With The Flag In The Channel. Barnes James
on deck.
Although the wind was blowing very fresh the fog and mist were as thick as ever, and the frigate had disappeared. But from astern a voice shouted through a trumpet:
“Aboard the brig. Mr. Holden there!”
The young officer replied to the hail and the voice went on. “You will stand by, and if necessary we’ll send a boat on board of you.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the lieutenant.
Then he turned and looked at the crew, who were standing together in the port gangway.
Captain Conyngham was about to speak to him when a man stepped forward. He wore irons on his wrists, and yet attempted to make an awkward salute.
“A word, sir,” he said. “This is a Yankee privateersman, belonging to Yankee traitors and bound to Holland to carry back powder and supplies. Me and me mate here were put on board of her with orders to inform on her to the first British officer who should come on board of us.”
The young lieutenant looked perplexed. Captain Conyngham still smiled.
“A good yarn, Higgins. Sure, you’ve got the imagination of a ballad-monger, but it won’t do, my lad. There’s a good rope’s-end and worse perhaps waiting for you and your mate, and you may make the best of it.”
The English lieutenant, still mystified, looked from the seaman to the captain, and just then McCarthy, who was manacled also, stepped out.
“It’s the truth, sir, you’ve been told,” he said. “I come from the Leonidas. Captain Chisholm put twenty of us ashore in New York under orders to work our way into American vessels. He has the list, sir. We were to get forty pounds apiece, and our discharges.”
“By the powers, that story will stand proving, my lad,” rejoined Captain Conyngham quietly. “And now, Mr. Holden – if I understand that to be your name, sir,” he added politely – “we’ll start for Portsmouth. The course should be, unless I miss my reckoning, south by west half west.”
Before the still mystified lieutenant could say a word, Conyngham began to give hurried orders, and the crew of Americans and Englishmen jumped to obey them.
The two prisoners, protesting loudly and mocked at by their companions, were again sent below, their irons still on their wrists.
Conyngham and the lieutenant stood side by side on the quarter-deck. The Britisher was a very young man, and perhaps inexperienced. At all events, he seemed uncertain now what course of action to take. Conyngham’s next words, however, seemed to reassure him, for they evidently spoke his wishes.
“We’ll run close to the frigate, Mr. Holden, and you can tell your captain what you’ve done,” said Conyngham quietly. “I’ll be glad to look into Portsmouth myself, for I have some friends there, and a cargo of sand won’t spoil for a few days’ longer voyage.”
In a few minutes the fog-blurred form of the frigate could be made out now on the port hand. She was hove to, her foresail rippling and fluttering in the freshening breeze, her mainsail against the mast, and her crew standing by the tacks and sheets.
“Pray the Lord that the fog holds four hours longer,” muttered Captain Conyngham to himself.
Mr. Holden hailed the frigate through the trumpet.
“On board the Minerva,” he shouted. “We’re going into Portsmouth, sir.”
“Very good,” was the reply, “wait there for us.”
“And now, Mr. Holden,” spoke Conyngham quietly, “will you take command of the brig, or shall I continue?”
The lieutenant hesitated. Before he could answer Captain Conyngham continued:
“It’s a straight run, sir, and with this wind she’d make it with her helm lashed; and now if you’ll allow me, I should propose that we’d go below and have some breakfast. There’s one thing this little craft can boast, and that’s a famous Virginia cook. Mr. Jarvis,” he added, “see that the men are fed and send Socrates to me in a few minutes. You’ll hold the same course, sir, until we return on deck.”
The mate saluted, and Captain Conyngham and his guest went down to the cabin.
Five minutes later the negro cook knocked at the cabin door and was bidden to enter. There at the table sat Captain Conyngham, and in the big chair beside him sat the lieutenant.
The negro’s eyes opened in astonishment, for the Englishman was tied fast to the seat, and a gag made of the captain’s handkerchief was strapped across his mouth!
Captain Conyngham was breathing as if from some hard exertion. The lieutenant’s face and eyes were suffused with angry red.
“Now, Socrates,” said Conyngham slowly, “you will cook us the very best breakfast that you can, and serve it here in the cabin in half an hour. But, in the meantime, take a message to Mr. Jarvis on deck, and hand him this quietly. There are ten Britishers with us and we still number thirteen. Tell the boatswain, without any one seeing you, what you have seen here in the cabin. Attract no suspicion, and try whether you can live up to your name. Now go forward quietly.”
He handed a pistol to the negro, who slipped it under his apron and went up on deck.
The English sailors did not seem to be in the least suspicious, and the Americans fell in readily with the apparent position of affairs. But as one after another was called to the galley on some pretext, they soon were cognizant of the captain’s plot.
The English sailors had discarded their cutlasses, and were grouped with the others about the mess-kits that had been brought up on deck, when suddenly the captain appeared alone from the cabin. Mr. Jarvis joined him, and both stepped quickly forward toward the forecastle. The men, seeing the two officers approach, arose to their feet. The English sailors glanced suspiciously about them, and a glance was enough to convince them that they were trapped. At the elbow of each man stood one of their whilom hosts. A few of the Americans were armed with pistols, and the negro cook with a big carving-knife stood over the pile of cutlasses that they had left on the deck by the main fife-rail.
“Now, men,” said Conyngham quietly, “we want no cutting, slashing, or shooting, and you’re our prisoners. But don’t be afraid,” he added, as he saw a look of fear come into the Englishmen’s eyes. “We are no pirates. You’ll get to Portsmouth all right, where you can join your ship. You’ll have a good joke to tell them of the Yankee-Irish trick that was played on you. Take the prisoners below, Mr. Corkin,” he continued, addressing the boatswain. “Put them in the hold and mount a guard over them. – And now, Socrates,” he added, turning to the grinning cook, “we’ll have our breakfast in the cabin.”
The English lieutenant, released from his bonds, sat at first in sulky silence and would not even touch a bit of the savory rasher that Socrates placed before him. When he went on deck later at Captain Conyngham’s invitation he looked off to the eastward. The Minerva, almost hull down, was holding a course toward the French coast. At the masthead of the Charming Peggy fluttered the English flag, and in the distance to the westward, plain above the horizon, rose the English shores.
“We’ll go in a little closer, Mr. Holden,” said Captain Conyngham, “and then we’ll part company, sir.”
He turned to the first mate.
“Mr. Jarvis,” he went on, “prepare to lower the cutter; put in a breaker of water, two bags of biscuit, and a bottle of port.”
After half an hour’s more sailing the brig was hove to and the crew, with Higgins and McCarthy now freed from their irons, pushed out from the brig’s side. In the stern sheets sat the lieutenant disconsolately.
He turned to watch the brig as she came about and headed off shore. At that moment down came the English flag and the Spanish took its place. And it was just at this minute that Captain Conyngham, looking aloft, spoke to his first mate.
“We’ll have a flag of our own soon,” he said, “and avast with this masquerading, say I.”
The crew, as if they had heard his words, suddenly