CHAPTER I.

THE TELEGRAPHIC DESPATCH.

“All hands, pipe to muster!” shouted the boatswain of the Tritonia.

At the same moment the shrill whistle and the sharp cry sounded through the American Prince and the Josephine. The squadron was at anchor in Gibraltar Bay; and since seven bells in the first watch, the signal, “Assign rank,” had been displayed on the American Prince, the flag-ship of the fleet.

It was the first day of April. The merit marks of the students had been added since the last recitations, and the offices were to be given out at eight bells. The squadron had visited all the ports of the Spanish Peninsula, and several trips to the interior had been made. The fleet was to sail to Seville to witness the scenes of Holy Week; and this excursion was to finish the cruise, not only in the waters of Spain and Portugal, but in those of Europe. The vessels would then be homeward bound, but by the way of the “Isles of the Sea.”

There was no little excitement in all the vessels of the squadron. Though the students could keep their own reckoning tolerably well, so far as the literary pursuits were concerned, they were wholly in the dark in relation to the marks for seamanship, navigation, and conduct. Some had strong hopes and expectations, based upon their own earnest efforts; and these were seldom greatly disappointed, though their rank was sometimes not so high as they anticipated. But, as a rule, the whole matter was a great mystery, which it was not possible to find out.

Sometimes there would be very little change in the rank of the officers for several months; and then came a general turn-over of every thing. The rise from the steerage to the cabin was almost uniformly slow and regular, though sometimes a student jumped over the heads of the half-dozen who had stood next above him. This sudden elevation of an officer or seaman had a tendency to produce bad feeling among his rivals in the race for honors, for the boys continued to be human in spite of the discipline of the service.

Possibly the interest on the present occasion was intensified by the fact that the squadron was so soon to sail for home; and doubtless many of the students were thinking of the uniform in which they should be presented to their friends on their return to the American shores. On board of the Tritonia it was known among the closer observers of events, that several of the students had been putting forth extraordinary exertions; and this circumstance fully accounted for the unusual excitement of the day. Among them was Bark Lingall, who had attempted to run away, but had voluntarily returned. He appeared to be thoroughly reformed, and, from one of the most indifferent and vicious boys in the vessel, had become a model of propriety in all things, as well as a very diligent and faithful scholar.

There was a certain class of students in the steerage of the Tritonia, as there always is in any large company of boys, who affected to despise one who had turned away from his evil habits and associations, and reformed his life and character. Lingall had his trials with this class of students; but he was resolute in his purpose to continue in the good way. Under the influence of Raymond, who had inspired him with the desire to do his whole duty, he kept his temper under his persecutions; and in no instance was he provoked to subject himself to discipline by the jeers and taunts of the disaffected.

Another student in the Tritonia, who had not distinguished himself by any misconduct, though he had been an easy-going fellow, suddenly began to exert himself without any apparent stimulus for such action. He was a high-minded boy, but rather peculiar in his ways of thinking and doing. His name was Thomas Speers. He was twenty years old, though he did not show his years, and one might easily have mistaken him for sixteen.

For the reason that they were doing their best in seamanship and the studies, Bark Lingall and Tom Speers excited a great deal of remark, not to say feeling, among the students. Bark had one of the highest numbers in the vessel, which indicated that his rank was among the lowest. He had never done any work he could avoid doing since the first two or three months of his service in the vessel. He had been a conspirator against the discipline and even the safety of the schooner, and was considered a bad boy by the vice-principal in charge and the professors.

Tom Speers had no particular record. He was considered a good fellow by the students in general; and, though he was noted for his independence, he had never wilfully broken the rules of the vessel. He was a first-class seaman; and his ability as a student was discovered to be of the highest order as soon as he chose to exert himself.

While the boatswain of the Tritonia was still piping his call to muster through the vessel, a shore-boat approached the gangway. A man in the stern hailed the vessel; and Marline, the adult boatswain, went down on the accommodation steps to see what he wanted, for visitors were not admitted at this time.

“Is there a man by the name of Thomas Speers on board of this craft?” asked the man in the boat.

“We have a young man of that name on board,” replied Marline.

“Can I see him for a moment?”

“For a moment you can; but he will be wanted very soon.”

The boatswain returned to the deck, and, calling Speers, sent him to the gangway. As the student had no friends in Gibraltar, he wondered who could wish to see him. He hastened to the steps, and went down to the platform at the foot of them. Marline remained at the rail, to see that nothing improper passed between Speers and the man; but he was called away before the student had communicated with the boat.

“Telegraph despatch from San Roque,” said the messenger, handing the document to Speers.

“It can’t be for me,” protested the student, surprised that such a message should come to him. “I don’t know any one in San Roque.”

“It is directed to Thomas Speers, and there is the name of this vessel on it,” persisted the messenger, pointing to the address. “But it is not from San Roque the message comes: that is the nearest telegraph station.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Speers, turning the message over and over in his hand.

“I don’t know: you can tell by opening it.”

“I don’t want to open it, if it is not for me.”

“If your name is Thomas Speers, it is for you. I have done my errand, and I have nothing more to say about it,” added the man, as he shoved his boat off from the platform.

“All hands on deck!” shouted an officer at the gangway.

Speers put the message into his pocket. He seemed to have no curiosity in regard to its contents. He was more interested in the distribution of the offices on board of the Tritonia; but he did not believe the message was for him. He hastened back to the deck, and took his station in the waist.

He hoped his place would be on the quarter-deck for the new term. He had made a desperate struggle with all his studies, and he was not conscious that he had failed in any thing. Mr. Pelham, the vice-principal, took his position at the heel of the mainmast, with the list of officers and seamen in his hand. Most of the students looked very anxious, though a few of the “marines” affected to make fun of the occasion, and pretended that they did not care what positions fell to their lot.

The vice-principal made the usual introductory speech, pointing the moral the occasion suggested. The record for the last month indicated some very important changes; and he hoped they would cause no ill feeling either in the cabin or the steerage. The merit marks strictly represented the conduct and work of the students; and the result of the addition of the figures had caused as much surprise among the professors as it would among the young gentlemen.

Mr. Pelham then announced the name of Wainwright as captain. This officer had held the position for many months; and, as he was very popular on board, the announcement was received with hearty applause. Greenwood was first lieutenant again; and his name was well received by the ship’s company. Scott, who had been fourth lieutenant during the preceding month, came in as second; and, as the joker had always been a favorite, his promotion produced a very decided sensation.

“I congratulate you, Mr. Scott,” said the vice-principal, with a smile.

“Thank you, sir. For the good of the Tritonia, I am glad this thing has happened,” replied the joker.

“Modesty is a cardinal virtue,” added Mr. Pelham.

“I know it, sir; and that is the reason I am so heavily loaded with it,” returned Scott, making a face which caused a tremendous laugh on the quarter-deck.

If there was anybody that did not laugh, it was Alexander, who had formerly been first lieutenant; and his name was not yet called. But it came in next as third lieutenant; while O’Hara, the “Oyrish Oytalian,” was again the fourth lieutenant.

“No great change in that,” said Richards, the first master, who had been struggling for a lieutenant’s place for months.

“No; but that shows the changes are yet to be mentioned,” replied Blair, the fourth master, to whom the remark had been addressed. “It looks as though there was a chance for some of us to take a berth in the steerage. Perhaps you are the one to go down, Richards.”

“What makes you think so, Blair?” asked the first speaker anxiously.

“I don’t think so: I have no opinion at all about it. If there are to be great changes, some of us will have to go down,” added Blair.

So it proved; but not just as the fourth master had indicated. The vice-principal paused a long time before he read the next name; and the hearts of many beat violently as the moment came that might dash down all their hopes for the present.

“First master,” said the vice-principal at last, “Thomas Speers.”

The announcement was received in silence and in blank amazement. The students who had observed that Speers was making an effort thought it possible he might be coxswain of the captain’s gig, captain of the after-guard, or something of that sort; but they had not the slightest expectation that he would get into the cabin, to say nothing of his jumping over the heads of four masters who had been in the cabin for months. The experience of the past demonstrated that a fellow who once got into the cabin very seldom allowed himself to be shoved out of it. If he had the ability to get there, he had the ability to stay there. Besides, the constant presence of the professors had a tendency to stimulate him to do his best.

“Speers, I congratulate you on the great promotion you have won,” said Mr. Pelham, breaking in upon the silence into which the ship’s company had been surprised by the mention of the name of Speers in connection, with so high a position.

“I thank you, sir,” replied Tom Speers, bowing and blushing.

Then came the most tumultuous applause from the seamen in the waist. One of their own number had gone up; and, though they had no particular sympathy with Speers, his elevation indicated that one of the present officers would be reduced to the steerage. There were enough among them to rejoice at the fall of a superior; for it was quite impossible to repress entirely the spirit of envy and jealousy excited by the elevation of the few above the many.

This subject had early attracted the attention of Mr. Lowington, the principal of the academy squadron; and he had done all he could to moderate and expel the feeling among the students. But they were all human beings, subject to the infirmities of the flesh; and they could not be wholly different from the more mature actors on the stage of life. They were fully instructed and warned in regard to the effect of cherishing this vicious spirit; but that was all that could be done. The boys were to meet and encounter the same circumstances in the great world as on board of the vessels of the academy fleet; and they received all the preparation for the ordeal it was possible to give them.

“That proves that one of us will have to go down,” said Blair, while the seamen in the waist were applauding the promotion of Speers.

“I don’t believe in this thing,” added Richards, with no little excitement in his tones and manner. “Who ever heard of such a thing as a fellow in the steerage leaping over the heads of all the masters?”

“It is done; and it’s no use to talk about it,” continued Blair. “Speers’s marks give him that place, or he would not have it.”

“There is something wrong about it.”

“What can be wrong?”

“It looks as though the books of the professors had been doctored. Didn’t the vice-principal say it was as great a surprise to the faculty as to fellows?”

“That only shows that they have had their eyes open; and, if there was any thing wrong about the books, they would have discovered it.”

“It would have been easy enough for Speers to alter half a dozen figures on the book,” Richards insisted.

“I don’t believe Speers is a fellow of that sort,” Blair objected. “If he had done such a thing, the professors could see that the figures had been changed.”

“I don’t understand it; and I can’t explain it in any other way,” added Richards, shaking his head.

“Second master,” the vice-principal proceeded, “Henry Raymond. He is absent, but the principal instructs me to hold his position the same as last month.”

Raymond’s absence was explained, as it was in all the vessels of the fleet; and it was satisfactory to all except Ben Pardee and Lon Gibbs, of the “marines,” who had been engaged in an attempt to run away. The vice-principal glanced at his list again, and the students waited with intense interest for the name of the next officer.

“Third master,” said he; and there was another long pause. Blair and Richards were holding their breath in their anxiety to hear the next name, for there were only two chances more for the cabin.

“Third master,” repeated the vice-principal, “Barclay Lingall.”

If the name of Tom Speers had produced a sensation among the officers and crew, that of Bark Lingall made a greater one. Three months before, he had run away from the vessel with a fellow so bad that the latter was expelled; and on his return, though he came back of his own accord, having been reformed by the influence of Raymond while both were absent, his lost lessons could not be made up; and he was given the highest number in the vessel, which placed him below all the others. From that low position he had suddenly risen to be the third master of the Tritonia. The case seemed to be so singular, and so contrary to the past experience of the students, that the vice-principal deemed it necessary to explain it. He took the occasion to illustrate that almost any student who was thoroughly in earnest in his studies could obtain any position his ambition coveted. When he saw that Lingall was doing so well, he anticipated a high position for him, though not quite so high as he had attained.

“I am disgusted,” said Richards, when one more chance had slipped away from him. “I feel sure that the books have been doctored. Two fellows from the steerage have got into the cabin.”

“And we are about at the end of the rope. Either you or I must go down now, and perhaps both of us,” replied Blair, shrugging his shoulders.

“That’s so; but I don’t believe we are to be sent down by any sort of fair play,” growled Richards.

“There is no help for it. I don’t think I did as well last month as I should have done if I had supposed there was any danger of being shoved out of the cabin,” continued Blair frankly.

“I have no doubt I could have done better; but I believe now that I have done well enough to keep my place.”

“What are you going to do about it? get up a mutiny?”

“I feel like doing something about it.”

“Wait a minute before you do it,” laughed Blair. “You may be all right yet.”

“I can’t be any thing better than fourth master, and below Speers and Lingall.”

“Fourth master,” continued the vice-principal, when the excitement of the last announcement had in a measure subsided; and then he paused again, not to prolong the agony of the students, but to make sure that no mistake was made.

“We shall know all about it in another minute,” said Blair; “and you will learn whether or not you need go on with your mutiny.”

“I haven’t said any thing about a mutiny: you said that, Blair.”

“Mutinies don’t pay in this squadron: besides, we shall be homeward bound in a few days,” laughed Blair.

“Fourth master, Richards,” read the vice-principal from his list.

“There you are, Richards!” exclaimed Blair.

“And you are counted out,” added the new fourth master.

“I am; but I shall not cry about it. You are an officer, and I am a seaman now; and, if I conclude to get up a mutiny at your suggestion, I shall not say any thing to you about it.”

Blair shrugged his shoulders, and, making a merit of necessity, he stepped down from the quarter-deck into the waist. A few minutes later his name was read as one of the highest of the petty officers. There was not much consolation in this position, as he was turned out of the cabin.

The rest of the numbers were given out in the order of merit. As usual, there was considerable grumbling, while not a few were elated over the rank they had won. Before noon the officers put on their uniform, though two of them were absent.

Tom Speers in his frock-coat and cap was a good-looking officer. He was well received by the other occupants of the cabin,--possibly with the exception of Richards, who could not wholly forgive him for getting above him. Tom had quite forgotten the telegraphic despatch he had received, till he put on his uniform, and changed the contents of his pockets into those of the new dress.

He was not much interested in the document: his big promotion monopolized all his thoughts. He had no time to look at it; for, as soon as the rank was assigned in the squadron, the signal for sailing appeared on the American Prince. When the fleet was under way, the second part of the port-watch to which Tom Speers belonged was off duty, the first part being in charge of the vessel.

O’Hara, the fourth lieutenant, was his associate watch-officer. The Irish Italian had treated him very handsomely from the moment the rank of the new-comer into the cabin was announced. They were to spend days and nights together in charge of the deck, and it was pleasant to be on good terms with each other. They had a long talk together as soon as the Tritonia was clear of the Bay of Gibraltar.

While they were thus engaged, Speers took from his pocket the telegraph despatch, which got into his hand by accident rather than by design. He had been too much interested in the conversation with O’Hara to think of it before. He took it from his pocket that he might not forget it again, and not with the intention of opening it in the presence of his companion; but it attracted the attention of the fourth lieutenant.

“What have you there, Speers?” asked O’Hara. “A letter from home? We have had no mail in the ship for a fortnight.”

“No: it is not a letter,” replied Tom Speers very indifferently.

“Not a letter? isn’t it in an envelope?” demanded O’Hara, more interested in the matter than the owner of the document.

“It is a telegraph despatch, which was brought to me just as all hands were piped to muster this morning.”

“I hope none of your friends are sick or dead,” added the lieutenant, with a show of sympathy.

“I have no near friends to die or be sick.”

“Who sends you the despatch, then?”

“I don’t know: I haven’t opened it yet.”

“You haven’t? What is the telegraph for but to hurry up things? and you haven’t opened the envelope yet!” exclaimed the impulsive young Irishman.

“I will open it now,” said Tom, as he broke the seal.

“Faix, you are mighty cool about it,” laughed O’Hara. “Where is it from?”

“From London. I will read it to you, O’Hara, if you will keep it to yourself.”

“Oh, no! I don’t ask to hear what’s in it.”

“But I want you to hear it.”

“Then I will keep your secret.”

“‘Uncle dead; letters sent: come to London quick.

RODWOOD.’”

This was the despatch.