CHAPTER I.

TOM'S BAPTISM OF BLOOD.

"Set every inch of canvas To woo the favouring breeze. Oh, gaily goes the ship When the wind blows free!"--OLD SONG.

"Luff, lad, luff," said the skipper to Tom Bure, who was at the wheel. "We'll give them a race for it anyhow. They'll think none the less of us for that."

"See," he added, a minute after, but talking now to his mate. Tom was too busy to look about. "Yonder was a shot, it fell plump into our wake a quarter knot astern. Blaze away, Frenchie, but we're not overhauled yet, and not a herring o' mine crosses your throat for the next two hours anyhow.

"Ah! mate, they don't know the life that's in the _Yarmouth Belle_ when she gets a wind on the quarter. And the more it blows the faster she goes. Another shot! Ah! Frenchie, you haven't run us aboard yet even. Keep her as she goes, Tom, lad, keep her as she goes."

The skipper and his mate might have been taken for brothers, so much alike were they in face and build. Short, squat almost; men about forty years of age, with faces as rough as a crab shell, and not unlike to a crab in colour when that dainty has been boiled; noses that seemed to have sunk considerably by the pressure of gales of wind innumerable; eyes that were mere slits from the same cause; dressed in sea-boots and blue sweaters, with black sou'-westers. They carried their hands deep in their trousers' pockets when not handling anything; kept them stowed away, as it were, till wanted; and they chewed tobacco, as a rule, walking down to leeward when they wanted to expectorate, which they did apparently for the benefit of the sharks.

The men belonging to this schooner were five in number, and hardy-looking fellows every one of them, though not so tough as mate and master. They wore blue night-caps, and were naked as to feet, in other respects they were dressed like their superiors.

There was little or no lording it over the men displayed by the senior officers of the _Yarmouth Belle_, Equality and fraternity was displayed fore and aft. Even the skipper himself would be seen forward at times, talking and laughing and yarning with the forecastle hands, and any one of these would take a pull at sheet or brace without an order from the officer on duty, if he thought the sails needed trimming.

But both master and mate looked pleasant enough, and good-natured too, for men like these, who have been, literally speaking, reared upon the waves, are not easily put out. At the present moment, for instance, they were running away from a French cruiser, and it did seem too that they were likely to win the race.

The stage of action was the Mediterranean sea, or blue Levant, as novelists often call it. It was blue as blue could be to-day, as blue as the sky above it, albeit there was a white horse visible here and there on its surface, for a stiff but steady breeze was blowing, and if it only held, Mr. Hughes, the skipper, felt sure he could show that Frenchman a clean pair of heels.

"Wo! wo!" he cried presently, as a shot fell closer astern than was agreeable.

"I'd let her pay off a trifle, George," said the mate.

"Have it your own way, Tim, only don't let us get hulled."

"For'ard there!" he shouted. "Have the jollyboat all ready. Now, Tim, let her rip. Sandie, run aft here and haul up the British Jack. The red rag that makes the Frenchman as mad's a bull. See, I knew it would, and yonder comes another shot. Short this time though. Short, you dirty old frog-eating Moosoors. Mate, I'll have a tot o' rum. Don't see why we shouldn't splice the main brace, eh?"

"Steward!" cried Tim, "fill black-jack, and bring him up here."

The steward, in shirt and trousers, and a pair of slippers down at the heels, soon appeared, with a cup in one hand and a black iron measure with rum in it in the other. These were days of can-tossing.

"Here's confusion to the French!" cried the skipper.

Then he tossed his can.

The mate followed suit.

"No good offerin' you, younker, any, I daresay," he said, looking at Tom.

"Not to-day, thanks."

"Keep her full then, Tom. Keep your eyes aloft, lad. Steward, take a pull yourself, then trot for'ard with black-jack."

* * * * *

In order to understand how Tom Bure happens to be down here in the blue Levant, taking his trick at the wheel on board the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_, it will be necessary to hark back a month or two in our story, but I promise you that we shall soon make up our leeway.

* * * * *

After poor Uncle Bob was laid in his quiet grave, then, Tom received several letters from Mr. Merryweather, the last of which was very brief. He (Mr. Merryweather) was appointed to a ship at Chatham which was fitting out for sea, the letter explained, and as soon as possible he meant to have an interview with no less a personage than Lord Hood himself, with whom he had served out in America. Tom might rest assured that it was on his account wholly he was going to see the admiral, and he, Tom, might really hold himself in readiness to join a ship at any time.

Now, at this date, '93, history was moving on at a very rapid pace indeed.

Things had not gone over well with Horatio Nelson in '92. Hope itself seemed dead within him. His applications for service were utterly ignored by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

It was not very long, however, before Nelson had proof that the darkest hour of night is next the dawn, and that "_post nubila Phœbus_," after clouds come sunshine. He had still two good friends in high quarters, namely, Lord Hood and the Duke of Clarence. Both knew how good and enthusiastic an officer he was. Both knew that the cloud in the east would soon break. The French were, to use a slang but expressive adjective, "cockie." The French were insolent. They were already proved to be--so they themselves thought--the best soldiers in the world, and they thought also there would not be the slightest difficulty in proving their superiority to the British at sea.

They had already fired on British ships, and, with every desire to maintain the peace of the world, our Government saw there was nothing for it but fight.

Very much to his surprise, therefore, as well as intense delight, Nelson found himself appointed to the _Agamemnon_, a 64-gun ship of great excellence.

And so he sailed from England on the 27th of June, making one of the squadron of Lord Hood, whose ships were bound south, with a large convoy of merchantmen under their lee.

It was upon the 25th day of this very June that our bold young Tom Bure set out on a cruise of his own seeking. The _Fairy_, Ashley's yawl, was running round Hunstanton way, and Tom begged for a passage, or rather he asked for one. There was very little begging needed in it, for gruff old Ashley was as proud and fond of Tom as he was of any of his sons. So in a day or two--the _Fairy_ being delayed by wicked wee winds--Tom found himself on shore at Wells. His object was to see Captain Nelson, and beg him to take him with him even as a cabin-boy.

Alas! Nelson was gone. His father was there, however, and as Tom sat in a high-backed chair opposite the kind old parson, he was for fifteen minutes under a fire of good advice, the text of which was, "Stay at home, boy, and become a useful member of society. Don't go to the sea to become a target for French gunners, and to feed the fishes eventually." Of course the worthy parson fixed his sermon up in a more appropriate guise than this. And there sat Tom as quiet as a mute; but, in the interests of truth, I am bound to say that, like round shot which go clean through a wooden ship at close quarters without doing much harm, the rector's advice went in at one of Tom's ears and out at the other, making no impression whatever.

"Now, my dear boy," said old Mr. Nelson at last, "you have listened most attentively to what I have said, and I pray heaven you may benefit by it."

Tom Bure had hardly heard a word of it.

"Thank you," he said, "and now, sir, might I write to your son?"

"Down you sit, lad, right here at this desk, and scribble away. I'll forward your epistle in one of mine."

Here is Tom Bure's letter to Horatio Nelson:

"DEAR CAPTAIN NELSON,--This comes hoping you are well and fighting the french, O, sir, I want to fite the french too. My father was a galant offiser and fought the french and the americans and Spanish and all. So did you, sir. You, sir, wanted the admiralty to give you a cockle-boat if you could not go as captain, if I cannot go as a midshipman sir, I want to go as a cabin boy.

"Yours Respectably, "TOM BURE."

It must be confessed that this letter was not free from some errors, but then action and common-sense were more admired in these brave old times than grammar and orthography.

Old Mr. Nelson promised faithfully to send the letter, and having given the lad a good dinner and a little more good advice, Tom marched boldly and hopefully away to Hunstanton and met the Ashleys.

On the passage back the _Fairy_ ran into Yarmouth harbour, and Tom went with old Ashley on board a schooner to see a friend of his.

"As plucky a fellow as ever hauled a net," he explained to Tom before they crossed the plank. "Netted a bit o' money too. For five years now he's been running down the Levant wi' dried herrings, and comin' back wi' fruit. But what I tells him is this, 'You may do a thing in peace times ye can't in war.' Only George is as headstrong as a mule. And there he is. Ha, George, me and this younker was just talkin' about you. Here is a young sailor for you, if you like!"

"Can he do aught? A gent, ain't he?"

"Ay, a gent; but I brought him up, and, look see, he's going to be something yet. Tom Bure'll be a credit to me. He won't miss stays, you wager. But, George, I was just telling him what an old idget ye was."

"Oh, thank you!" said George, laughing. "I'm sure I'm obliged. Come below and have a tot of rum and bit o' baccy. Don't the _Yarmouth Belle_ look nice?"

"Ah! yes, slick and trim. I'd have no fear o' her and you, George, if 't weren't war time."

While these two men were talking, Tom Bure had a happy thought. Why shouldn't he sail with George--as Ashley called the skipper. Nelson went in a merchant ship. "Sir," he said, "will you take me for a cruise? I'll obey orders, and do all I can to help you sail the schooner."

George laughed in a rough but kindly way, and the three went below together, and it all ended by young Tom Bure becoming one of the crew, or say rather an apprentice, on board the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_.

Honest old Dan was much distressed when he heard that Tom had engaged himself, and poor Ruth, whom Tom always called sister, was inconsolable.

"However, it may be all for the best," said Dan. "He's been well brought up, though I say it, wife, and Providence can protect him."

"Besides," said Mr. Curtiss, "he must begin to see life some time, and the sooner the better, Dan, now-a-days."

Tom's things were gotten ready with all speed. Rough wearing every-day articles they were, warm and useful. Mrs. Brundell saw to their abundance and utility.

His outfit for the navy had already been bought and packed, and as Tom's chest was a good-sized one, Ruth proposed that he should take his uniform clothes in the bottom. "It may bring Tom luck, mother," she said. So this was agreed to.

On the evening before his departure, the Colmores being then at the hall, Tom launched his boat, and with Meg at the prow started off up the Broad to bid farewell to his Bertha.

Poor Bertha cried bitterly for a little while; but she brightened up considerably when Tom told her it was all to win honour and glory for her he was going to brave the dangers of the treacherous ocean. She put it to him very straight though.

"What will you bring me, Tom?" she said.

And there wasn't a thing in the world that Tom did not promise to bring home and lay at his love's feet, so it is no wonder she dried her eyes and laughed at last. Bertha indeed seemed at this early stage of her existence quite cut out for a sailor's bride.

"That girl, who fain would choose a mate Should ne'er in fondness fail her, May thank her lucky stars if fate Decree her to a sailor. He braves the storm, the battle's heat, The yellow boys to nail her, Diamonds--if diamonds she could eat, Would seek her honest sailor."

* * * * *

So away went Tom.

And the voyage had all along been a most pleasant one. In a few days' time the skipper of the _Yarmouth Belle_ had reckoned upon reaching the port of destination, selling off his cargo, and investing in another. But it seemed at present that it was not going to be all plain sailing with him.

Whizz! Another shot. Much nearer this time too. "That privateersman," said the skipper, "is a wonderful craft to fly. Well, it'll be a feather in her cap if she runs the _Yarmouth Belle_ aboard."

Whizz!

"I say, George, ain't it getting a trifle too hot?" said the mate.

When the next shot went ripping through the fore topsail, George turned his quid in his mouth, and nodded to his mate.

"I must admit, matie," he said, "it's getting a bit warmish. We've done all we could as Englishmen to maintain the honour and glory of the flag, now we'll haul her down."

The _Yarmouth Belle_ was now brought to, and ere long was boarded by an officer from the cruiser.

When he came on the quarter-deck he was in a terrible passion, and swore roundly in French.

But as no one except Tom Bure understood a word he said, it did not matter a deal.

Tom did all he could to pacify the French officer, by explaining that being Englishmen, they were obliged either to fight or retire. Being unable to fight they naturally ran away to save their cargo, just as they hoisted the British flag to save their honour.

"Where is that flag?" hissed the officer, striking his sword-scabbard on the deck. "Give me the rag."

Now Tom had the old Bure blood in him, and his face glowed with anger to hear his country's flag called a rag. He determined it should not be surrendered.

"Here is the flag, sir," he said. "Let me roll it up for you."

As he did so he deftly managed to tie within it two marline spikes, old-fashioned, heavy articles.

Then he coolly pitched the crimson bundle overboard.

"There, sir; a gentleman knows how to respect even the flag of an enemy. You are not one, and shall never finger flag of ours."

This, it must be confessed, was a bold as well as pretty speech for a lad of Tom's age. Those, however, were the days of bold speeches, and doughty deeds as well.

But dire were the results that followed.

The Frenchman drew his sword, and struck poor Tom Bure a terrible blow with the hilt.

Tom fell senseless to the deck.

Next moment the Frenchman lay beside him.

"Fair play, you cowardly frog-eater," the skipper had shouted, bringing his fist to bear full between the officer's eyes.

It was too late now to draw back.

"Overboard with the lot," shouted skipper Hughes.

As he spoke he tore the sword from the grasp of the fallen man, and the pistol from his belt.

The mate seized a capstan bar. The crew followed his example. A few pistol shots were fired, and cutlasses were drawn by the Frenchmen; but the attack had been all too quick and unexpected to be met. In less than a minute the crew of the boat were overpowered and disarmed, then pitched pell-mell overboard.

Those Norfolk sailors had fought like demons.

The foreyard was hauled forward, and away once more went the _Yarmouth Belle_, skimming over the water like a living thing.

By the time the cruiser had picked up her boat the schooner had secured such an offing that, as night was coming on, the baffled privateer was fain to give up pursuit and go off on another tack.

And this was Tom Bure's baptism of blood.

He certainly lost some, and there was an ugly gash on his brow; but he was soon sufficiently recovered to sit up and look about him.

The skipper had bound up his brow, and the steward was kneeling beside him, trying hard to get him to swallow a little three-water-grog.

Tom couldn't believe his eyes when he looked about him.

There was the _Yarmouth Belle_ once more under full sail, and there was the French officer sitting disconsolately under the lee rails, side by side with one of his own men, both with their legs in irons.

And now Tom showed his generosity by begging that both men should be placed _en parole_.

The skipper consented, and with his own hands Tom unlocked the irons and set them free.

"The English are von brave nationg," said the officer, and, much to Tom's astonishment, he was caught and kissed on both cheeks.

The Frenchmen, however, settled down very happily in their new quarters, and were as merry as merry could be.

After all, it was only the fortune of war.