As We Sweep Through The Deep

  Produced by Tamise Totterdell, Anne Storer and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  "_On the deck of a French man-o'-war._" Page 186.]

  AS WE SWEEP THROUGH THE DEEP

  "_The figure glided towards him._" Page 66.]

  T. NELSON AND SONS London, Edinburgh, and New York

  AS WE SWEEP THROUGH THE DEEP

  _A Story of the Stirring Times of Old_

  BY DR. GORDON-STABLES, R.N., _Author of "Hearts of Oak," &c._

  T. NELSON AND SONS _London, Edinburgh, and New York_ 1894

  CONTENTS.

  I. POOR JACK, 9 II. "HE NEVER SAID HE LOVED ME," 20 III. AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL, 27 IV. THE BATTLE AND THE BREEZE, 33 V. "NOW THIS GOOD BLADE SHALL BE MY BRIDE," 43 VI. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE, 54 VII. "WENT GLIDING AWAY LIKE A BEAUTIFUL GHOST," 61 VIII. ON BOARD THE SAUCY "TONNERAIRE," 70 IX. "A SPLENDID NIGHT'S WORK, TOM!" 78 X. IN THE MOON'S BRIGHT WAKE, 87 XI. THE PHANTOM FRENCHMAN, 94 XII. A BATTLE BY NIGHT, 103 XIII. A HAPPY SHIP, 111 XIV. MUTINY, 123 XV. BEFORE CADIZ, 129 XVI. JACK AND THE MUTINEERS, 138 XVII. IN A FOOL'S PARADISE, 145 XVIII. "WOULD HE EVER COME AGAIN?" 152 XIX. THE BATTLE OF CAMPERDOWN, 162 XX. NELSON AND THE NILE, 171 XXI. WILLIE DIED A HERO'S DEATH, 180 XXII. STILL WATERS RUN DEEP, 189 XXIII. "IT'S ALL UP, MR. RICHARDS, IT'S ALL UP!" 197 XXIV. BY THE OLD DIAL-STONE, 206

 

  _As We Sweep through the Deep._

  CHAPTER I.

  POOR JACK.

  "As ye sweep through the deep While the stormy winds do blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow." CAMPBELL.

  "Just two years this very day since poor Jack Mackenzie sailed away fromEngland in the _Ocean Pride_."

  Mr. Richards, of the tough old firm of Griffin, Keane, and Co.,Solicitors, London, talked more to himself than to any one withinhearing.

  As he spoke he straightened himself up from his desk in a weary kind ofway, and began to mend his pen: they used quills in those good oldtimes.

  "Just two years! How the time flies! And we're not getting any younger.Are we, partner?"

  Whether Mr. Keane heard what he said or not, he certainly did not replyimmediately. He was standing by the window, gazing out into thehalf-dark, fog-shaded street.

  "Fog, fog, fog!" he grunted peevishly; "nothing but fog and gloom. Beennothing else all winter; and now that spring has all but come, why it'sfog, fog, fog, just the same! Tired of it--sick of it!"

  Then he turned sharply round, exclaiming, "What did you say about Jackand about growing younger?"

  Mr. Richards smiled a conciliatory smile. He was the junior partnerthough the older man--if that is not a paradox--for his share in thefirm was not a quarter as large as Keane's, who was really Keane by nameand keen by nature, of small stature, with dark hair turning gray,active, business-like, and a trifle suspicious.

  Mr. Richards was delightfully different in every way--a round rosy facethat might have belonged to some old sea-captain, a bald and rosyforehead, hair as white as drifted snow, and a pair of blue eyes thatalways seemed brimming over with kindness and good-humour.

  "I was talking more to my pen than to you," he said quietly.

  "But what's given you Jack on the brain, eh?"

  "Oh, nothing--nothing in particular, that is. I happened to turn to hisaccount, that is all."

  "Bother him. Yes, and but for you, Richards, never an account should_he_ have had with _us_."

  "Well, Jack gets round me somehow. He is not half a bad lad, with hisdash and his fun and his jollity. Ay, and his ways are very winningsometimes. He does get round one, partner."

  "I don't doubt it, Richards. Winning enough when he wants to get roundyou and wheedle cash out of you. I tell you what, partner: Jack's gotall his father's aristocratic notions, all his father's pride andimprovidence. Ay, and he'd ruin his dad too, if--if--"

  "If what, partner?"

  "Why, if his dad weren't ruined already."

  "Come, come, Keane, it isn't quite so bad as that."

  "Pretty nigh it, I can assure you. And I can't get the proud old Scotto retrench. Why doesn't he let that baronial hall of his, instead ofsticking to it and mortgaging it in order to keep up appearances andentertain half the gentry in the county? Why doesn't he take afive-roomed cottage, and let his daughter teach the harp that sheplays so well?"

  "O partner! Come, you know!"

  "Well, 'O partner' as much as you like; if old Mackenzie's pride wereproper pride, his daughter would take in washing sooner than the familyshould go deeper in debt every day. But the crisis will come; somebodywill foreclose."

  "You won't surely, partner?"

  "Bother your sentiment, Richards. He owes me over forty thousand pounds.Think of that. I declare I believe I'd be a better landlord than Mackhimself. Forty thousand pounds, Richards, and I don't see any way ofgetting a penny, except by--"

  "Except by foreclosing?"

  Richards sighed as he bent once more over his desk. He had been familylawyer to Mackenzie before he joined the firm of Griffin, Keane, andCo., and dearly loved the family, or what was left of it.

  He tried to work but couldn't now. Presently he closed the ledger with abang and got down off his stool.

  "I say, Keane." he said, "I see a way out of this. Look here. You havenobody to leave your wealth to except dear little Gerty--"

  "Well?"

  "Well, Jack is precious fond of her; why not--"

  "He, he, he! ho, ho, ho!" laughed Keane. "Why, Richards, you're in yourdotage, man! I've a _baronet_ in view for Gerty. And Jack is a _beggar_,although he does swing a sword at his side and fight the French."

  Richards went back to his stool quiet and subdued. "Poor Jack!" hemuttered.

  * * * * *

  "Just two years this very day, Gerty dear, since poor Jack sailed awayfrom England in the _Ocean Pride_."

  Flora Mackenzie bent listlessly over the harp she had been playing asshe spoke, her fingers touching a chord or two that seemed in unisonwith her thoughts. The two girls, Gerty Keane and she, who were seldomseparate now, by day or night, sat in Flora's boudoir, which had twogreat windows opening on to a balcony and overlooking the grand oldgardens of Grantley Hall, Suffolk. Grant Mackenzie, a sturdy oldone-armed soldier, was the proud owner of the Hall and all the wide,wooded landscape for miles around. Jack, now far away at sea, was hisheir, and with his sister Flora, the only children the general had. Thefine old soldier had been in possession of the property only about adozen years, yet I fear he had inherited something else--namely, thelordly fashions of his Highland ancestry. That branch of the ClanMackenzie to which he belonged was nothing unless proud. So long as itcould hold its head a little higher than its neighbours it was happy,and when poverty came then death might follow as soon as it pleased.There was every appearance of unbounded wealth in and around GrantleyHall. The house was a massive old E
lizabethan mansion, half buried inlofty lime and elm and oak trees, approached by a winding drive, and along way back from the main road that leads through this beautiful shirefrom north to south.

  Everything was large connected with the Hall and estate. There were nofiner trees anywhere in England than those sturdy oaks and elms, no morestately waving pine trees, and no more shady drooping limes than thosethat bordered the broad grass ride which stretched for many a mileacross the estate. On the park-like lawn in front of the house--if thisancient quaint old pile could be said to have a front--the flower-bedswere as big as suburban gardens, the statuary, the fountains, and eventhe gray and moss-grown dial-stone were gigantic; and nowhere else inall this vast and wealthy county were such stately herons seen as thosethat sailed around Grantley and built in its trees. The entrance-hallwas spacious and noble, though the porch was comparatively small; butif divested of its banners and curtains and emptied of its antiquefurniture, its wealth-laden tables, on which jewelled arms and curiosfrom every land under the sun seemed to have been laid out for show,its oaken chests, its sideboards, its organ and many another musicalinstrument ancient and modern, the drawing-room was large enough to havedriven a coach-and-four around.

  The bedrooms above were many of them so lofty that in the dead, dullwinter two great fires in each could hardly keep them warm.

  The room in which the girls sat was the tartan boudoir. The walls weredraped with clan tartans, and eke the lounges and chairs; while theheads of many a royal stag adorned the walls, amidst tastefullydisplayed claymores, spears, shields, and dirks, and pistols.

  "Just two years, Gerty. How quickly the time has fled!"

  "Just two years, Flora. Strange that I should have been thinking aboutJack this very moment. But then you were playing one of Jack's favouriteairs, you know."

  Flora got up from her seat at the harp. A tall and graceful girl shewas, with a wealth of auburn hair, and blue dreamy eyes, and eyelashesthat swept her sun-tinted cheeks when she looked downwards.

  She got up from her seat, and went and knelt beside the couch on whichGerty was lounging with a book.

  "Why strange, sister?" she asked, taking Gerty's hand.

  Gerty was _petite_, blonde, bewitching--so many a young man said, andmany a rough old squire as well. She was no baby in face, however.Although of the purest type of Saxon beauty--without the square chinthat so disfigures many an otherwise lovely English face--there was fireand character in every lineament of Gerty Keane's countenance.

  She answered Flora calmly, candidly, quietly--I am almost inclined tosay, in a business way that reminded one of her father.

  "Dear Flo," she said--and her eyes as she spoke had a sad and far-awaylook in them--"it would be unmaidenly in me to say how much I shouldlike to be your sister in reality. It may not be strange for me tothink of Jack; we have liked each other, almost loved each other, sincechildhood."

  "Almost?" said Flora.

  "Listen, Flo. I _may_ love Jack, but there is one other I love evenmore."

  "Sir Digby, Gerty?"

  "No, dear Flo, but my father. I love him more because he has fewfriends, and because others do not love him. I would do anything forfather."

  "You would even marry Sir Digby?"

  "Perhaps."

  "O Gerty! poor Jack will break his heart."

  She buried her face in the pillow for a few moments. She was strugglingwith the grief that bid fair to choke her. When she looked up againthere was nothing but softness in Gerty's face, and tears were coursingdown her cheeks--tears she made no effort to wipe away.

  Poor Jack!

  * * * * *

  "Just two years to-day, Tom, since you and I sailed away from dear oldEngland in the _Ocean Pride_."

  "And hasn't the time flown too?" said Tom.

  "Ah! but then we've been so busy. Just think of the many actions we'vefought."

  "True, Jack, true! What a lucky, ay, and what a glorious thing for youngfellows like us to be in a ship commanded by so daring a sailor as SirSidney Salt!"

  "Yes, Tom, yes. And think of the haul of prize-money we shall have whenwe once more touch British ground."

  "O Jack, I _am_ surprised. Money! A Mackenzie of _the_ Mackenzies to bemercenary! Jack, Jack!"

  Jack and Tom were keeping their watch--that is, it was Tom's watch, andJack had come on deck to bear him company and talk of home.

  Under every stitch of canvas, with a bracing beam wind that filled everysail, jib, and square, and stay, the bold frigate _Ocean Pride_ wasskimming across the Atlantic like a veritable sea-bird. She was boundfor the lone Bermudas, and the night was a heavenly one. So no wonderthat, as the two young sailors leaned over the bulwarks and gazed at themoonlit water that seemed all a-shimmer with gold, their thoughts wentback to their homes in merry England.

  "Listen, Tom; don't call me mercenary, bo'. Did you ever hear thoselines of Burns, our great national bard?--

  'O poortith cauld and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; But poortith cauld I well could bear, If it werena for my Jeannie.'

  Yes, Tom; I love the sweetest lass ever wooed by sailor lad. Does shelove me? Was that what you asked, Tom? She never said so, bo'; but ah! Iknow she does, and as sure as yonder moon is shining she is thinking ofme even now. But sit here on the skylight till I tell you, Tom, wherethe 'poortith' comes in."

  And sitting there, with the moonlight streaming clear on both theirearnest young faces, and on their snow-white powdered hair, Jack pouredinto the ear of his friend a story that was at once both sorrowful andromantic.

  Tom listened quietly till the very end, then he stretched out his softright hand and clasped his friend's.

  "Poor Jack!" he said.

  "Ay, _poor_ Jack indeed! And now I'll go below. I want to think andmaybe dream of home and Gerty."