Kitabı oku: «Wild Adventures round the Pole», sayfa 5
“But where in the name of wonder are we now?” he continued, gazing around.
It was a very natural question. It had got suddenly dark. They were enveloped in a snow-cloud. The brave balloon seemed to struggle through it.
Ballast was thrown over, and up and out into the sunshine she rose again, but what a change had come over her appearance – every rope and length of her and the car itself and our bold aeronauts were covered white with virgin snow.
“Monsieurs,” said De Vere, “this is more than I bargained for. We must descend. You see she has lost all life. De lofely soul dat was in de balloon seems to have gone. We will descend.”
Indeed the huge balloon was already moving slowly earthwards, and in a minute more they were again passing through the snow-cloud. Once clear of this a breeze sprang up, or, to speak more correctly, they entered a current of air, that carried them directly inland for many miles. Tired of this direction, the valve was opened, out roared the gas, and the descent became more rapid, until the wind ceased to blow – they were beneath the adverse current. More ballast was thrown out, and her “way” was stopped.
But see, what aileth our hero, boy Rory? For some minutes he has been gazing southwards over the sea, so intensely indeed that his looks almost frighten the honest doctor.
“The glass, the glass,” he hisses, holding round his hand, but not taking his glance for a moment off the southern horizon.
The glass is handed to him, he adjusts it to his eye, and takes one long, fixed look; and when he turns once more towards the doctor his face is radiant with joy and excitement.
“It is she,” he cried, “it is she, it is she!”
The doctor really looked scared.
“Man!” he said, “are ye takin’ leave o’ your wuts? There, tak’ a hold o’ my hand and dinna try to frighten folk. There’s never a ‘she’ near ye.”
“It is she, I tell you,” cried Rory again; “take the glass and look in under the land yonder, and heading for Stromsoe. It is the pirate herself, – the pirate we fought in the Snowbird. Hurrah! hurrah!”
Chapter Nine.
Mount Hekla – The Great Geyser – A Narrow Escape – The Search for the Pirate – McBain’s Little “Ruse de Guerre” – The Battle Begun
“That puts quite another complexion on the matter,” said Dr Sandy McFlail, with a sigh of relief, when Rory explained to him that he had spied the pirate, “quite another complexion, though, for the time bein’ ye glowered sae like a warlock that I did think ye had lost your reason; so give me the glass, and I’ll e’en take a look at her mysel’.
“Eh! sirs,” he continued, with the telescope at his eye, “but she is a big ship, and a bonnie ship. But, Rory boy, just catch a hold o’ my coat-tails, and I’ll feel more secure like. I wouldn’t wish to go heels o’er head out o’ the car. A fine big ship indeed – square-rigged forward and schooner-rigged aft; a vera judeecious arrangement.”
“Now,” cried Rory, “the sooner we are landed on old mother earth the better. Bend on to the valve halyards, De Vere. Down with her.”
“Sirs! sirs!” cried the doctor, in great alarm; “pray don’t be rash. Be judeecious, gentlemen, be judeecious.”
De Vere looked from one to the other, then laughed aloud. He was amused at the impetuosity of the Irishman and at the canniness of the Scot.
A very pleasant little man was this De Vere to look at, black as to hair and moustache, dark as to eyes; thoughtful-looking as a rule were these eyes, yet oft lit up with fun. He never spoke much, perhaps he cogitated the more; he seldom made a joke himself, but he had a high appreciation of humour in others. Taking him all and all he gave you the impression of one who would be little likely to lose his presence of mind in a time of danger.
“Gentlemen,” he said, quietly, “you will leave the descent in my hands, if you please. We are now, by my calculation, some ninety miles from the city of Reikjavik. You see beneat’ you wild mountains, ice-bound plains, frozen lakes, rivers and waterfalls, deep ravines and gorges, but no sign of smoke, no life. Shall I make my descent here? Shall I pull vat Monsieur Rory call de valve halyard? Shall I land in de regions of desolation?”
“Dinna think o’t,” cried Sandy. “Never mind Rory; he is only a laddie.”
“It’s yourself that’s complimentary,” quoth Rory.
“Ah! ver’ well,” said De Vere; “I will go on, for since you have been gazing on de ship, de current have change, and we once more get nearer home.”
An hour went slowly by. Both the doctor and Rory were gazing at the far-off mountain, Hekla, that lay to the south and east, though distant many miles. The vast hill looked a king among the other mountains; a king, but a dead king, being still and quiet in the sunshine, enrobed in a shroud of snow.
Sandy was doubly engaged – he was talking musingly, and aloud; but at the same time he was doing ample justice to the venison pie that lay so confidingly on his knee, for Sandy was a bit of a philosopher in his own quiet way.
“Mount Hekla,” he was saying; “is it any wonder that these Norsemen, these superstitious sons of the ancient Vikings, look upon it as the entrance-gate to the terrible abode of fire and brimstone, gloom and woe, where are confined the souls of the unhappy dead? Hekla, round thy snow-capped summit the thunders never cease to roll – ”
“Hark,” said Rory, holding up his hand; “talk about thunder, list to that.”
Both leant over the car and looked earthwards. What could it mean, that low, deep, long-continued thunderpeal? Was a storm raging beneath them? Yes, but not of the kind they at first imagined. For see, from where yonder hill starts abruptly from the glen, rise immense clouds of silvery white, and roll slowly adown the valley. The balloon hangs suspended right above the great geyser, which is now in full eruption.
“It is as I thought,” said De Vere; “let us descend a little way;” and he opened the valve as he spoke.
The balloon made a downward rush as he did so, as if she meant to plunge herself and all her occupants into the very midst of the boiling cauldron. The steam from the geyser had almost reached their feet; the car thrilled beneath them, while the never-ceasing thunder pealed louder and louder.
“My conscience!” roared honest Sandy, losing all control over himself; “we’ll be boiled alive like so many partans!”
(Partans: Scottish, crabs.)
De Vere coolly threw overboard a bag or two of sand, and the balloon mounted again like a skylark. And not too soon either, for, awful, to relate, in his sudden terror Sandy had made a grab at the valve-rope, as if to check her downward speed. Had not Rory speedily pulled him back, the consequences would have been too dreadful to think of.
De Vere only laughed; but he held up one finger by way of admonishing the doctor as he said, “Neever catch hold of de reins ven anoder man is driving.”
“But,” said Rory, “didn’t you go a trifle too near that time, Mister de Vere?”
“A leetle,” said the Frenchman, coolly. “It was noding.”
“Ach! sure no,” says Rory; “it was nothing at all; and yet, Mister de Vere, it isn’t the pleasantest thing in the world to imagine yourself being played at pitch and toss with on the top of a mighty geyser, for all the world like a nut-gall on the top of a twopenny fountain!”
Sandy resumed the dissection of his venison pie. He would have a long entry for his diary to-night, he thought.
Luck does not always attend the aeronaut, albeit fortune favours the brave, and the current of air that was carrying the balloonists so merrily back to Reikjavik, ceased entirely when they were still within ten miles of that quaint wee place. It was determined, therefore, to make a descent. Happily, they were over a glen. Close by the sea and around the bay were many small farms, and so adroitly did De Vere manage to attach an anchor to the roof of an old barn, that descent was easy in the extreme.
Perhaps the happiest man in the universe at the moment Sandy McFlail’s feet touched mother earth again was Sandy himself. “Man!” he cried to Rory, rubbing his hands and laughing with glee, “I thought gettin’ out meant a broken leg at the vera least, and I haven’t even bled my nose.”
There was some commotion, I can tell you, among the feathered inmates of the barnyard when the balloonists popped down among them; as for the farm folks, they had shut themselves up in the dwelling-house. The geese were particularly noisy. Geese, reader, always remind me of those people we call sceptics: they are sure to gabble their loudest at things they can’t understand.
But convinced at last that the aeronauts were neither evil spirits nor inhabitants of the moon, the good farmer made them heartily welcome at his fireside, and assisted them to pack, so that, by the aid of men and ponies, they found themselves late that evening safely on board the Arrandoon; and right glad were their comrades to see them again, you may be sure, and to listen to a narration by Rory of all their adventures, interlarded by Sandy’s queer, dry remarks, which only served to render it all the more funny.
But before they sat down to the ample supper that Peter had prepared for them, Rory reported to the captain his great discovery.
McBain’s eyes sparkled like live coals as he heard of it, but he said little. He sent quietly for the engineer and the mate. “How soon,” he asked the former, “can you get up steam?”
“In an hour, sir – easy.”
“That will do,” said the captain. “Mr Stevenson, when will the moon rise?”
“She is rising now, sir.”
“All right, Mr Stevenson. Have all ready to weigh anchor in two hours’ time.”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
The engineer still lingered. “I could get up steam in twenty minutes,” he said; “those American hams, sir – ”
“Oh, bother the hams?” said the captain, laughing. “No, no; we may be glad of those yet when frozen in at the Pole. Bear-and-ham pie, engineer; how will that eat, eh?” and he bowed him kindly out.
By two bells in the middle watch the good ship Arrandoon was off the needle rocks of the Portland Huck. They stood up out of the water like tall sheeted ghosts, with the moonlight and starlight shimmering from their shoulders. The sea was calm, with only a gentle heave on it; and there were but a few snowy clouds in the sky skirting the southern horizon, so the vessel ploughed along as beautifully as any sailor could wish, with a steady, contented throb of engine and gride of screw, leaving in her wake a long silvery line for the moonbeams to dance in. Save the noise of the ship’s working there was not another sound to be heard, only occasionally a gull would float past overhead emitting a strange and mournful cry. What makes the sea-birds, I have wondered, sometimes leave the rocks at the midnight hour, and go skimming alone through the darkling air, emitting that weird and plaintive wail of theirs? It is a wail that goes directly to one’s heart, and you cannot help thinking they must be bereaved ones mourning for their dead.
Our heroes walked long on deck that night, talking quietly, as became the hour, of the prospects of their having a brush with the pirate. But they got weary at last, and turned in. Next morning they found the decks wet and slippery, more clouds in the sky, a fair beam wind blowing, and a trifle of canvas displayed.
After breakfast McBain called all hands aft. In calm, dispassionate language he told them the story of the poor girl who had risked her life on their account, of her murdered brother and captive father, and of the pirate he was about to try to find and capture. Then he paused; and as he did so every one of the crew turned eyes on Ted Wilson, who strode forward.
“Captain,” said Ted, firmly, “we didn’t sign articles to fight, did we, mates?”
“No,” from all hands.
“But,” continued Ted, “for such a captain as you be, and in such a cause, we will fight, every man Jack of us, as long as the saucy Arrandoon has a timber above the water. Am I right, mates?”
A ringing cheer was all the reply, and Ted retired.
Now, reader, were I a landsman novelist I would very likely here make my captain give the orders to “splice the main-brace,” but I’m a sailor, and I tell you this, boys, that British seamen never yet needed Dutch courage to make them do their duty.
Captain McBain only waved a hand and said, “Pipe down.”
An hour afterwards the crow’s-nest was rigged and hoisted at the main-truck, and either the mate or the captain was in it off and on the whole day. But no pirate appeared that day nor the next. In the evening, however, some fishermen boarded the Arrandoon, and reported having seen a large barque, answering to the description of the suspected craft, that same morning lying at anchor off Suddersoe, with boats passing to and fro ’twixt ship and shore.
“It is my precious opinion, captain,” said old Magnus Bolt, “that this craft does a bit o’ smuggling ’tween here and Shetland.”
“And it is my precious opinion, my dear Magnus,” said McBain, “that the rascal doesn’t care what he does so long as he lands the cash.”
The Arrandoon was now kept away for the island named by the honest fishermen. Not straight, however; McBain gave it a wide berth, and passed it far to the west, and held on his course until many miles to the southward. In the morning it was “bout ship” and stand away north and by east again. They sighted the island about seven bells in the morning watch. Suddenly there was a hail from the crow’s-nest. It was the captain’s voice.
“Come up here, Magnus Bolt, if your old bones will let you, and see what you shall see.”
Magnus sprang up the rigging somewhat after the fashion of an antiquated monkey, but with an agility no one would have given him credit for.
“It is she!” he shouted, after he had had a look through the long glass in towards the iron-bound shores of the islands; “it is she! it is she! Ha! ha! ha!” and he positively danced and chuckled with delight.
“You’ll fight? you’ll fight?” he gasped. “Rather,” replied McBain; “but we’ll run first. She shall fire the first shot, and, Magnus, you shall fire the second.”
Half an hour afterwards, when our heroes came on deck to have their morning look around, they stared at each other in blank astonishment. The Arrandoon looked as if she had just come out of a tornado and had been dreadfully handled. The foretop-gallant mast was down, the jibboom inboard, the screw was hoisted up, the funnel itself had been unshipped and was lashed to the deck, and the flag was flying at half-mast, as if the vessel were in distress, or had death on board.
Now let me, with one touch of the fairy wand the storyteller wields, waft my readers on board the pirate herself. Fear not, for we will stay there but a brief space of time indeed. The tall and by no means unprepossessing form of the captain, armed cap-à-pie, is leaning against the rudder-wheel, one spoke of which he holds. His mate is by his side, glass in hand, examining the Arrandoon, now only a few miles off.
“Ha! ha!” says the latter; “it is the same big craft we tried to strand; and she’s had dirty weather, too – foretop-gallant mast and jibboom both gone. She is flying a signal of distress.”
“Distress? Eh? Ha! ha! ha?” laughed the pirate. “Isn’t it funny? She’ll have more of it; won’t she, matie mine?”
The mate laughed and commenced to sing —
“‘Won’t you walk into my parlour?’
Said the spider to the fly?”
“She’s evidently a whaler, crow’s-nest and all,” he said.
“Well,” said the captain, “we’ll w(h)ale her;” and he laughed at his own stupid joke.
“I say there, old lantern-jaws,” he bawled down the companion.
“I reckon,” said a Yankee voice, “you alludes to this child.”
“I do,” cried the captain; “and look ye here. We are going to fight and so forth. If we’re like to be bested, scupper the old man at once. D’ye hear?”
“Well, I guess I ain’t deaf.”
“Very well, then. Obey, or a short shrift yours will be.”
“Why, captain,” said the mate, “she knows us. She has put about, and is bearing away to the nor’-nor’-west.”
“Then hands up-anchor,” cried his superior. “Crowd all sail; she can’t escape us in her crippled condition.”
“Ah! captain,” the mate remarked, “had you taken my advice and given that pretty but sly minx the sack, ere she gave you the slip, that whaler would have been ours before now.”
“Silence,” roared the captain. “On that subject I will not hear a word. She shall be mine yet – or her father dies.”
With the exception of the few sentences bawled down the companion, all this was said in Danish, and my translation is a free one.
And so the chase commenced, and seawards before the pirate, in an apparently crippled condition, staggered the Arrandoon.
“How far do you intend to bring her out?” asked Allan.
“Ten miles clear of these islands, anyhow,” replied McBain, “then she won’t be able to play any pranks with us. Boys,” continued McBain, a few minutes afterwards, “I’m going to write letters – home.”
There was nothing very unusual in the tone of his voice as he spoke these words, but there was a meaning in them, nevertheless, that was perfectly understood by our young heroes. They were not long, then, before they were each and all of them seated by the saloon table, inditing, it might or might not be, the last communications to the loved ones at home they ever would pen. They were performing a duty – a sad one, perhaps, but still a duty; they were about to fight in a good cause, doubtless, but the result of the battle was uncertain. The Maelsturm, for that was the name of the pirate, was better – or rather, I should say, more copiously – manned than the Arrandoon, and though not so large a ship, she had more guns; her crew too fought with halters round their necks, and would therefore doubtless fight to the bitter end. The only advantage – and it was a great one – possessed by the Arrandoon was steam power. Hours went by, and the chase was still kept up. It was six bells in the forenoon watch, and the Maelsturm was hardly a mile astern. Our men had already had dinner, and were all in readiness – waiting, when, borne towards them over the wind-rippled waters from the pirate ship, came the quick, sharp rattle of a kettledrum. One roll, two rolls, three.
“At last,” said McBain, “they are beating to quarters.”
A puff of smoke from the bow of the pirate, the roar of a gun, and almost immediately after a round shot ricocheted past the quarter of the Arrandoon.
The battle was begun.
Chapter Ten.
“Down with the Red Flag and up with the Black!” – Victory – An Old Acquaintance – Hie, for the North
If the crew of the Arrandoon needed any stimulus to fight the pirate, beyond the short speech that their captain had made them, it certainly was given them when the order was issued on board the latter craft, “Down with the red flag and up with the black!” and the broad, white-crossed ensign of merchant Denmark gave place to the hideous skull and cross-bones flown by sea marauders of all nations. She had rounded, too, in order to fire her broadside guns, or this would hardly have been visible. Perhaps the pirates imagined it would strike sudden fear into the hearts of those they had elected to consider their foes. Hatred and loathing it certainly inspired, but as to fear – well, in the matter of scaring, British sailors are perhaps the most unsatisfactory class of beings in the world.
For the next quarter of an hour the doings on board the Arrandoon, as seen from the pirate’s poop, must have considerably astonished – not to say puzzled – the officers of that ship, for in that short space of time what had appeared to be a sadly disabled vessel in distress, had hoisted a funnel, lowered a screw, and, while sail was being taken in, moved slowly away beyond reach of her guns. Not for long was she gone, however. She rounded almost on her own length; then, bows on, back she came, black and grim, athirst for vengeance. But the pirate was no coward, and broadside after broadside was poured into the advancing ship, without eliciting a single shot save one.
This was the shot – the second shot – that McBain had promised Magnus. It went roaring through the air, crashed through the Maelsturm’s bulwarks midships, and smashed a boat to flinders.
Magnus Bolt, or “Green,” as he was better known, old as he was, was by far the best shot in the ship. He and Mitchell, the mate, a man of eagle eye and firm of nerve, were the gunners proper, and fired every gun in the fight that followed the second shot. If it were a starboard broadside they were there; if a port, they but crossed the deck to take deadly aim and fire it.
“Remember, gunners,” cried McBain, “we’ve got to take that ship, and not to sink her; so waste not a shot between wind and water?”
On came the vessels, bow to bow, as arrow might meet arrow, and when within two hundred yards of each other, the Maelsturm heading north and west, the Arrandoon going full speed south and east, the pirate delivered her broadside, and immediately luffed up and commenced firing with her bow guns. She could get no nearer the wind, however. To go on the other tack would be but to hasten the inevitable.
“Hard a port! Ease her a little! Steady as you go!” were the orders from the quarter-deck of the Arrandoon. “Small-arm men to fire wherever head or hand is visible.”
Now the Arrandoon delivers her broadside as she again comes parallel with the Maelsturm, whose sails are all a-shiver. This just by way of confusing her a little. There is worse to come, for the order is now given to double-shot the port Dalgrens with canister. Away steams the Arrandoon, and round goes the Maelsturm. Ah! well he knows what the foe intends, but he will try to outmanoeuvre her if he can. But see! the Arrandoon is round again; there will be no escaping her this time. Fire your bow guns, Mr Pirate; fire your broadside, you cannot elicit a reply.
“Sta’board!” cries the captain; “starboard?” he signals, with his calm, uplifted arm. “Starboard still! steady now!” Then, in a voice of thunder, as they rounded the port quarter of the pirate, and, in spite of all good handling, got momentarily broadside on to her stem, “Stand to your guns —Fire!”
When the Arrandoon forged ahead clear of the smoke, it was evident from the confusion on board the Maelsturm, and the dishevelment of running and standing rigging, that the havoc on her decks must have been terrible. She was not beaten, though, as a gun from her broadside soon told.
“We’ll end this,” said the captain to Rory, by his side, who had constituted himself clerk, and was coolly taking notes in the very thick of the fight, while shot roared through the ship’s rigging and sides, men fell on all hands, and splinters filled the air. “We’ll end it in the good old fashion, Rory. Stand by to grapple with ice-anchors! Prepare to board!” Now Allan and Ralph, who had been below assisting the surgeon, heard that word of command, and, just as the sides of the two ships had grated together, after firing their last broadsides, they were both, sword in hand, by their captain’s side.
McBain and our heroes were the very first to leap on to the blood-slippery decks of the pirate. The crew of that doomed ship fought for a time like furies – for a time, but only for a time. In less than five minutes every pirate on board was either disarmed or driven below, and the Maelsturm was the prize of the gallant Arrandoon, and her captain himself lay bound on the quarter-deck.
But the commander of this pirate ship was the very last man on board of her to yield. Even when the battle was virtually ended, as fiercely as a lion at bay he fought on his own quarter-deck, McBain himself being his antagonist. The latter could have shot him down had he been so minded, but he was not the man to take a mean advantage of a foe. The pirate was taller than McBain, but not so well built nor so muscular. They were thus pretty well matched, and as they fought, round and round the quarter-deck, a more beautiful display of swordsmanship was perhaps never witnessed. Once the pirate tripped and fell, McBain lowered his weapon until he had regained his feet, then swords clashed again and sparks flew. But see, the captain of the Arrandoon clasps his claymore double-handed; he uses it hatchet fashion almost. He looks in his brawny might as if he could fell trees. The pirate cannot withstand the shock of the terrible onslaught, but he makes up in agility what he lacks in strength. He is borne backward and backward round the companion, McBain “showering his blows like wintry rain;” and now at last victory is his, the pirate’s sword flies into flinders, our captain drops his claymore and springs empty-handed on his adversary, and next moment dashes him to the deck, where he lies stunned and bleeding, and before he can recover consciousness he is bound and helpless.
Ralph, Allan, and Rory, none of whom, as providence so willed it, are wounded, and who had been silent spectators of the duel, now crowd around their captain, and shake his willing hand.
“Heaven,” says McBain, “has given the enemy into our hands, boys, but there is now much to be done. Let us buckle to it without a moment’s delay. The wounded are to be seen to, both our own and the pirate’s, the decks cleared, and everything made shipshape, and, if all goes well, we’ll anchor with our prize to-morrow at Reikjavik.”
“And the clergyman, captain, the clergyman, the poor girl’s father?” exclaimed Rory.
“Ay, ay, boy Rory,” said McBain; “he is doubtless on the vessel. We will proceed at once to search for him.”
If fiends ever laugh, reader, it must be with some such sound as that which now proceeded from the larynx of the pirate captain; if fiends ever smile, it must be with the same sardonic expression that now spread itself over his features. All eyes were instantly turned towards him. He had raised himself to the sitting position.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he chuckled, while, manacled though his wrists were, he drew his right forefinger rapidly across his throat, uttering, as he did so, these words, “Your padre; ha! ha! dead – dead – dead.”
His listeners were horrified. What McBain’s reply would have been none can say. It was not needed, for at that very moment, ere the exultant grin had vanished from the wretch’s face, there sprang on deck from the companion a figure, tall and gaunt, clad from top to toe in skins. He knelt on the deck in front of the pirate, the better to confront him.
With forefinger raised, “he held him with his glittering eye,” while he addressed him as follows:
“Look here, Mister Pirate, I was going to use strong language, but I won’t, though I guess and calculate mild words are wasted on sich as you. The parson ain’t dead; ne’er a hair on his reverend head. Ye thought I’d scupper him, didn’t you, soon’s the ship was taken? Ye thought this child was your slave, didn’t ye? Ha! ha! though, he has rounded on ye at last, and if that bit of black rag weren’t enough to hang you and your wretched crew of cutthroats, here in front o’ ye kneels one witness o’ your dirty deeds, and the other will be on deck in a minute in the person o’ the parson you thought dead. How d’ye like it, eh?” and the speaker once more stood erect, and confronted our heroes.
“Seth!” they ejaculated, in one voice.
“Seth! by all that is marvellous!” said McBain, clutching the old man by the right hand, while Rory seized his left, and Allan and Ralph got hold of an arm each.
“Ah! gentlemen,” said honest Seth – and there was positively a tear in his eye as he spoke – “it’s on occasions like these that one wishes he had four hands, – a hand for every friend. Yes, I reckon it is Seth himself, and nary a one else. You may well say wonders will never cease. You may well ask me how on earth I came here. It war Providence, gentlemen, and nuthin’ else, that I knows on. It war Providence sent that cut-throat skipper to the land where you left me on the Snowbird, though I didn’t think so at the time, when they burned and pillaged my hut and killed poor old Plunkett, nor when they carried me a prisoner on board the Maelsturm. They meant to scupper old Seth. They did talk o’ bilin’ his old bones in whale oil, but they soon found out he could heal a hole in a hide as well as make one, and so, gentlemen, I’ve been surgeon-in-chief to this craft for nine months and over. Yes, it war Providence and nuthin’ else, and I knew it war as soon as I saw your ship heave in sight, the day they guessed they’d wreck ye. The parson’s daughter, poor little Dunette, war on board then. I sent her to save ye; and when I heard your voice, Captain McBain, on the reef, I felt sure it war Providence then, and I kind o’ prayed in my rough way that He might spare ye. Shake hands, gentlemen, again. Bother these old eyes o’ mine; they will keep watering.”
And Seth drew his sleeve rapidly across his face as he spoke.
Rory was a proud – boy, ahem! well, man, then, if you will have it so, when that same afternoon he was put on board the Maelsturm, as captain of her, with a picked crew from the Arrandoon, and with orders to make all sail for Reikjavik. McBain’s last words to him were these, —
“Keep your weather eye lifting, Captain Roderick Elphinston. Clap two sentries on those ruffianly prisoners of yours, and let your men sleep with their cutlasses by their sides and their revolvers under their heads.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” said Rory.
Rory allowed his crew to sleep, but he himself paced the deck all the livelong night. Occasionally he could see the lights of the Arrandoon far on ahead; but towards morning the weather got thick and somewhat squally, and at daylight the Maelsturm seemed alone on the ocean. Sail was taken in, but the ship kept her course, and just in the even-glome Rory ran into the Bay of Reikjavik, and dropped anchor, and shortly after a boat came off from the Arrandoon with both Allan and Ralph in it, to congratulate the boy-captain on the success of his, first voyage as skipper-commandant.
Next day both the pirate vessel and her captor were show-ships for the people – all the élite and beauty of Reikjavik crowded off from the shore in dozens to see them. The dilapidated condition of the Maelsturm, her broken bulwarks, rent rigging, and shivered spars, showed how fierce the fight had been. Nor were evidences of the struggle wanting on board the Arrandoon, albeit the men had been hard at work all the day making good repairs.
