The weather was gloriously fine; much too fine, indeed, to suit Captain Blyth, for, as he and his friend Captain Spence had foreseen, the easterly breeze which had prevailed for so long had at length died completely away, leaving the surface of the river as smooth as a sheet of polished silver. The air had grown much warmer, a sure precursor of a southerly wind; and the ladies had, in consequence, changed their dresses immediately after luncheon, discarding the woollen fabrics in which they had embarked and substituting for them dainty costumes of cool, light, flimsy material, arrayed in which they established themselves for the afternoon on the poop.
It was somewhat late that night when the Flying Cloud rounded the North Foreland; and, as Captain Blyth had feared, the little breeze which had sprung up with the setting of the sun was all out from the southward. There was, however, a capital moon, almost full; the tide, too, was in their favour. So, instead of anchoring in the Downs until next day, as had been his first intention, he determined to keep on; and all sail was accordingly made upon the ship as soon as the tug had cast off the tow-rope. A stretch was made across the channel towards the French coast, in the direction of Gravelines; and great was the satisfaction of all hands when they found that the ship, on a taut bowline, and with only wind enough to heel her some six inches under every stitch of plain sail they could set upon her, was slipping along through the water at the rate of fully five knots, and that, too, so cleanly that the ripple under the bows was inaudible to the men on the forecastle unless they put their heads over the side and listened for it, whilst scarcely a whirl or a bubble was to be seen in the long smooth wake which she left behind her.
The breeze continued scant all night, notwithstanding which the Flying Cloud was, at eight o’clock next morning, as close to the French coast as Captain Blyth cared to take her, and she was accordingly hove about, the wind so far favouring her that it was confidently hoped she would weather Beachy Head and so pass out clear of everything. With the rising of the sun the wind gave promise of freshening, which promise was so far fulfilled that by noon the ship was skimming along at a pace of over nine knots an hour, she being at the time just abreast of Calais. The breeze still increasing, and the tide being again in their favour, Cape Grisnez was passed little more than an hour later; and then, running out from under the lee of the land, the swell of the channel almost immediately began to make itself felt. The full strength of the wind at the same time also became apparent, and the ship, now heeling over sufficiently to send the water spouting up through the scupper-holes with every lee-roll, increased her pace to a fair, honest ten knots, steering “full and by.” Captain Blyth was simply enchanted with the performance of his new command, feeling fully convinced (though he did not yet venture to give utterance to his conviction) that in her, that hitherto invincible clipper, the Southern Cross, would at length assuredly find she had met her match. By three o’clock Dungeness was broad on the lee-bow; by four o’clock it was fairly abaft the beam; and when the passengers went on deck after dinner they found the ship in the act of weathering Beachy, though without very much room to spare, the wind evincing an inclination to veer round from the westward. At eight o’clock next morning, when Ned came on deck to keep the forenoon watch, he saw that he was on familiar ground, the ship being about midway between Saint Catherine’s Point and Saint Alban’s Head, the high land at the east end of the Isle of Wight looming like a white cloud on the horizon astern, or rather on the starboard quarter, whilst Saint Alban’s gleamed brilliantly in the bright sunlight on the starboard bow. The ship was still close-hauled on the larboard tack and going about six knots, the wind having headed her somewhat during the night and fallen lighter. The weather was magnificent, and everybody was in capital spirits. Captain Blyth was pleased because, though the ship was not just then travelling at any great speed, he had at all events got half-way down the channel; the passengers were pleased because they were having such a splendid view of the coast—with the prospect of getting a still better view later on in the day, as Ned informed them—and most pleased of all was Ned himself, because he not only looked forward to getting one more glimpse of dear old Weymouth itself, but also hoped to be able to make his near vicinity known to his father.
Noon found the Flying Cloud abreast of Saint Alban’s Head and within half a mile of the shore; and, this bold promontory once rounded, all hands found themselves face to face with that magnificent panorama of rolling downs, smiling valleys, tiny strips of snow-white beach, and lofty precipitous chalk-cliffs, which help to make the scenery of Weymouth Bay one of the fairest prospects within the boundaries of the British island.
The ship was reaching right down along the coast at a distance of little more than two miles from the shore, and though it was now his watch below, Ned undertook to point out the various objects of interest as they crept into view, such as Warbarrow Bay, with Lulworth Castle nestling among its surrounding trees; Lulworth Cove, with its bold, rocky entrance; the noble natural archway of Durdle Door; the curious Burning Cliff, and so on; and when they were off the latter he made bold to ask Captain Blyth’s permission to hoist the ship’s colours, explaining that he would like his father to see the vessel and to know that he was so near at hand. Ned was a very great favourite with the skipper; moreover, the latter and Ned’s father were old friends. The cheery answer given to this request, therefore, was:
“Yes, certainly, my lad; show our bunting by all means. We shall then be reported as having passed, and the owners will be glad to learn that we have crept so far on our way.”
Armed with this permission Ned lost no time in getting out the flags and hoisting them exactly as they were represented in the picture he had sent to his father, and which he knew must be in the old gentleman’s possession by this time.
That afternoon old Mr. Damerell and his daughter were, according to their usual custom, on the Nothe, Eva with a piece of dainty embroidery work wherewith to amuse herself, and her father with his somewhat ancient but trusty telescope, without which, indeed, he was scarcely ever seen out of doors. They had hardly reached the old gentleman’s favourite point of look-out when his quick eye detected the ship reaching down along the east land, and even before he had adjusted the telescope he had a presentiment that she might be the Flying Cloud. He had received a hastily-scribbled line or two from Ned—forwarded by means of the shore-boat, which had taken off the passengers’ luggage at Gravesend—which had made him acquainted with the day and hour of the ship’s sailing; and his long experience and intimate acquaintance with the navigation of the Channel, aided by his habitual observation of the weather, enabled him to follow the subsequent movements of the Flying Cloud almost as unerringly as though his eye had been on her the whole time. In one particular only had his calculations been inaccurate, and that was in the speed of the ship; he had not reckoned on her being either so fast or so weatherly as she had proved to be, and his reckoning located her as being at that moment within sight of but to the eastward of the Wight. When, however, he saw a large ship, loaded, and evidently by the course she was steering, bound out of the channel, and when he further noted the clean, white, new appearance of the stranger’s canvas, the peculiar painting of her hull, and the very marked similarity of appearance which she bore to the picture at that moment hanging in the place of honour on the walls of his snug little parlour, he was quite prepared to admit a possible error in his calculations sufficient to account for the appearance of the ship where she actually was; and when he saw the colours hoisted, he had, of course, no further doubt upon the matter. The ship, it is true, was heading so obliquely towards him that he could only see the house-flag at her main-skysail-mast-head; but that was quite sufficient. The broad snow-white field, the blue border and cross, and the large red B in the centre, were plainly distinguishable through his telescope; and turning to his daughter he said, with just a faint tremor of excitement in his voice:
“Eva, do you see that ship reaching down under the east land, yonder?”
“The one you have been watching so intently, father? Yes, I see her,” was the reply. “What a noble object she looks, with her white canvas gleaming in the sun! It is not often that we see such large ships as that so close in with the land, is it? I wonder where she is going!”
“She is bound to Melbourne. She is called the Flying Cloud, and she has a young gentleman named Edward Damerell on board her, who, I’ll be bound, is at this moment intently looking in this direction,” answered the old gentleman decisively.
“Oh, father, you can’t mean it!” exclaimed the young lady impetuously, though she knew very well that her father did mean it. “Pray let us make haste down to the boat and go out to meet him.”
Her father looked irresolute, took another glance at the ship, then shook his head sorrowfully.
“It would be of no use, my dear,” he said. “Before we could reach the boat and get her under weigh yonder ship will have tacked, and fast as the Eva is she would never catch her in this light breeze. No; we must be satisfied to remain here and see as much of the Flying Cloud as we can. Perhaps when the ship goes about we may even succeed in catching a glimpse of dear Ned himself through the glass.”
At this moment the loud clanging of a bell, which was being rung somewhere down in the harbour, smote noisily upon their ears.
“The very thing!” exclaimed Eva, starting eagerly to her feet. “Come, father, we have not a moment to lose! That is the first bell. The Victoria is to make an excursion to the Bill this afternoon, and if we go on the trip we shall surely pass not very far from Ned’s ship.”
“Capital!” exclaimed the old man cheerily. “Come along, my girl; we are neither of us rigged exactly in a style suited to our mingling with swells; but never mind, we shall both pass muster, I dare say, and, whether or no, we have no time to shift our canvas.”
And away went the pair, without more ado, making the best of their way toward the steps which lead down the side of the hill to the quay, whence they took a boat across the harbour, the second bell from the steamer admonishing them that they had no time to spare. They reached the pay-gate in good time, however, took their tickets, and ascended to the hurricane-deck just as the captain of the boat climbed to his own private bridge. The last bell rang, a few belated excursionists came rushing breathlessly down, and whilst they were scrambling for their tickets the Flying Cloud, now within two miles of the town, was seen to tack. The laggards hurried on board, the gang-plank was drawn ashore, the ropes were cast off, the engines made a revolution or two astern to cant the steamer’s head toward the centre of the harbour, and then away the excursion party went, the band on board at the same moment striking up a lively tune.
By the time that the Victoria had reached the harbour’s mouth Mr. Damerell was able to see that they had started at exactly the right time. The Flying Cloud—a beautiful sight, as she now appeared broadside-on to them, reaching across the bay, with the afternoon sun gleaming brilliantly upon her immense spread of canvas—was slipping along through the water at a speed of about six knots, and it was apparent she would pass the breakwater-end at about the same moment as the Victoria. But the excursion steamer’s usual course was through the opening in the breakwater, and not out round its end; and if she now took that direction the trip would be spoiled, so far, at least, as Mr. Damerell and his daughter were concerned. The old gentleman looked round, and saw that Captain Cosens, the veteran commodore of the little pleasure fleet, was in command, and to him he determined to make his wishes known. The captain was talking to some of his lady passengers when Mr. Damerell approached him, but looked up at once and spoke on recognising an old friend.
“Good-morning, Mr. Damerell,” said he. “What fair wind blows you on board the Victoria? It is not often that you favour us with your company. A noble vessel that, isn’t she?” indicating the Flying Cloud. “I take it she is an Australian liner.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Damerell, “that is the Flying Cloud, my son’s ship, you know, Captain—”
“What! your son aboard?” interrupted the commodore. “Starboard, Tom, starboard a bit, boy! and pass as close to leeward of that ship as you safely can. It’s not often we have the opportunity to treat our passengers to a sight of a clipper under all plain sail, so, as the water is smooth, and we can do so with safety, we will do it to-day; it will be something of a novelty for them. And perhaps,” he added, his kindly grey eyes beaming sympathetically, “you may be able to get another glimpse of Ned as we pass. Come upon my bridge, Mr. Damerell, you will see better, and he will see you all the quicker too.”
The ship and the steamer now rapidly approached each other; and soon after passing the breakwater-end, the latter shot across the stern of the former and ranged up on her lee quarter. The word to “ease her” was passed below into the Victoria’s engine-room; and Mr. Damerell and Eva had the opportunity of not only seeing, but also of exchanging a few words with Ned, who had soon espied them on the steamer’s bridge, and had placed himself in the mizen-rigging for the purpose. The pleasure party on board the steamer were meanwhile thoroughly enjoying the unwonted sight which the Flying Cloud presented, with her ponderous but shapely hull, lavishly adorned with gilding at the bow and stern; her clean, well-ordered decks resplendent with glittering brass-work, and polished teak and mahogany fittings; her handsome boats, fresh painted, with the house-flag emblazoned on their bows, and canvas covers neatly lashed over them from gunwale to gunwale; the lofty masts, the orderly but intricate maze of standing and running-rigging; and the towering spread of canvas which seemed to reach almost to the clouds. Many of them had never in their lives before seen a ship of any size under her canvas and fairly at sea; and now they were brought into close proximity with one which was not only “a clipper,” but, as the affable captain of the steamer explained to his numerous questioners, one of the finest, if not the largest, of that class of vessels afloat. The little group of passengers on the poop, seemingly so thoroughly comfortable and so completely at home, naturally attracted a considerable amount of attention, the children especially; and one enthusiastic lady on board the steamer was so completely carried away by the influences of the moment, that she tossed to little Percy Gaunt a basket of freshly-gathered flowers which she happened to have with her, which the little fellow deftly caught, and with a laughing “Thank you very much!” at once handed to his mother. Then, the brief conversation between father and son being brought to an end, the signal for “full speed” was given, and the steamer drew ahead, the band on board playing “A life on the ocean wave,” and the vessels separated with much waving of hats and handkerchiefs on both sides. The steamer was of course the first to reach the Bill, the Flying Cloud being partially becalmed under the high land of Portland; and when the pleasure party again passed her, it was at a distance of about a mile, the ship steering a course which would take her well clear of the Shambles shoal.
“Bill,” said Captain Cosens, when the two vessels were again abreast, “jump aft, my lad, and dip the ensign!”
The ensign was dipped three times, the salutation being promptly responded to by the clipper; and then her colours were hauled down as, catching a freshening breeze, she gracefully inclined to it, and swept grandly out to seaward.
Such was Mr. Damerell’s last farewell to his son, on this eventful occasion at least. Poor old gentleman! well was it for him that he so little dreamed of what that son was destined to pass through before they two again should meet! Little, as they lost sight of her, did the light-hearted throng on board the Victoria guess at the horrors of which that noble ship was to be the theatre.
On clearing the Bill of Portland, and once more getting the true breeze, it was found by those on board the Flying Cloud that the wind had veered some points further to the westward, and was now almost dead in the teeth of their course down channel. There was a red-hot ebb tide running, however, which was so much in their favour, and Captain Blyth held on upon the same tack, pushing out toward mid-channel so as to get the full benefit of it. The ship was heading well up to windward of the Channel Islands, so that she was not doing at all badly; and the wind having veered so far, the skipper was in hopes it would veer still further, and so give him a favourable slant down channel after his next reach in for the land. Nor was he disappointed; for tacking at six o’clock to avoid the flood, which he knew would soon be making, he found himself, at ten o’clock that night, some four miles to the westward of Beer Head, the wind heading him more and more as he drew in with the land. On again tacking, it was found that the ship was heading well up for the Start, which was passed about four bells in the morning watch; when, feeling themselves at length safe for a fair run out of the channel, the ship’s departure was taken, together with a small pull upon the weather braces. A course was given the helmsman which would carry the ship well clear of Cape Finisterre, and away went the Flying Cloud to the southward and westward, reeling eleven knots off the log with all three skysails set. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Captain Blyth’s reckoning placed the ship off Ushant. They now began to feel the regular Atlantic roll, and shortly afterwards the wind, continuing to veer, worked round so far to the northward of west, that they were not only enabled to get another good pull upon the weather braces, but also to set studding-sails on the starboard side, when away went the ship plunging and rolling across the Bay of Biscay at a pace which amply justified her name, and sent all hands into ecstasies of delight. And the climax of their happiness was reached when, just about sunset, a large steamer, which had been in sight ahead since noon, was triumphantly overhauled and passed, though she, like themselves, was under all the canvas she could show. Captain Blyth was simply in a beatitude of bliss; he walked the poop to and fro, rubbing his hands gleefully, chuckling, and audibly murmuring little congratulatory ejaculations to himself, fragments of which—such as—“new hat—astonish that fellow Spence above a trifle, I flatter myself—reach the Heads a clear week before him,” etcetera etcetera—Ned Damerell caught from time to time as the skipper trotted past him.
In the forecastle, too, there was great jubilation that evening. Jack dearly loves a speedy ship; and now that they had had an exemplification of what the Flying Cloud really could do when she had a fair chance, all hands were fully agreed that she was by far the fastest ship they had ever sailed in.
Williams, the man who had assisted at the loading of the guns on board, was especially enthusiastic upon the subject.
“My eyes! mates, what a pirate-ship this craft would make!” he ejaculated when at length all hands’ catalogue of praises seemed to be about exhausted. “Why, if she was mine I’d make my fortune—ay, and that of all hands belonging to her in less than six months!”
This remark produced a general laugh. “Why, Josh, bo! you don’t mean to say as how you’d go piratin’ if so be as this here pretty little ship was yourn, do you?” asked Tim Parsons, a great burly, bushy-whiskered seaman, who was seated on a sea-chest on the opposite side of the forecastle.
“Why—no, I don’t perhaps exactly mean that,” was the reply. “And yet—I don’t know—why shouldn’t I? There’s worse trades than pirating, let me tell you, boys?”
“Ay, ay? Is there? I should like to hear you name a few of ’em,” objected Parsons.
“Well, then,” said Williams, warming to the subject, “to go no further than this identical fo’c’s’le where we’re now sitting, I mean to say that the trade of sailor-men like ourselves is a precious sight worse. We’re hard worked, badly fed, badly paid—not, mind you, that I’m finding fault with the treatment we’re getting aboard here—far from it—the grub’s good enough for anybody; and, as to work—well, we haven’t seen much of that yet. But this I will say, I don’t like the looks of either of the mates, and as for the skipper, why, he’s a good enough man, but this ship is going to spoil him. Now you mark my words if she don’t—he’s just finding out that he’s got a flyer under him, and what will be the consequence? Why, he’ll be everlastingly carrying on, driving the ship all she’ll bear, carrying on to the very last minute, and then it’ll be ‘all hands shorten sail’ to save the spars, instead of handing his canvas in good time, by which means the watch could do all the work. Now, you wait a bit, mates, and you’ll see I’m right.”
There were several melancholy shakes of the head at this, indicative of a belief on the part of the shakers that these prognostications would prove only too true.
“But what’s all this got to do with piratin’?” persisted Parsons.
“Oh—well—why, everything,” returned Williams. “Here we are, as I was saying, hard worked, badly fed, and badly paid; whilst if we was the crew of a pirate clipper we should have nothing to do but trim sails, we should live upon the fat of the land, and in six months, if our cruise was a lucky one, we could chuck up the sea and live like princes ashore for the rest of our days.”
Parsons burst into a hearty laugh.
“Why, Williams,” he said, “I wouldn’t ha’ believed you was such a greenhorn. You can’t mean what you’re sayin’, shipmate. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been a pirate, and I’m precious certain I never have—or I don’t believe we should either of us be sittin’ in this here snug fo’c’s’le to-night—so I reckon neither of us knows very much about the business. But anybody, not a born fool, must understand without much tellin’ that a pirate’s life wouldn’t be worth havin’. As to work, he’d have to work just as hard as any of us, with the chance of bein’ shot at a minute’s notice by the skipper or either of the mates, if he didn’t happen to do his work just exactly to their likin’. Then he’d be in constant dread of bein’ overhauled by a man-o’-war, and mayhap strung up to the yard-arm; he daresn’t venture into a civilised port, to save his life. And then, what about the murders he has to commit? Faugh! no piratin’ for me, thank ’ee.”
“Nobody’s wanting you, Tim Parsons, or anybody else, to go pirating” was the rejoinder. “I was only talking about the thing in a general sort of a way. But, though, as you say, I never was a pirate myself, I happen to know that the trade ain’t quite such a bad one as you’d make out after all. First and foremost, there’s no occasion for murdering at all. ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ we know; but there’s ways of stopping the telling of tales without cutting men’s throats. There’s islands enough scattered about here and there quite out of the regular tracks of ships, the natives of which don’t see the colour of canvas once in a lifetime; what’s to prevent a pirate-ship landing her prisoners there? They’d have a jolly enough life of it in such a place, and be out of harm’s way. Then, as to work, I should keep just enough prisoners aboard to do all the rough, dirty work, and let my regular crew have easy times of it. And with such a ship as this, for instance, what need to be afraid of a man-o’-war, even if there weren’t a dozen ways of bamboozling the ‘gold-buttons,’ which there are. Then, as to going into port—that’s easy enough managed by a man with a good head-piece on his shoulders; and, as I was saying, a lucky six months’ cruise, and your fortune’s made. Then, what do you do? Why, you watches your chance, scuttles your ship some fine night when the weather’s favourable, and goes ashore with your swag, as a castaway seaman whose ship has sprung a leak and foundered. Pooh! don’t tell me. The thing could be easy enough done.”
“Then, I s’pose you’re one o’ those chaps who wouldn’t mind layin’ hands on other people’s goods?” quietly inquired Parsons.
“Ah! I see you’ve misunderstood me altogether, or you wouldn’t ask such a question as that, shipmate,” replied Williams. “No—if you mean by ‘laying my hands on other people’s goods,’ would I go to any of your chests and help myself—I would not. I’m not a thief; I’m as honest as ever a man here. You’ve got nothing in any of your chests, I reckon, but what I call necessaries—things a man needs and has a right to have. But—it may seem a strange thing to say, mates, yet it’s what I think—no man has a right to more than he needs of anything whilst other people have to go short. Why, for example, should some people have more cash than they know how to spend—and that, too, without working for it—whilst we poor sailor-men have to strive night and day, in fair weather and foul, just to keep soul and body from parting company? I say it ain’t fair; things ain’t evenly divided, as they should be. We’ve just as much right to ride about in a carriage as any of them swells ashore—we’re just as good men as they are—and if I had the chance I’d think I was doing no wrong to help myself to a little of their spare cash to make myself comfortable with. That’s what I think about it.”
“Ay, ay,” muttered one or two, “that sounds fair enough when you come to overhaul the thing in all its bearings.”
Others maintained silence; they instinctively recognised the falsity of Williams’ logic though their intellects were not acute enough to enable them to put their fingers on the weak spot. Others, again, shook their heads dissentingly. But Parsons, the irrepressible, after looking at Williams in blank surprise for a moment or two, broke out in a tone of mingled contempt and raillery:
“There, there, you’ve said enough, man; and now you’d better clap a stopper over all. You’re an uncommon smart man, Williams—I won’t deny it—almost too smart, it seems to me—and you’ve just been talking like this to give us an idee, as it were, of your smartness. You argufy like a lawyer, shipmate, there’s no mistake about that; but you can’t persuade me that you believe a single word of what you’ve been sayin’. Why, man, if you hadn’t already proved yourself to be the primest seaman and the most willing hand aboard this here dandy little hooker I’m blest if I shouldn’t almost be inclined to believe you was a Socialist. Pah!” and he spat contemptuously on the floor of the forecastle.
“There goes eight bells,” he continued, “and on deck we goes, the starboard watch. Whose wheel is it?”