Читать книгу The Missing Ship: The Log of the "Ouzel" Galley - William Henry Giles Kingston - Страница 12

“Land! land!” shouted Gerald, who had gone aloft at daybreak to be ready the moment there was light enough to catch eight of the looked-for shores of Ireland. As the sun rose the coast could be distinguished, indented with numerous deep inlets; but at first it was difficult to see what part of it the ship was approaching. At length, however, Gerald, whose eyes were as sharp as those of any one on board, made out a tall tower standing at the end of a long, low point of land. “Hurrah! I see Hook Tower!” he shouted out; “we’re all right!”

“Never made a better land-fall in my life,” exclaimed the captain, who had gone up the rigging, and had been examining the coast with his glass. As he spoke, Gerald shouted from the mast-head, “A sail on the larboard bow!”

“What does she look like?” asked the captain, who had returned on deck.

“A ship close-hauled under all sail,” answered Gerald; “she’s standing this way, and seems to have come out of Dungarvon Bay, as I can see Helvick Head beyond her.”

“Whatever she may prove, we shall be well in with Waterford harbour before she can reach us,” observed the captain.

“An enemy is not likely to have ventured so close in to the Irish coast, with the risk of encountering a British man-of-war,” said Owen.

“Not quite so certain of that,” observed the captain; “she may have run in hoping to pick up a few merchant craft and coasters without much trouble, and may have ascertained from other prizes she has taken that there are no men-of-war on the coast. For my part, I would rather be safe up the harbour than have to speak her.”

The captain and Owen agreed that at all events it would be unnecessary to keep Lieutenant Vinoy shut up in his cabin. “As he has behaved like a gentleman,” said the captain, “go and tell him, Owen, that if he will give his word of honour not to interfere with the other prisoners, I beg that he will come on deck, should he feel so disposed; and that I regret having been under the necessity of confining him to his cabin for so many hours—but, Owen, keep an eye on him, notwithstanding; it may be as well not to trust him too much, and if he were to release that desperate fellow Busson, the two together might play us some trick we shouldn’t like.”

“No fear of that, sir,” answered Owen, glad to show the French lieutenant an act of courtesy, “but I’ll keep my eyes about me.”

He immediately went below and gave Monsieur Vinoy the captain’s message.

“Certainly,” answered the lieutenant; “I willingly accept the conditions. I have nothing to complain of—it was the fortune of war; you acted towards me as, under the same circumstances, I should have behaved to you. I will gladly come on deck.”

Saying this, he preceded Owen up the companion-ladder, making a polite bow to Norah, who had just before joined her father, and was looking out eagerly towards the land. In a short time the ship could be clearly discerned from the deck. The squareness of her yards and the cut of her canvas made it evident that she was not a merchant vessel; but whether an English or French man-of-war, or a privateer, it was difficult at that distance to determine. She was making good way with the tide, which was then about half flood, running to the eastward; as this was almost across the course of the Ouzel Galley, it was rather against than in favour of the latter, whereas it added greatly to the rapid progress of the stranger. Under ordinary circumstances probably neither the captain nor Owen could have had much doubt about the character of the vessel in sight; but having so narrowly escaped the loss of the ship, they both felt more than usually anxious. Every stitch of canvas the Ouzel Galley could carry was set on her, the sails being wetted that they might the better hold the wind. The captain kept his glass constantly turned towards the approaching ship. When first seen, she was about twelve miles off, while the Ouzel Galley was supposed to be about eight miles from the Hook Tower. At the rate she was going it would take her upwards of an hour to get off it; whereas, should the wind hold, the stranger, with the advantage of the tide, would get her within range of her guns before that time. No flag had as yet been seen flying from her peak; but even should she show British colours it would be no proof that she was not an enemy, as she would be certain to hoist them for the sake of deceiving any merchant vessels she might meet with.

“I very much fear that she is a privateer,” observed Owen, after carefully examining the stranger through his glass; “still the wind may fall light and prevent her reaching us—or, better still, shift to the eastward and throw her to leeward, and we may then soon run up the harbour, and got under shelter of Duncannon Fort before she can reach us.”

Lieutenant Vinoy had been eagerly gazing at the stranger—a look of perplexity appeared in his face.

“What do you think of yonder ship?” asked Owen.

“I will not disguise my belief from you that she is the Coquille,” answered the lieutenant. “I know her too well to be mistaken, even at this distance; but remain tranquil—should she recapture your vessel, of which I entertain, I confess, very little doubt, Captain Thurot will treat you with the same courtesy he did before, notwithstanding what has occurred. I am the person he will chiefly blame; and I must beg you to inform him how long I had been on watch and how fatigued I was when I retired to my cabin. Morbleu! to tell you the truth, I am as anxious as you can be to keep out of his way, but don’t tell him that I said so.”

“You may rest assured that we will do our best to avoid an encounter,” answered the captain, “and, should we be recaptured, that we will say all that we can in your favour; but I trust that we shall escape—it would be cruel to be caught after all.”

The wind was becoming lighter and lighter, and thus their anxiety was prolonged. Still the Coquille—for that such she was very little doubt existed—kept creeping up. The sea became much calmer.

“I will send a boat away with Norah and Gerald; it were better to save her from the annoyance to which she would be exposed should we again fall into the Frenchmen’s hands,” said Captain Tracy. “I should wish to let you go too, Owen; suffering from your wound, you are but ill able to stand the confinement of a French prison.”

“I am grateful to you, captain; and thankfully would I escort your daughter, but she will be safe with her brother, and I cannot bring myself to desert the ship,” answered Owen.

“That is like you, Owen,” replied the captain; “perhaps I might have said the same were I in your place. It is my principle that every officer should stick to his ship as long as a plank holds together; but we shall have hands enough to take her in, should yonder stranger prove not to be the Coquille, but a friend—or should we be recaptured, the fewer people there are on board, the fewer will there be to suffer. I have therefore made up my mind that you shall go. I will send Dan Connor or Pompey, and Tim and Gerald can pull an oar and you can steer; you’ll not have more than ten or twelve miles to row before you can get fresh hands, either at Duncannon Fort or at Passage, to take you up to Waterford. See, we are scarcely making three knots an hour; the boat can pull nearly twice as fast as that, and you will be able to keep well ahead of the enemy. Come, I wanted to see what you would say, but I have resolved you should go; so order the boat to be got ready, and the sooner you are off the better.”

Owen was, of course, willing enough to go for the sake of Norah; he had no choice but to obey his commander.

“Norah,” said the captain, turning to his daughter, to whom the French officer was endeavouring to make himself agreeable, and who had not heard the conversation between her father and the mate, “go and get your traps together, my girl; I am going to send you and Gerald with the mate on shore, and I hope that we shall be soon after you.”

Norah was too well accustomed to obey her father to question the command, and immediately went below.

“Gerald!” shouted the captain to his son, who had some time before come down from the mast-head, “go and help your sister; you must be smart about it—the boat will be in the water in less than five minutes.”

In a short time Dan and Tim, who had been sent into the cabin, appeared with Norah’s trunks. She quickly followed. Having learned from Gerald the reason of her being sent on shore, she addressed her father. “Oh, father, I must not, I ought not to leave you,” she exclaimed; “you think that the Ouzel Galley will after all be recaptured, and you will be carried off to France, and perhaps ill-treated by those men from whom you have retaken the ship, while I shall be left.”

“Far better that it should be so than that we should both be made prisoners and ill-treated,” replied the captain; “so be, as you always have been, an obedient girl—and now, my child, may Heaven bless and protect you!” and the captain, giving his daughter an affectionate kiss, led her to the gangway. The boat was already alongside, and Owen in her ready to help Norah down. She was soon seated in the boat; Gerald followed her. Just then the captain took another glance at the stranger, which was about three miles off; as he did so, the French flag was seen to fly out at her peak. At the same moment the sails of the Ouzel Galley gave a loud flap; the captain looked round.

“Praise Heaven! here comes the breeze from the eastward,” he exclaimed. “Hold fast with the boat; come on deck again, Norah—we’ll not part with you yet;” and, leaning down, he took her arm as she quickly climbed up the side. The rest of the party followed; and to save time the boat was dropped astern. All hands were busily engaged in bracing up the yards. The Ouzel Galley was now well to windward; the French ship tacked, but was still able to steer a course which would bring her within gunshot. The two vessels stood on; the Ouzel Galley was rapidly approaching the land, while the Coquille was getting further from it. Another tack would, however, place her astern, and it would then be a question whether she could overtake the Ouzel Galley before the latter could run up the harbour. Much would depend upon the way the wind blew when she got inside; it might come down the harbour, and in that case the Frenchman might overtake her before she could get up to Credda Head, within which it was not likely even Thurot himself would venture. The breeze held firm; the captain looked over the side.

“The good ship seems to know her danger, and is slipping along famously,” he observed to Owen. “We shall be up to Waterford Quay before nightfall, I hope; we have still a good part of the flood, and when Captain Thurot finds that there is no chance of taking us, he’ll give up the chase.”

“He’ll not do so till the last moment, captain,” observed Lieutenant Vinoy. “There is no man like him; and should the wind fail us when we are inside the harbour, he will, or I am much mistaken, send in the boats to cut your vessel out.”

“We’ll hope, then, that the wind will not fail us,” answered the captain—and he much doubted whether the Frenchman would venture on so bold an act. “If your friends come, we’ll give them a warm reception, and we shall be under the necessity of shutting you up in your cabin again.”

“I shall be ready to submit to your orders,” said the lieutenant, shrugging his shoulders.

Poor Norah naturally felt very anxious, even though Owen endeavoured to reassure her by pointing out the position of the French ship, which could not tack with advantage till a considerable way astern. The breeze was every moment freshening, and the tall lighthouse on the east side of Waterford harbour became more and more distinct.

“No fear now,” cried Gerald at length, as the very beach on it stood, with the water rippling on it, could be clearly discerned, and the harbour up to Duncannon Fort opened out to view. The Ouzel Galley was just abreast of Hook Tower when the French ship was seen to tack and boldly to stand after her.

“That looks as if the lieutenant were right in his notion; and should we get becalmed inside, or find the wind drawing down the harbour, Thurot will send in his boats after us,” observed Owen to the captain.

“I have no fear of being becalmed till we get inside of Credda Head, and still less of the wind, as it is outside, drawing down the harbour,” answered the captain. “Should the boats get up with us, we must try and beat them off; we were not afraid of the ship herself, and those Frenchmen, though brave enough, are not like our own fellows in cutting-out affairs. See to the guns, however, and get ammunition up on deck, for, should they come, we mayn’t have much time to spare.”

The Ouzel Galley stood on in mid-channel; the well-known landmarks, church steeples, country-seats, and castles on either side were recognised; Credda Head, a long, high point at the entrance of the harbour, was neared, when Duncannon Fort came into view. Still the daring privateer followed as if her bold captain did not yet despair of overtaking the chase. The wind, as the captain had hoped it would do, held fair, blowing over the low land on the east side of the harbour; once up with Duncannon Fort the Ouzel Galley would be safe, both from the privateer herself and from an attack by her boats. At length Credda Head was rounded.

“Hurrah!” cried Gerald, who, not having to attend to the navigation of the ship, was watching the privateer, “she’s afraid of standing on further—she’s about; but, hillo!—she has hoisted English colours.”

“No proof that she is not French, though,” answered the captain; “it is simply to deceive the people on shore.”

“At all events, she’s standing out of the harbour again, and won’t do us any mischief,” cried Gerald.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the captain, “we’re safe at last.” And the long breath he drew clearly showed how anxious he had been.

“A boat coming off from under the Head!” sang out Dan from forward. The topsail sheets were let fly, the courses trailed up to allow the boat to come alongside, and a river pilot stopped on deck.

“Welcome back to Old Ireland!” he exclaimed, as he shook the captain’s hand. “Shure, it’s a pleasure to see the Ouzel Galley again, for it’s long we’ve been looking for her, and many began to say that she was lost, or taken by the French.”

“We very nearly were so, but we managed to take some of these same gentlemen instead,” answered the captain with a laugh, to which he could now give vent; “and only just now we had a narrow squeak for it. What do you think of yonder ship, Pat?”

“Of course, she’s an English man-of-war,” answered the pilot; “we’ve been expecting one in here for some days past, and we thought that craft was her. To say the truth, we were going on board her; for, shure, the Ouzel Galley knows her way up to George’s Quay by herself.”

“Had you done so, Pat, you’d have been carried off, and made to serve as pilot on board a French ship till the end of the war,” answered Captain Tracy.

“Maybe you’re right, captain; but see, she carries the English flag, and no Frenchman would have the impudence to come into our harbour,” said the pilot.

“That gentleman says she is French, and he ought to know, for he belonged to her,” observed the captain, pointing to Lieutenant Vinoy. Pat Monaghan, however, was not convinced; though, as the stranger was rapidly running out of the harbour again, he had no opportunity of ascertaining for himself. Under Pat’s pilotage the Ouzel Galley stood on up the harbour, which now narrowed considerably. At length she rounded Cheek Point, when with a fair wind she ran up the Suir, on the south bank of which Waterford is situated. It was late in the evening when at last she dropped her anchor off George’s Quay. Before her canvas was furled, Mr. Ferris, the senior partner of her owners, Ferris, Twigg, and Cash, came on board, and warmly congratulated the captain on his safe return. On hearing of the gallant way in which possession of the Ouzel Galley had been regained, Mr. Ferris invited Norah and Gerald to his house.

“My daughter Ellen will be delighted to see her old schoolfellow, Miss Tracy, who was a great favourite of hers,” he said; “and many of my friends will be glad to see your son, who from your account was the principal actor in your adventure.”

“I must not praise Gerald too much,” said Captain Tracy, after he had accepted the invitation; “my mate, Owen Massey, was the chief concoctor of the plot, and had I not a high opinion of his judgment and courage, I should not have ventured to give my consent to it.”

Before leaving the ship, Captain Tracy was anxious to be relieved of his prisoners. Mr. Ferris hurried back to the chief magistrate of the town, who at once sent down a guard to march them off to the jail. The lieutenant, however, on being brought before him, was more courteously treated, and on giving his parole not to leave the town or to communicate with the enemy, he was allowed to be at large. As soon as he was set at liberty he received an invitation from Mr. Ferris to take up his abode at his house in King Street.

Thankful indeed was Owen Massey when, the prisoners having been carried off, he was able to give up charge of the ship and go on shore. He had a home to go to, though an humble one, with his mother, who resided in a pretty little cottage in the outskirts of the town. She had seen better days, for both she and her husband were of ancient lineage; but he had been engaged in a long-protracted lawsuit, which he ultimately lost, and died, leaving her very limited means with which to support herself and their only child Owen. Captain Tracy, an old friend, offered to take Owen to sea; and the lad was delighted with the thoughts of the life in prospect. His mother had not only given him the best education the place afforded, but had sent him to Trinity College, Dublin, to complete his education. Here his means, however, did not allow him to remain long; but, being clever and diligent, he was better prepared than most lads were at that time for his future calling. He knew nothing about the Royal Navy, or he would certainly have desired to enter it, which he might easily have done had he possessed any friend able to get him placed on the deck of a man-of-war. He had, like other youths, read accounts of the voyages of the old explorers, of the adventures of the buccaneers, and other works; he was scarcely aware of the difference which then existed between the officers of the Royal Navy and merchant service. Captain Tracy, though anxious to promote his interests, did not think fit to enlighten him, as he fully believed that during the “piping times of peace” he would be far more likely to succeed in the latter than in the former service; and belonging to it himself, he rightly looked upon it as an honourable one.

Mrs. Massey was struck by her son’s pale face and languid manner. The voyage over, the effects of his severe wound, and the long-continued anxiety he had suffered, at once told on him. She immediately sent for the best surgeon in the place. Dr. Roach quickly arrived; he had a great respect for Widow Massey, and had known Owen, from his boyhood. On examining his wound he put on a grave face.

“It surprises me, my dear boy, that you could have managed to move about with so fearful a laceration,” he said; “it has been well and carefully dressed, I will allow, or you would not have been alive at this moment. Many a poor fellow has died from a less hurt than this. However, you will do well now, if you follow my directions; but you must lie by and get your mother to nurse you. Come, turn into bed at once; you are not fit to be about—you’ll get well the sooner.”

Owen expostulated; he had been on his legs for several days, and why should he now lie by? he asked.

“For the very reason that you have done more than you have strength for,” answered the doctor.

“But the duty of the ship must be attended to, and I am anxious to see my captain,” urged Owen.

“And your captain’s daughter, eh, my young friend—is it not so?” said Dr. Roach. “Well, I will let her know your wishes; I have been called in to attend on Captain Tracy, who requires some doctoring, though not as much as you do—and as to the ship, there are others whose duty it is to look after her; it was yours to bring her safely into port, and you did that in a very gallant way, I hear. Now, Mrs. Massey, I lay my commands on your son to remain quietly in bed till I tell him to get up; if he disobeys me, we shall be having a stiff arm or something worse, so he is warned. I will come and see him regularly, and you’ll give him the medicines as I direct;” and Dr. Roach, kindly shaking the widow’s hand, walked away towards the town, with his gold-headed cane pressed to his lips—a sure sign that he was lost in thought.

Captain Tracy was, as the doctor had said, really ill; he was even worse than it was at first supposed, and required all Norah’s attention. Though much wishing to see Owen and Mrs. Massey, she could not venture to leave him. Gerald, however, willingly undertook to pay a visit to the mate, who not being positively prohibited from seeing visitors, Gerald was admitted. Owen more clearly understood the message which Norah had sent than Gerald did himself. Though longing to see her, he acknowledged that it was her duty to remain with her father.

“However, Owen, you need not be in a hurry to get well,” said Gerald, “for the Ouzel Galley won’t be fit for sea again for many months; she suffered so much during her last voyage, and got so knocked about by the enemy’s shot, that she is to undergo a thorough repair. My father, not wishing me to be idle, talks of sending me to sea in some other craft—if I have my choice, I would go on board a man-of-war, where I might have plenty of opportunities of fighting the enemies of our country. I don’t like the idea of sailing in a ship which may be attacked and captured by any French privateer we might fall in with.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that, Gerald, for I had hoped to have you with me when I next go afloat;” answered Owen. “To my mind, the merchant service is as honourable as that of the Royal Navy, if a man does his duty. I am very sure that God did not design men to be fighting animals; it was Satan, and no one else, who put it into their heads that it is a fine and noble thing to attack and kill each other.”

“Why, Owen, I always thought you a brave fellow, and as fond of fighting as any man,” exclaimed Gerald.

“I grant you that I am ready to fight in defence of the life and liberty of my shipmates and the property committed to my charge, because I can see that to be my duty,” answered Owen. “The merchant service affords ample opportunity for the exercise of a man’s courage and determination. Though I respect the officers and men of the Royal Navy, who are engaged in fighting for their king and country, I have a very different opinion of privateersmen, who go forth to plunder the harmless merchantmen of other nations merely for the sake of enriching themselves. It may be necessary to destroy the commerce of the enemy for the purpose of crippling their means of offence; but privateersmen seldom trouble their heads about that—they are incited by the instinct of pirates, and plunder is their sole object. Whatever you do, let me urge you, Gerald, never to turn privateersman; if you were to consult your father, he would, I know, say as I do, for we have often spoken about the matter.”

“I dare say you are right, Owen,” answered Gerald. “If the Ouzel Galley were going at once to sea I would gladly sail in her. The owners, as I heard from my father, intend to give the command of her to you.”

“I am thankful to him, and very happy to hear it,” said Owen; “and I hope, Gerald, that if you go afloat in the mean time, which it is very right you should do, that you will be back soon enough to join me. Tell your father that I will try to get well as fast as I can, that I may attend to fitting out the Ouzel Galley.”

Gerald did not give a very favourable report of Owen Massey; he described him as looking pale and ill, and dreadfully out of spirits, quite unlike himself. It made poor Norah exceedingly anxious; she had bestowed on him her heart’s best affections, with the full sanction of her father, who highly esteemed him.

To give Gerald employment till arrangements could be made for his going to sea, he was sent on board the Ouzel Galley, to assist in landing her stores and unrigging her, previous to her being hauled up on the slip to be repaired.

A few days on shore had so far restored Captain Tracy’s health that Norah was able to pay her promised visit to Mrs. Massey, and Ellen Ferris offered to accompany her. They set off together. Ellen was nearly a year older than Norah; both were remarkable for their beauty. Ellen was somewhat taller and slighter than her friend, with dark brown hair and clear complexion, and fine, sparkling eyes; many persons would have admired her the most. Having mixed in good society in Dublin, she had more the manners of the world than Norah, though in reality equally artless and unsophisticated; while she was able to take her part in conversation on any of the topics of the day, of which, naturally, Norah knew but little. She was amiable, lively, and right-principled, and altogether allowed to be a very charming girl, the pride of her father, who had no other child. She was therefore, of course, looked upon as an heiress; she did not, however, give herself any airs, but was thoroughly unaffected, her aim simply being properly to do the honours of her father’s house. Their chief residence was in Dublin, but she was always his companion when he came to his house at Waterford. It was a pleasant place, a rus in urbe, as the worthy merchant delighted to call it. The house itself, a large, well-built mansion, with nothing remarkable about it, faced the street. On the other side was an extensive piece of ground. Immediately behind the house it was level, and laid out with a lawn and flower-beds. Beyond this a hill rose to a considerable height, the hillside being cut into slopes and terrace-walks, with an artificial canal fed by an ever-flowing stream at the bottom of it. In accordance with the taste of the day, these terraces were ornamented with statues; and at one end was a fine arch, part of the ruin of an ancient Gothic chapel. At the other end was an aviary filled with numerous feathered songsters, several species of gay plumage. Further round the hill was an enclosure stocked with various kinds of deer, and a white doe, an especial favourite of the fair mistress of the garden. Besides the canal, at the foot of the hill were two large reservoirs for the purpose of supplying it with water, containing carp and tench and other fish; and at the summit of the hill stood an obelisk to the memory of King William, whom the owner held in especial reverence. The views from the hill of the city on one side, and of the rough rocks and wild uncultivated hills on the opposite side, of the river, the shipping at anchor, with vessels and boats decked with gay flags constantly moving up and down the stream, were picturesque and attractive, and afforded an object of interest to the numerous guests whom the hospitable owner was wont to entertain at his house. The place was laid out more according to Dutch than English taste, and of course was especially admired by the natives of Holland, among whom the firm of Ferris, Twigg, and Cash had extensive connections, as well as with the West Indies, to which part of the world they chiefly traded. The Ouzel Galley was only one of the numerous vessels owned by the firm, and all being strongly built, well found, and well officered, with sufficient crews, they made successful voyages. Mr. Ferris himself was a dignified, good-looking, and somewhat portly gentleman, frank and hearty in his manners, fond of a good joke and a good story, and highly respected for his upright and liberal conduct.

Ellen, of course, had many admirers, but as yet it was generally believed that she had favoured no one. She was, in truth, the light of her father’s home, and he had no wish to part with her. She and Norah set off one bright afternoon on their walk to Widow Massey’s cottage. Norah had confided to Ellen her engagement to Owen.

“I am young, and so is he, and we are to wait till he has made two or three more voyages, while I am to keep house for my father, who does not intend again to go to sea,” she remarked. “He inherited some property lately, which prevents the necessity of his doing so, and though I enjoyed the voyage to the West Indies, and the beautiful scenery and strange sights I saw there, I am very glad to have him remain at home, especially since the war has broken out, and there is now the risk of capture by an enemy, such as we so narrowly escaped from. I wish, indeed, that Owen could give up the sea, but he is very fond of it, and promises me not to run into more danger than can be helped; and as it is the lot of so many poor women to have those they love at sea, I must not complain.”

Ellen, sighed. Norah looked up with an inquiring glance at her countenance, but Ellen only observed, “It must be borne with patience; and then, you know, you can pray for those you love, and that is a great comfort.”

Mrs. Massey, who had from her front windows seen her visitors approaching, opened the door to admit them. She welcomed Norah with an affectionate embrace, putting back her hair to kiss her fair brow.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Ferris,” she said, “for neglecting you; but you will excuse me—it is so long since I have seen this dear girl, and I so rejoice to have her back in safety. My son Owen, the doctor says, owes his life to the careful way she dressed his wounds.” She continued, after her guests were seated, “He will be wishing to come down and see you, Norah, and I cannot forbid him, though he is not fit to present himself before Miss Ferris.”

“Do not let me prevent Mr. Massey from coming down,” said Ellen, rising, and giving a smile to Norah; “I will go out and take a look at your pretty garden, Mrs. Massey, and you shall show me the flowers.”

Norah felt grateful for the tact of her friend, and the widow having gone upstairs to tell Owen that he need not fear the meeting with a stranger, she returned and took Ellen into her garden, which contained a shrubbery, a lawn and flower-beds, and an arbour with a view of the river and shipping in the distance, and invited them to sit down.

“This is a very pretty spot, Mrs. Massey,” said Ellen. “Now you have got your son back, you must be perfectly happy.”

“I ought to be so, my dear young lady, and am indeed thankful to have him with me,” answered the widow; “but recollections of the past will intrude. I cannot help thinking how different would have been his lot had he not been unjustly deprived of his inheritance; and little good has it done those who got it. Wealth gained by fraud or violence never benefits the possessors.”

The widow, who spent much of her time in solitude, was inclined to talk when she found a willing listener. Ellen’s looks betokened sympathy, for she was aware of the wrongs the Massey family had endured.

“The O’Harralls were ever a lawless race,” continued Mrs. Massey; “they were leaders among the Rapparees in Cromwell’s and James’s times, and lived by robbing their countrymen and neighbours, till William of Orange established a firm government. They then exercised their cunning by means of the law, and, supported by the Evil One, their frauds were successful. Scarcely, however, had they gained possession of Tramore Castle and its broad lands than they took to their wicked courses. Denis O’Harrall set all the laws of God and man at defiance; yet, as he kept open house and entertained guests of high and low degree, he was universally popular till he had been brought to the verge of ruin. Such a father could not fail to bring up his sons ill: his eldest son was as extravagant and reckless as himself. Brian, his second, had more talent than his brother. Having been sent to college in Dublin, he at first gave some promise of turning out well. Owen was at that time acquainted with him, and, harbouring no ill-feeling, was ready to be on friendly terms; but Brian soon showed the cloven foot, and although he remained for some time, he was at length dismissed with ignominy. Living near the sea, he had been accustomed from his earliest days to go out with the fishermen, and to make short trips to Drogheda, Dungarvon, Youghal, and occasionally even further. After his return home, having no means of indulging in the bad courses to which he was addicted, he, it was said, joined a band of smugglers, who under his leadership became the most daring and successful of all the gangs of desperate men who carry on their illicit trade across the English Channel. Now they appeared in one part of the coast, now in another; so that, although a constant watch was kept for them, owing to the vigilance of their agents for several years, they never failed to escape the king’s cruisers. From long impunity becoming less cautious, a valuable cargo in which he had ventured all his property was captured, with himself and several of his companions, by a king’s ship. They were brought into Waterford, and were imprisoned in Reginald’s Tower, on the quay. During the night, however, they rose on the guard, whom they killed, to prevent alarm being given, and stealing a boat made their way down the river. In the harbour they found a Dutch ship, the Saint Peter, of Hamburg, which had put in from stress of weather. As she was on the point of sailing, they pretended that they had come down on purpose to take a passage on board her to Dantzic, for which port she was bound. The captain, believing their story, willingly received them, as they offered to pay a considerable sum for their passage-money. Scarcely, however, had they got out of sight of land than they set upon the captain and his officers and killed them all, and so overawed the men that no one dared to offer the slightest resistance. By threats and promises they induced the greater number to join them, and those who would not do so were thrown overboard. One, however, a good swimmer, recovering from the blows which had apparently killed him, got hold of a grating and was picked up the next morning. Being carried into Cork harbour, he gave information of what had occurred, and the authorities in all places along the coast were informed that they might seize the pirates should they appear. Their intention was to proceed up the British Channel, to plunder any vessel they could fall in with, and afterwards, when they had completed their cargo, to sell it and the ship. A violent north-easterly gale, however, drove them far away to the westward, and it was not till many days were over that they were again able to stand to the eastward. They had, as it happened, from not taking proper observations, got out of their reckoning; while steering, as they thought, up the Channel, they found themselves close in with the Irish coast. By this time being short of water and provisions, they ran into Dunmanus Bay, supposing that, no one suspecting their character, they might remain as long as was necessary to repair damages and to procure whatever they wanted. Among the crew was a young black, whose life had been spared under the idea that he was too stupid and ignorant to think of betraying them. As he appeared to be perfectly contented on board, he was allowed to be at liberty; but he was in reality a remarkably sharp lad, and only waited his opportunity to get on shore. One night, after the ship had been there two or three days, he managed to slip overboard, and, getting safely to land, made his way to Dunbeacon Castle, at the head of the harbour. He here described what had occurred, and it was at once guessed that the vessel in the bay was the one for which the authorities had been directed to be on the watch. A despatch was immediately sent off to Bantry; before the morning a party of soldiers arrived, and, procuring boats, boarded the ship and captured all found in her. The ringleader, however, Brian O’Harrall, was on shore, and though strict search was made for him he was nowhere to be discovered. He had friends in the neighbourhood, and it was only sufficient for them to know that the officers of justice were after him to induce them to assist in his escape. My son happened to be in Bantry at the time, just before he went to sea; to save the boy, who was carried there, from the vengeance of O’Harrall, he took him back to Waterford, and Captain Tracy received him on board the Ouzel Galley. It was from Pompey I heard all the particulars I have narrated. The five other men on board the Saint Peter were tried and condemned to death, and after their execution their heads were set up at Waterford, Youghal, Cork, Kinsale, and Blantyre. The ship and cargo being restored to the owners, O’Harrall was outlawed, and a price set on his head; but though, from time to time, he was heard of in connection with various desperate acts, he never failed to escape the grasp of justice. It was supposed that he at length joined a band of smugglers, though he has not for a year or more been heard of. He has, I should have said, a younger brother remarkably like him in character and appearance, who greatly assisted in his escape. This brother, Michael, made his appearance now in one part of the country, now in another, letting it be supposed that he was Brian; thus distracting the attention of those in search of the culprit. He is himself, from what I have heard, fully as determined a ruffian as Brian, and has long followed the same lawless pursuits.”

“What a fearful character!” exclaimed Ellen, shuddering; “and yet you say that Brian was at one time at college, mixing with young men of education and refinement.”

“Yes, and, with the talents and advantages he possessed, might have gained an honourable position in the county,” replied Mrs. Massey; “for, his elder brother having no children, he would probably have succeeded to the estate. I should have been more reconciled to the loss of Tramore had it been in possession of honourable people, who would have attended to the property and watched over the interests of the tenantry; and it is sad to see the place going to ruin, and the unfortunate people who might look up to the owner for assistance becoming every day more degraded and wretched.”

“But perhaps, Mrs. Massey, if the present owner should die, and as the wretched men you have been describing cannot succeed, you, or rather your son, may recover the property,” observed Ellen.

“I fear not,” answered the widow, with a sigh. “I do not understand legal matters, but the youngest brother might, I fancy, succeed in spite of his crimes, and without ample pecuniary means I believe that it would be impossible to regain the estate. I have long been reconciled to my lot, though I should be thankful could Owen avoid the necessity of going to sea, and enjoy a sufficient fortune to enable him to marry our dear Norah in the course of a year or two.”

“Now you have told me the particulars of this strange history, I shall not despair of success,” said Ellen. “The want of money must, at all events, not be a hindrance; there are, I am sure, those who would be ready to assist your son.”

Ellen sat on, readily listening to all the widow’s conversation; for, heartily sympathising with Norah, she was in no hurry to break in upon her and Owen’s tête-à-tête. However, the length of the shadows stretching across the lawn at last warned her that the evening was approaching, and she remembered that it would be disagreeable, if not dangerous, to be compelled to walk home in the dark. Norah, however, had not noted how time had gone by; but when she looked out of the window and saw that the sun was on the point of setting, she expressed her readiness to return home without delay. Ellen, wishing Mr. Massey good-bye, and hoping that he would soon recover, hurried to the door, leaving Norah, who was putting on her cloak and hat, to follow and pay her parting adieux in the way she might think proper. Had Owen not been absolutely forbidden, in spite of his weakness he would have accompanied them—though Ellen laughed at the idea of there being any cause for apprehending danger during the short walk into the town.