“Well, Mr. Horace,” the boatswain said, “you are certainly a good one at getting out of scrapes.”
“I had nothing to do with getting out of it, Tom; it was all done without any effort on my part.”
“It was mighty4 well done, sir, and I would not have given them Turks credit for putting such a plan together. I always liked the chaps myself when I served with them as a young fellow in that Egyptian business under Abercrombie. Good-natured sort of coves5 they was, and wonderful good-tempered considering what shocking bad grub they had; but I never looked upon them as sharp. Still, there you are; you see, one never knows what a chap can do till he is pushed. Well, there is one thing, Mr. Horace, I don’t care how many Turkish fugitives7 we may take on board this ship in future, they will be heartily8 welcome by every man Jack9 on board for the sake of what these fellows did for you. I wish I had known it when you first came on board. I should have liked to have given that young Turk a hearty10 shake of the hand, and the men would have given him as good a cheer as ever you heard come from fifty British sailors.”
“It is just as well you didn’t know, Tom, for if they had given a cheer together on deck it would have been heard from shore to shore, and everyone who heard it would have known that it never came from Turkish throats.”
As soon as it was dark the anchor was weighed, and the vessel11 drifted down with the current, a boat towing ahead so as to give her steerage-way, while the rest of the crew set to work to unbend her sails.
“You are not going to put up her own sails, are you, Captain Martyn?” Horace asked, for as soon as it got dusk Martyn had removed the stain from his skin, and exchanged the Nubian attire12 for his uniform.
“No, Horace, the white sails would tell their tale at once. We got two suits at Athens, one that miserable13 lot you saw on us to-day, the other we had cut up to fit us as we are sparred now. They are not very clean, but that won’t affect her sailing, and though I don’t mean to say she will walk along as she would under her proper canvas, I fancy she is likely to sail as fast as anything we shall meet. I shall only get her foresail, a jib, and that square top-sail on her, as we want to go along as slowly as possible. I want to manage to anchor below Gallipoli after sunset; or if I can’t manage that I shall anchor a mile or two this side of the town, so as not to be visited by any of the port officers. Then when it gets quite dark we will get up all sail and run down the straits. It is against the rules to pass through at night, and if the forts catch sight of us no doubt they will send a few shots after us, but we must risk that. It is not easy to hit a moving mark when it is so dark that you can scarcely see her outline. There are half a dozen of their ships-of-war lying abreast14 of the forts. We must keep as far as we dare over on the other shore. I am not afraid of the ships. We shall be a mile away before the crews wake up and load, but I expect they keep a pretty sharp look-out in the forts, though most likely their attention is chiefly directed below them.”
It took a couple of hours’ work to unbend all the sails and bend on fresh ones. Horace spent the evening in the cabin chatting with his father, and when the others came down at ten o’clock for a glass of grog he heard that the boat had been run up and housed, and that the brig was now under easy sail.
“There is very little wind,” Martyn said, “but there is enough to give steerage-way. I shall not count you in for duty until to-morrow.”
“Oh, I am ready to take my watch as usual. I have been living a very lazy life for the last three weeks, and shall be very glad to be on duty again.”
“I shall get the guns up the first thing in the morning, Miller15. We will throw a tarpaulin16 over them when we get into the narrow part of the straits.”
“Will you have the pivot-gun up too?”
“Yes, I think so; if we have to fight, we may as well fight as hard as we can. When we get it mounted we can put a few barrels along each side of it, cover the whole over with a sailcloth, and stow one of the gigs at the top of all. No one would have a suspicion that there was a gun there then, and if we wanted to use it we could clear it in a minute.”
“The Turkish custom-house officers will stare in the morning when they see the brig gone,” Miller said, “and will wonder what has become of her.”
“If they think of her at all, Miller, they will think she has got up sail at daylight and gone up the Bosphorus on her way to Varna or one of the Black Sea ports.”
“It would require a good deal more breeze than there is now.”
“Yes, I did not think of that. Well, then, perhaps they will suppose that we made a try to go up to the anchorage as soon as the day began to break, but simply drifted back. You see another half a mile astern would take us round that point there and out of sight of them. However, we don’t care much what they think. They are not likely to be interested enough in the matter to bother themselves about it one way or the other, and certainly not likely to do the only thing that would be of any consequence to us, I mean send down a messenger to Gallipoli telling them to overhaul17 us if we came down the straits. Now, then, the watch on deck; the others turn in. I am sure, Mr. Beveridge, you will be all the better for a quiet night’s rest. You have certainly not slept much for the last month, and you have been getting thinner and thinner daily, while you have also long arrears19 in the way of food to make up. It has been quite pitiful to see the faces of the Greeks as you sent away plate after plate untouched.”
“I shall soon be myself again, Martyn, and even one good night’s rest will, I am sure, do wonders for me.”
“We have been getting quite uneasy about your father,” Miller said as he and Horace went up on deck for the middle watch.
“Yes, he looks sadly broken down, Miller. Directly he had taken off that beard I was quite shocked; he looks years older.”
“We have been really anxious about him. He would turn up three or four times during the night watches and walk the deck for an hour or two talking to one or other of us as if he could not stop alone in his cabin. Neither Martyn nor I ever had the slightest idea of finding you were alive when we got here, and still less of getting you out. But when Tarleton proposed disguising the schooner20 and coming up, he caught at the idea so eagerly that we fell in with it at once. It seemed to us both rather a mad sort of business, but we should not have cared what it was so that it would but rouse him up; for from the time when we first got word that you had been taken to the Turks, till Tarleton made that proposal at Tenedos, he had scarcely spoken a word. He cheered up for an hour or two when Marco brought news that at any rate you had not been killed at Ali Pasha’s camp, but had been sent on to Constantinople; but that lasted for a very short time, for he soon saw that so far from improving your chances, it had lessened23 them. Ali might have taken a handsome sum for your ransom24, or your guards might have been bribed25; anyhow, there would have been a much better chance of getting you away from his camp than from a prison in Constantinople.
“Of course we did all we could to cheer him, and, I am afraid, told some awful crammers as to the easy job it would be to get you out. Still, the plan did do him good. It gave him something to think about, as at Athens we were constantly thinking of something or other that he could go ashore26 and see about. Since we sailed from there he has been in a sort of fever, walking restlessly about the deck, going down to the cabin and coming up again twenty times every hour, worrying about the wind, and complaining at the boat’s loss of speed. He took to Tarleton most, because he was nearest your age, I think. He talked to him several times about you as a child, and seemed specially27 unhappy because he had seen so little of you up to the time when he bought you that first craft you had. The two Greeks were terribly concerned about him. They are two fine fellows those. They were as gentle as women. Well, it has been an anxious time for us all. Even the men have felt for him, and it was quite curious to see how silent the ship became when he was on deck. They seemed to speak almost in whispers, and I have not heard a laugh forward from the hour that you and the doctor were missed. I was glad he was taken with you, for he is a good fellow, and it was a comfort to know that you were together.”
“It was a great pull,” Horace agreed. “He was just the same all the time as he is on board, quiet and slow in his talk, but with an occasional gleam of humour. It has been rather hard on him, too, because, from the day we first landed, there has always been someone with us who could speak Greek, and it is very slow for a man sitting listening to talk that he can’t understand, waiting for bits to be translated to him. Still, he never showed that he minded.”
“Yes, that must have been very annoying,” Miller agreed, “especially when the talk was about matters that concerned his life. It makes you feel so helpless and baby-like to have everything managed for you and to be able to do nothing yourself. I don’t think he took kindly28 to that Turkish dress. He slipped away and changed it before he had been on board five minutes, while you kept yours on till you turned in for a nap two hours ago.”
“I was comfortable enough, and never gave the clothes a thought after I had worn them an hour or two,” Horace laughed. “Of course one felt very baggy29 about the legs, and I certainly should not like to go aloft in the things. No wonder the Turks are such clumsy sailors with their legs in bags like that; but I did notice that the doctor never seemed to move about naturally. I expect if he could have talked away as I did he would not have thought of them so much. The wind is heading us a bit.”
“I should not be surprised if it is in the south by morning.”
“That would be all the better, for then we could choose our own time for getting off Gallipoli. We must get up all our sail when it is daylight and make a show of doing our best; but when one is tacking31 backwards33 and forwards one can always manage either to keep a little off the wind or so close into it as pretty well to deaden one’s way through the water.”
Horace turned in at four o’clock, and an hour and a half later heard a trampling34 of feet on deck, and knew that the watch was making sail. When he went up at eight o’clock the wind was blowing briskly from the south-east, and the schooner was making a long leg out from the land. He was now able to see the set of the sails that had been bent35 on the evening before. The lower sails were of the same size as the schooner’s original suit, and fitted her well. The upper sails contained less than half the canvas of her old ones, but her spread was sufficient to lay her over well and to send her through the water at an encouraging rate of speed.
“She is not going along so badly, is she, Horace?” Martyn asked.
“No, indeed. Of course in a light wind the loss of all that upper canvas will tell, but at present she is doing well enough for anything, quite well enough for anything we are likely to meet.”
“We have been holding our own for the last two hours with that felucca on the other tack32, and we have been purposely sailing her a good bit off the wind. We could overhaul her soon enough if we liked, and most of those boats are fast; but we don’t want to get along too quickly. If the wind freshens any more I shall tow a sail alongside to deaden her way a bit. I want to arrive off Gallipoli about half an hour after sunset.”
Two of the broadside guns had just been brought up and put in position, and by midday the other six and the pivot-gun were in place, and the latter hidden by a screen of barrels and one of the gigs, bottom upwards36, laid over it. The decks had been scrubbed, but, as Martyn said mournfully, it would take weeks to get them back to their former colour. The ropes still hung slackly, and although the schooner looked a good deal more ship-shape than when Horace had first seen her on the previous day, she was still as untidy as the average of vessels37 in Eastern waters. Her course was timed well, and the sun had already sunk some time, when she dropped anchor a short distance outside the craft lying off Gallipoli.
“I see some of their ships of war have come up from below since we passed three days ago. However, there is no fear of their sending a boat off to-night,” Martyn said as they gathered in the cabin for dinner, “and they will naturally suppose that we anchored so far out because we were going on down the straits the first thing in the morning.”
Mr. Beveridge had remained in his berth38 all day. The reaction after the long excitement and anxiety told severely39 upon him. Although he had got up the first thing, he had been obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand. The doctor, however, told Horace that this was only to be expected.
“He will want a week’s quiet and plenty of nourishment40 to set him on his legs again. He has been fairly worn out. But there is no fever about him, and we can trust the Greeks to feed him up. It is just as well that he should keep perfectly41 quiet to-day and sleep as much as he can. To-morrow I hope I shall be able to get him up on deck. Then chatting with you and taking an interest in things will rouse him.”
At nine o’clock sail was again made and the anchor weighed. The wind had gone down very much, and had veered42 round to the south, which enabled them to lay their course through the greater part of the straits. Two men were placed in the chains with lead-lines. The lights were all extinguished, with the exception of the binnacle. The tarpaulins43 were removed from the guns and the barrels and gig from around the pivot-gun. The watch off duty was sent below, and two of the keenest-eyed men on board placed as look-outs at the bow. The European shore, which was comparatively high, could be made out as a dark bank, but the Asiatic shore, which was low, could scarcely be seen. The chart was laid on the cabin table, the port-holes having all been carefully covered with curtains, and a tarpaulin laid over the skylight.
The men in the chains kept on taking soundings, Horace going backwards and forwards between them and the quarterdeck with the news as to the depth of water. Miller was in charge of the deck, while Martyn paid frequent visits to the cabin to determine their position on the chart according to the depth of the soundings. There was no fear of their meeting with any craft until they approached the forts; but in the darkness it was necessary to be very careful, as the water was shallow on the eastern side, and were they to run on to a shoal, going as they were with the force of the current, there would be little chance of getting off again, unless by lightening the ship. There was just wind enough to give her steerage-way. Men were stationed in readiness to let go the anchor instantly, should it be necessary; while ten men, in the longboat, paddled gently ahead of her, just keeping a tow-rope taut44 in readiness to tow her instantly in any direction that might be required. None of them were acquainted with the set of the current, and Martyn had only the depth of water and the dim outline of the banks to direct his course by. Several times, when the water shoaled, the crew of the boat were directed to row vigorously in the direction of the right bank; and once or twice there were but a few feet under the keel, and a keen feeling of anxiety was experienced on board until the leads-man announced that the water was deepening. At last, according to Martyn’s calculations they could not be far away from the formidable forts.
The boat was directed to fall astern and hang on to the rope, in readiness either to come on board or to carry out any orders that might be given. The crew on deck were told to take axes and capstan-bars, so that should they drive down against one of the Turkish ships they could fend45 the schooner off as much as possible, or cut away any rope that might catch. They were directed to stand perfectly still, and not a word was to be spoken whatever happened. The greatest danger lay in the fact that most of the ships of war were lying above the forts, and that, consequently, should an alarm be given by them, the gunners at the batteries would be in readiness to pour in their fire upon her as she passed.
“The ground to our right looks much higher than it did, Miller. I think we must have been drifting a good deal over towards that side.”
“I think so too,” Miller agreed. “I have been fancying that we were getting over that way ever since we stopped sounding.”
“At any rate we must take our chance,” Martyn said. “I daren’t sound again; the splash would attract attention half a mile away on a quiet night like this. Besides, we could not tow her the other way now; we must take our chance. It is not likely they are keeping much of a look-out on board. We might pass within twenty yards of a vessel without being noticed on such a night as this. I will stay at the helm, Miller. Her sails are still full, and we have got steerage-way. Do you go up into the bow. Let two of the men take their boots off, and if they make out anything ahead, let one of them run to me like lightning with orders whether to port or starboard the helm.”
The conversation was carried on in the lowest tone. Miller stole lightly forward; Tarleton and Horace were already there, one on each bow, straining their eyes into the darkness.
“We are a long way over on this side, Miller, I don’t believe that high ground over there is more than two or three hundred yards away.”
“That is just what I have been saying, Tarleton. The current must have set us across tremendously. Martyn is at the helm, and you see we are heading off that shore, but I don’t think we are going more than a couple of knots through the water.”
In five minutes Tarleton whispered:
“I think there is something dark just over the cathead.”
At the same moment Horace stepped from the other side.
“There is a ship a short way ahead, Miller, unless I am mistaken.”
“By Jove, so there is!” Miller said, looking out. “We shall never be able to clear her with the current taking us down.”
He had kicked off his own shoes when he reached the bow, thinking it better himself to carry any message.
“Port your helm, Martyn,” he said as he ran up. “There are two craft ahead, and we can never clear the outside one in this current. Our only chance is to run between them.”
“Keep it there,” Martyn said to the helmsman, and sprang to the bulwark46 to look out himself. “That is enough,” he said; “straighten her now, just as she is. You con6 her from the other side, Miller.”
All on board saw the two vessels now. By their height and bulk they were evidently large frigates47 or men-of-war. They were not fifty yards away, and were about the same distance apart. Martyn pulled off his jacket and threw it over the binnacle, as its light would have been at once noticed by anyone looking down from the lofty hulls49. Noiselessly the schooner passed into the gap between the ships; not the slightest sound was heard from her decks. The two officers looked anxiously up at the sails, for had one of these flapped, or a block rattled50, the sleepiest look-out must have noticed it. The silence on the decks of the Turkish ships was as profound as that on the schooner. Rapidly the latter slid between them, the current taking her along faster than the wind. A minute more and she was beyond them; still no hail was heard. Another minute and they loomed51 dark and indistinct behind her.
“Thank God for that!” Miller said in a whisper as he crossed the deck to Martyn.
“Yes, indeed; it was touch and go. I expect they have only an anchor watch. Most likely they are asleep; they would know that nothing could come up the straits with this light breeze. I think, Miller, those are the two eighty-gun ships we noticed as we came up. They were moored52 a good bit outside the others; in which case we have a clear course before us.”
“Yes; I have no doubt those are the two,” Miller agreed.
“Now we have only the forts; they are about a quarter of a mile further down. Go forward, please, and tell the men not to move till they get orders.”
Another quarter of an hour passed, and Martyn felt sure that they were now well beyond the forts. For a few minutes longer he held on, and then passed the word along the deck that the danger was over. Now that they knew their exact position there was no longer any occasion for sounding. The men in the boat were called up, and the watch off duty ordered below, and when morning broke the land was far behind them. A brisk wind had sprung up from the south-east, and the vessel was just able to lay her course for Athens.
The doctor had remained below during their passage through the straits.
“I should only have been in the way if I had been on deck,” he said when Horace chaffed him for taking matters so easily. “When a man can do no good, it is always better for him to get out of the way; and after all there is no great pleasure in standing53 for hours afraid to move, and without any duty to perform; so I just chatted for a bit with your father, and directly I saw the sleeping draught54 I had given him was beginning to take effect I turned in myself, and had as comfortable a sleep as ever I had in my life. After sleeping on sofas for three weeks, in that heathen sort of way, it was a comfort to get between sheets again.”
“Well, but you went to bed the night before, doctor?”
“That was so,” the doctor agreed. “But a good thing is just as good the second time as it is the first—better, perhaps. The first time the novelty of a thing prevents you altogether enjoying it. I knew very well that if we ran into any of the Turkish ships, or the forts opened fire at us, I was like to hear it plainly enough.”
“And would you have lain there then, doctor?”
“No, lad. I would have had my duties to perform; and I would have dressed and gone into the main deck at once, with my instruments ready to do anything I could for those that required it.”
“Have you seen my father this morning, doctor?”
“Yes; and I am glad to say that he is all the better for his two nights’ sleep. His pulse is stronger, and I shall get him up here after breakfast. The news that we were fairly out to sea, and that all danger was over, was better for him than any medicine. Well, lad, we did not think eight-and-forty hours ago that we would be racing55 down the ?gean again, on board the Misericordia, by this time. We have had a wonderful escape of it altogether, and I would not like to go through it again for enough money to set me up for life in Scotland. When we were on board that Turkish brig, on our way to Constantinople, I would not have given a bawbee for our chances.”
When they arrived at Athens the Greek sailors who had personated Turks were landed. Mr. Beveridge was unequal to the exertion56 of going ashore; but day after day he was visited by politicians, military leaders, and others. After a fortnight spent there, Dr. Macfarlane said to him:
“It is no use, sir, my giving you medicines and trying to build you up, if you are going on as you are now doing. You are losing strength, man, instead of gaining it. Each morning you seem a little better; each evening you are fagged and worn out by these importunate57 beggars. I can see that it worries and dispirits you. It is all very good to wish well to Greece, Mr. Beveridge; but unless you have a desire to be buried in Greek soil, the sooner you are out of this the better. It is not so much change of air as change of thought that you require. Go anywhere, so that it is to some place where you will never hear the name of Greece.”
“I think you are right, doctor. The worry and disappointment has, I know, been telling on me for months. Yes, I will definitely decide to go away, at any rate for a time. Will you ask Captain Martyn to come down?”
“Captain Martyn,” he went on when the latter entered the cabin, “the doctor tells me I must absolutely get away from here.”
“I am quite sure that he is right, sir. You have been gradually wearing yourself out ever since you came here.”
“I think we will go back to England in the first place, Martyn. I have no doubt more bracing58 air will do me good. Then we can see how events go on here.”
“Very well, sir. I think we shall be all heartily glad to be on our way back.”
“You had better go ashore at once, Martyn. Take Horace with you, and go to my agents. You know they have always kept the papers in readiness for a re-sale of the vessel back to me. Go with them to the consulate59 and have the sale formally registered. I will write a note for you to take to my agent.”
Ten minutes later the gig took Martyn and Horace ashore. They returned four hours later. There was a little move of excitement among the crew as they stepped on deck again, for through the Greeks, who had heard the news from Mr. Beveridge, it had spread forward. On reaching the deck Martyn went to the signal locker60. “Now, Miller,” he said, “down with that flag.”
The Greek flag fluttered down from the peak, and as the British ensign was run up in its place Martyn took off his cap and shouted: “Three cheers for the old flag, lads!” and the shout, given with all the strength of the lungs of officers and crew, showed how hearty was the pleasure that was felt at the change. As soon as the cheers had subsided61 orders were given to get down the awnings62 and prepare to make sail. In a few minutes the clank of the anchor chain was heard, and by the evening the schooner was running down past the shores of the Morea.
A month later they anchored in Portsmouth. Here half the crew were paid off, and as during their absence from England they had had but small opportunities of spending money, they had nearly two years’ pay coming to them, together with ￡30 a head, being their share of the prize-money. The remainder of the crew also received their pay and prize-money and two months’ leave of absence. Mr. Beveridge and Horace had had many discussions on the subject, and it had been agreed that the Misericordia (now again, since she re-hoisted the English flag, the Creole) should for a time be kept up as a yacht, with a complement63 of two officers and twenty men. Martyn, having been consulted, had chatted the matter over with Miller and Tarleton. Although both these had enjoyed their trip greatly, and had made a comfortable sum in pay and prize-money, both preferred to return to the Royal Navy, if they could do so, rather than remain in a yacht; and Mr. Beveridge promised to use his influence as soon as he returned to get them appointed to ships. This promise he was able to fulfil a few weeks after his arrival at home.
For home cruising as a yacht, Martyn considered that Tom Burdett would be sufficient for him. If she again went out to Greece there would be no difficulty in obtaining other officers and making up the crew to its full strength. Portsmouth had been chosen instead of Plymouth as their point of arrival, because from there Mr. Beveridge could much more easily get up to town, Dr. Macfarlane insisting that he should go up to obtain the best medical advice.
“But there is nothing the matter with me,” Mr. Beveridge had urged.
“That is just it, sir. If you had anything the matter with you I might have a chance of curing it. It is because I can’t see any reason why you do not gain strength that I want other opinion about you.”
The doctor had frequently talked it over with Horace during the voyage.
“I can see nothing bodily the matter with your father, Horace. I wish I could. There is nothing to account for his being in this feeble state. All that he says is that he feels tired. My opinion is that really this is a sort of reaction after mental excitement, just as there is reaction after great bodily fatigue64. Your father has lived a smooth, easy, tranquil65 life, and the change, the excitement, the worry, and his utter disappointment with the Greeks themselves, have had the same sort of effect upon him as a climb up to the top of Ben Nevis might have on a man who did not stir out of his house for months together. As for that being the cause I have no doubt whatever. It is as to the cure that I want to consult with some big-wig. I don’t know whether quiet or movement would be the best for him. He could have had no quiet more complete than that he has had on the way home, and yet it has done him no good. If he were to go down home the inducement to arouse himself would be still less. But what sort of change would really suit him is more than I can say.”
Horace thoroughly66 agreed with the doctor. If even the cheerful society on board the yacht did not rouse his father, he dreaded67 what it would be when he was at home, with no one to stir him up in any way. There were two or three consultations68 in town with some of the leaders of the profession. After hearing the whole circumstances they were unanimous in agreeing that there seemed no serious disease of any kind, but at the same time his condition gave cause of anxiety.
“Your patient is evidently a man of highly nervous organization, and at present his nerves are a wreck69. We quite agree with you that were he to go down to a lonely house in the country he would probably sink into the grave in a few months at the outside. If you could get him to go in that yacht of his on some expedition in which he feels what I may call a healthy interest, it might do him good. I should say a cold climate would be better for him than a warm one. He has had more than enough of that enervating70 work in Greek waters. Try and interest him in Polar expeditions. There have been a great many of them just lately. Ross and Parry and Franklin have all been trying their best to find the North-west Passage, which is not likely to be of any good if they do find it; but that is nothing to the point. Get him interested in the matter, and let him go and poke22 about for a bit among the icebergs71. If you can get him to do that we see no reason why in time his mind should not recover its tone.”
The matter had to be done cautiously. Horace professed72 a vast interest in the recent expeditions; the doctor was full of interesting facts, and little by little they kindled73 an interest on the subject in Mr. Beveridge’s mind; and when Horace broke out one day, as if the idea had only just struck him, “My dear father, why shouldn’t we go up north in the yacht for a few months and become explorers? It would be glorious to see the icebergs and to shoot bears and seals, and would be a splendid change for us all. I am sure you would find it frightfully dull going back to Seaport74,”—he did not entirely75 repudiate76 the idea, but said that he should not like to go away when things were looking so dark for Greece. Fortunately, a week later the news came that all the immense preparations the Sultan had been making for an invasion of Greece with a great army had been arrested by a tremendous fire, supposed to be the work of the janissaries, who did not like the prospect77 of leaving Constantinople. The fire had destroyed all the vast stores collected, the artillery78, baggage-trains, and munitions79 of war of all kinds, and it was probable that at least a year would pass before a fresh effort could be made.
This news evidently relieved Mr. Beveridge’s mind, and when Horace, backed by Macfarlane, returned to the charge, he at once consented. Martyn was written to by Horace the same day. He at once came up to town, and saw some of the officers who had been out with Franklin and Parry. Returning to Plymouth, where the Creole was lying, a body of shipwrights80 were at once set to work to strengthen her by a network of timber below, and to sheath her with thick planking outside. The captain of a whaler was engaged as first officer. He was to come on board at Dundee, and to bring with him twelve picked hands accustomed to the Polar Seas. With great exertion the schooner was got ready in a month.
By this time the enthusiasm expressed by Horace and the doctor in the matter had infected Mr. Beveridge, who read up everything that had been written on the subject, and was visibly very much better by the time they went down with him to Portsmouth to join the Creole there. They were away from England eighteen months. They made no discoveries of the slightest importance, but they had numerous exciting adventures, had many narrow escapes of being nipped by icebergs, and passed a winter frozen up in Baffin’s Bay. The voyage achieved the object for which it was undertaken. The subject of Greece was a forbidden one, and Mr. Beveridge came to take a lively interest in the new scenes with which he was surrounded, joined in the hunting parties, took a prominent part in all the amusements got up for keeping the crew in good spirits and health through the winter, and returned to England a more healthy and vigorous man than Horace had ever before seen him. The Creole had taken out with her barrels and all other appurtenances for whaling, and having been fairly successful in that way, returned with sufficient oil and seal-skins to pay the greater part of her expenses.
“I feel another man, Horace, to what I was when I started,” Mr. Beveridge said as he stepped ashore at Plymouth.
“You look a different man, father—a different man altogether to what you have been since I first remember you. I don’t suppose you have grown, but you are so much more upright that you look as if you had, and you walk differently, and even your voice seems changed. Now, you know, you must not go back again.”
“I don’t mean to, my boy. It seems to me that I have thrown away twenty years of my life, and what there is remaining to me shall be spent differently. Now we have got a long arrear18 of news to get up.”
Horace felt at first uneasy when his father obtained a complete file of the newspapers from the time they had left England, and read up the history of affairs in Greece. There was, however, little to learn. Two civil wars had taken place, some large loans had been raised in England, but had been entirely frittered away and wasted; and when in June, 1824, the Turkish fleet had at last sailed, the Greeks had been as unprepared for resistance as they were when they first took up arms. Kasos and Psara had both been captured and their inhabitants either massacred or carried away into slavery, while the sailors of Hydra81 and Spetzas had not moved a hand to succour their countrymen.
Ibrahim Pasha of Egypt had sent an army to Greece, and had besieged82 Navarino and Pylos. The Greek army had advanced to relieve them, but being attacked by half their number of Egyptian troops were routed without the least difficulty at Krommydi. They were beaten again at Sphakteria, and Pylos and Navarino were forced to surrender; the Egyptians observing faithfully the terms they granted, and allowing the garrisons83 to depart in neutral ships. Dikaios was defeated and killed at Maniaki, having been deserted85 by all his troops but fifteen hundred. These fought splendidly although attacked by six thousand men. A thousand of them died on the field after having killed four hundred of their assailants. This was by far the most gallant86 affair throughout the war. Kolokotronis assembled ten thousand men, but was defeated with the greatest ease with the loss of over two hundred men, most of whom were killed in their flight.
When the Creole returned to England the siege of Missolonghi had begun. Reshid Pasha’s army, ten thousand strong, sat down before it. It was defended with extreme gallantry and resisted for many months, while the rest of Greece did little to assist it. After six months’ siege Reshid retired87, being straitened for provisions and suffering from the vigorous sorties of the besieged; but in a short time Ibrahim arrived with his army and again besieged the place; throwing up formidable batteries and works against it. Several times terms were offered to the garrison84, but were contemptuously refused, and several attacks were beaten off with great loss. At last the provisions were absolutely exhausted88.
The brave defenders89 of the town resolved upon a step almost unexampled in history, namely, that the whole of the men should sally out, placing the women and children in their centre, and cut their way through the enemy. There were still nine thousand persons in the town, of whom only three thousand were men capable of bearing arms, two thousand men, women, and children were too weak from starvation and disease to join the movement; the rest were divided into three divisions. Most of the women dressed themselves in men’s clothing and carried arms, and even the children had loaded pistols. Unfortunately the Turks had been informed by a deserter that the attempt was about to be made.
The three divisions, in spite of the opposition90 of the Turks, attacked with such fury that they made their way through the lines of the enemy; but the people of Missolonghi itself, who were to form the fourth division and follow the others, were seized with a panic and fell back into the town. Had the Greeks outside fulfilled their promise, and moved forward a body of troops stationed a short distance away to receive the defenders of the place when they reached the open country, all the rest would have been saved; but instead of the fifteen hundred who were to have met them, but fifty were there. The Turkish cavalry91 and the Albanians harassed92 and cut them up, and even those who gained the shelter of the hills received no assistance from the irregulars, and many perished from hunger and disease, and finally only fifteen hundred escaped. The soldiers left behind in Missolonghi either by wounds or sickness intrenched themselves in stone buildings, and there defended themselves till the last, blowing up the magazines and dying in the ruins when they could no longer hold out. Four thousand Greeks were killed, three thousand were taken prisoners, chiefly women and children, and two thousand altogether escaped. The Acropolis of Athens resisted stoutly93 for a long time, but at last fell. The Greeks were defeated in almost every action upon which they entered, and affairs went from bad to worse, until the European governments at last determined94 to interfere95; and their united fleets destroyed that of the Turks at the battle of Navarino, and forced Turkey to grant the independence of Greece.
As these events happened Mr. Beveridge followed their course with interest, but it was only with the interest shown by Englishmen in general. His personal feeling in the matter had entirely left him. During the last four years of the struggle there was no sign whatever that misfortune and disaster had had any effect in inducing the Greeks to lay aside their personal jealousies96 and ambitions, or to make any common effort against the enemy. The large sums they had received from the loans raised for the most part in England were spent in the most unworthy uses. They covered their uniforms with gold lace, and the dress of the men on foot often cost fifty pounds; those of horsemen ten times that amount. They affected97 all through to despise the Turks, and yet, except the fifteen hundred men under Dikaios and the defenders of Missolonghi, they never once opposed anything like an obstinate98 resistance to them, and the last show of resistance was almost crushed out when the intervention99 of Europe saved them.
The Creole had been laid up after her return from the Arctic Seas. Mr. Beveridge had purchased a large share in a fine East Indiaman, making the proviso that Martyn should be appointed to the command, he himself buying a share in her with the money he had earned during the four years’ service on board the schooner. Mr. Beveridge had, to the immense satisfaction of his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce, entirely abandoned the study of Greek, devoted100 himself to the affairs of his estate, became an active magistrate101, and had, three years after his return, stood for Parliament as member for the county, and had won the seat. Horace was twenty when they returned from the north. He had a long talk with his father as to his future prospects102 and career. He was too old now to take up the thread of his studies again or to go to the university, and he finally determined, at the advice of his father, to study for the bar.
“You will never have any occasion to practise, Horace, but a few months every year in London will make a pleasant change for you; and as you may look to be a county magistrate some day you will find a knowledge of the law very useful to you. You will be in London five or six months every year, then you will have your shooting and hunting in the winter, and we will have two or three months’ cruise together in the Creole. I find that our expedition in Greece cost me, one way and another, just fifteen thousand pounds, which is a good deal less than I should have thrown away if it had not been for your advice. I hear that it is likely that Sir James Hobhouse’s estate will be in the market before long, and I think, as it almost adjoins ours, I shall buy it. I fancy that I shall get it for about thirty thousand pounds. That I should settle on you at once. I am not fifty yet, and feel that I have more life in me than I ever had, and I don’t want you to be waiting another twenty or thirty years to step into my shoes. Its management will be an occupation for you, and then you can marry whenever you feel inclined.”
This happened four years later; it arose out of a meeting at a dinner party in London. Horace had taken down a very pretty girl to whom he had just been introduced. He thought that she looked at him rather curiously103 when his name was mentioned. They chatted on all sorts of subjects during dinner, and when the ladies arose to go she said: “Please find me out when you come upstairs. I have a question I particularly want to ask you, but I could not very well do it here. Please do not forget, for it is important.” A good deal puzzled Horace made his way upstairs as soon as he could and saw that the girl was with another lady sitting in a quiet corner of the drawing-room. He crossed to them at once. “Mother,” the young lady said, “this is Mr. Beveridge.”
“You are right, Ada,” the lady said, rising and holding out her hand, “I recognize him at once now I see him. Oh, Mr. Beveridge, you do not know how we have longed to see you again, and you don’t know us, do you?”
“No, I can’t say that I do, madam,” Horace replied, more and more astonished.
“I am the lady you saved from being sold as a slave at Algiers when you captured the ship we were in off the coast of Asia Minor104. This is my daughter. No wonder you don’t remember us for I was a strange-looking creature in that Greek dress, and Ada was but a child.”
“I remember you now, Mrs. Herbert,” Horace exclaimed. “I ought to have done so before, as we were four or five days on board together.”
“You must have thought us so ungrateful,” Mrs. Herbert said; “but we were not so; we never knew where to write to when you were out in Greece. Then two or three years afterwards we heard from someone who had been out there that you had returned, and my husband, who left Smyrna and came back to England after we got back, made all sorts of inquiries105, and found out at last that you had gone away again on an Arctic expedition. Then he went out to Malta, where we have been living for the last three years, and only returned a month ago to England. My husband had to return to Smyrna; he had large business connections there that could not be broken off suddenly. Nothing could induce me ever to return there, but it was an easy run for him to Malta, and he was able to come and stay with us for a week or so every two or three months. For the last year he was training the son of the senior partner of the house to take his place at Smyrna, and he himself has now come back altogether, as Mr. Hamblyn has now retired, and he is the head of the firm. He is not here to-night, but will be delighted to hear that we have found you.”
“We have been back three years,” Horace said.
“Of course we did not know that you were in England. It has been a great grief to us. It seemed so extraordinary that after being saved by you from the most awful of all fates you should have disappeared out of our life as suddenly as you came into it. Of course it was not much to you—you who saved so many hundreds, we heard afterwards thousands of women and girls from slavery; but to us it was everything. And your father, Mr. Beveridge, is he quite well?”
“Yes, he is far better than I have ever known him to be. I am going down next week to help him; he is going to stand for our part of the county for Parliament. There is a vacancy106 there, and I fancy that he has a very good chance.”
“Is he, indeed? He did not give me the idea of being a man who would have cared for that sort of thing. Of course we only saw him just for those four days.”
“I am happy to say that he has changed very much since then. He came home very ill from Greece, but our eighteen months among the ice entirely set him up and made a new man of him. I am sure he will be very pleased when he hears that I have met you. And did you recognize me at once, Miss Herbert?”
“The name helped me,” the girl said. “When I heard it I felt sure it was you at once. It was very hard work sitting there talking to you as if you were a stranger.”
“Why did you not tell me at once?” Horace asked smiling.
She did not answer, but her mother said for her: “You can’t tell how we felt about you and your father, Mr. Beveridge, or you would not ask the question. The chances are that if Ada had told you who she was she would have burst out crying. She told me it was as much as she could do to restrain herself; and I think we have both had a quiet cry in this corner since we came upstairs. Now, please give me your address in town?”
“My husband will call to see you the first thing in the morning, I am sure. Mr. Beveridge and you must dine with us quietly to-morrow, so that we can talk it all over. You are not, I hope, engaged.”
Horace was not engaged, but if he had been he would probably have thrown it over.
Under these circumstances it was not very much to wonder at that a few months later the Morning Post contained this announcement:—“We understand that a marriage has been arranged between Mr. Horace Beveridge, the son of Mr. H. Beveridge, M. P., and Ada, only child of Mr. Herbert, of Bedford Square, the head of the firm of Herbert & Sandeson, the well-known firm of Levant merchants. We understand the acquaintance of Mr. Beveridge with the young lady he is now about to lead to the altar commenced under singularly romantic circumstances in the Levant six years ago.”
On the day after their marriage Horace and his wife sailed to spend their honeymoon108 among the fiords of Norway and in the Baltic on board the Creole. She was commanded by Miller, whose ship had been paid off a month previously109, and Tarleton, whose frigate48 belonged to the Channel squadron, obtained three months’ leave to sail in her as first officer. Macfarlane was with them for a fortnight, not being able to get away for a longer time from the practice in which he had purchased a partnership110 at Plymouth. Tom Burdett went, of course, in his old capacity; but this was his last trip in her though he long remained the commander of the Surf, which was always kept in commission at Seaport, and in which Horace’s boys and girls learned to love the sea as much as did their father.
THE END
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1
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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2
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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9
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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10
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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11
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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12
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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18
arrear
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| n.欠款 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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23
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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42
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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43
tarpaulins
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| n.防水帆布，防水帆布罩( tarpaulin的名词复数 ) | |
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44
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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45
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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46
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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47
frigates
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| n.快速军舰( frigate的名词复数 ) | |
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48
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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49
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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50
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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51
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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52
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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58
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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59
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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60
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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61
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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62
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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65
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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67
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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68
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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69
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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70
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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71
icebergs
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| n.冰山，流冰( iceberg的名词复数 ) | |
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72
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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74
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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75
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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76
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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80
shipwrights
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| n.造船者，修船者( shipwright的名词复数 ) | |
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81
hydra
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| n.水螅；难于根除的祸患 | |
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82
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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84
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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85
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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92
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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100
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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101
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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102
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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103
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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104
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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106
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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107
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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108
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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109
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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