick pea-jacket for rough weather.”

“Perhaps you are right, Horace, and I did remark that my heels left
marks upon the deck of the _Surf_.”

“Certainly they did, father; and it would be agony to Will Martyn to
have the beautiful white deck of the _Creole_ spoiled.”

“But it is too late now, it is half-past eight o’clock.”

“Oh, I can take you to a shop where they keep this sort of thing.
Besides, there are twelve hours before we start, and by paying for it
one can get pretty nearly anything made in twelve hours.”

Mr. Beveridge suffered himself to be persuaded. Fortunately the
outfitter had a couple of suits ordered by one of the officers of a
ship of war in harbour nearly completed. These he agreed to alter to
fit Mr. Beveridge by the morning, and to put on extra hands to turn
out fresh suits for the person for whom they were intended. The gold
lace, white facings, and other distinguishing marks would be removed,
and plain brass buttons substituted for the royal buttons. Two or
three pairs of shoes with low heels were also obtained. The clothes
came home at seven in the morning, and Mr. Beveridge came down to
breakfast looking like the smart captain of a merchantman.

“I feel as if I were dressed for 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/42276