Jack Buntline Part 5

"Never mind," he sung out; "we must take the enemy, and then think about our hurts."

He repeated but the sentiments of his gallant captain, who, twice wounded, fought on till a shot brought him a third time to the deck.

"See, see, we have not fought in vain," he shouted, as at the same moment the enemy's colours were struck. The victory was won, though hardly won, and at length the _Flora_ and her prize entered Plymouth Sound. The war was over, the last shot had been fired, peace, a truly glorious peace, was proclaimed. His s.h.i.+p was paid off, and Jack found himself, for the first time in his life, free and on sh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Jack's pockets were full of prize money. It burnt them sadly. What should he do with it? He bethought him that, before it was all gone, he would go down to his native village. He remembered the quiet churchyard, with its yew trees, its white headstones, and its lowly green mounds, where lay the only being he had ever learned to love--his mother. He fancied that he should meet some old friends, some one who knew her and him in his childhood. So the gallant hardy sailor set off, with his bundle at the end of a stout stick over his shoulder, and his pockets amply stored with money, towards his native village. He could not reach the place on the night he had expected, so he slept at an inn a little distance off, and it was noon before he entered it. The steeple of the church guided him to the spot he sought. Changed was the village, changed was everything around. The cottages seemed more humble, the scenery on a smaller scale. He at once bent his steps to the churchyard. Round and round it he wandered. He could not determine the spot he looked for. At last he stopped in a remote corner, where the rank herbage and tall weeds almost concealed the closely-packed rows of long low mounds. No foot or headstones were there, but a piece of the wall had fallen, and lay where it fell with gra.s.s growing thickly around. He sat himself down on it, and rested his head on his hands. A tear, the first he had shed for many a year, escaped through his fingers.

"Alas, mother, mother, how comfortable I could have made you now had you lived!" he thought, as he remembered the poverty and privations his parent had endured. "I have not forgotten your words, the lessons you gave me. I should not have been ashamed to meet you. Yes, you hear me, mother, but not from down there," and he unconsciously pointed to the lowly graves. "No, you are above--in Heaven, mother dear, and happy."

He raised his hand and looked up into the blue bright sky beyond the yew tree, that fit emblem of mourning and sorrow, contrasting with the glories of the firmament spread out above it, to which the Christian believer looks with hope and joy as his abode for eternity.

Jack sat a while, then rose and went into the village. He wandered about looking into the faces of the people he met, but not a countenance could he remember. He recollected the names of a few. He inquired for them at the bar of the public house. Nearly all were dead or scattered.

"You be from these parts, master, I s'pose?" said an old man who sat in the bar eyeing him keenly. "I'd a son once who went away to sea. He never came back. They told me he was killed by the enemy. May be you knew him, he'd be about your age and size, I'm thinking."

"What was his name?" asked Jack.

The old man told him, and seemed sadly grieved when Jack had to say he had never met him.

Resolved not to give up his search for some old acquaintance, Jack shouldered his stick and bundle, and wandered along past the spot where his mother's cottage had stood. It was on a piece of common. Though it had fallen down, and most of the materials had been removed, he recognised the outlines of the little bit of garden which had surrounded it. Not far off was another cottage. An old woman stood at the door.

"Are you looking for anything, young man?" she asked, after watching him for a time. He felt almost inclined to give her an embrace. The voice, and expression, and figure he recognised as that of a neighbour.

"Are you not Dame Hughes?" he asked eagerly.

She nodded.

"And I'm Jack Buntline," he answered; "the son of widow Buntline. Do you remember me?"

"Remember thy mother, lad, that I do, a good woman. And now I look at thee I see that thou art her son. Come in. Come in. Thou art welcome."

Thankfully did Jack enter the humble cottage. He had found what he longed to meet--some one who knew his mother. Long and earnestly did he talk to Mistress Hughes about her, and the dame was somewhat astonished to find his voice falter and to see tears come into the rough seaman's eyes as they spoke of her.

"Ah, the heart of the lad is in the right place I see," she muttered, "though to be sure he don't look as if he often cried."

Jack at this time had huge brown whiskers, and a beard big enough for a rook to build in, while his cheeks were of the colour of mahogany, and his hands as hard as a smith's anvil. Dame Hughes had become a widow since Jack went to sea, but she had a daughter. While they were talking Nancy Hughes came in from gleaning. Nancy was a good girl, though she had little that was attractive about her except an honest open countenance; but she was the daughter of the woman who had known his mother, and from the first Jack found his heart drawn towards her. Jack lingered on in the village. The old man whose son had been killed at sea lodged him, and loved to listen to his tales of sea fights and adventures. So did Nancy. Before many days were over he offered to make Nancy his wife, and she consented. They were married. Jack was very happy. He cut out plenty of work for himself--built another room to the widow's cottage, and helped the neighbours when any work was to be done; but it was not profitable. Jack, like many a man possessing far greater experience in the world, forgot that his money would not last for ever. He put it into a bag, which he gave to Dame Hughes's safe keeping, saying he could get plenty more when that was gone, but he forgot to explain that he must go to sea to get it.

At last Jack found that the bag was getting empty. Poor Nancy was very sad when he told her he must be off, but she saw that there was no remedy for it; so with a sorrowing heart Jack shouldered his stick and bundle and returned to Plymouth, where he had left his chest and other worldly goods.

The long war was over, and England was at peace with all the world, but he had not many days to wait before he found a s.h.i.+p fitting out for the Pacific. The accounts he heard of her were favourable, so making arrangements that his wife should receive half his pay, he joined her for a four years cruise.

Away went Jack on board the _Hero_, once more to make the circuit, and more than the circuit, of the world. Sometimes for months together he was scorching under the sun of the tropics. At others, he was frozen up among the icy regions of the northern pole. This voyage he had only the elements, pestilence and famine, to fight with. Storms were skilfully encountered, and the _Hero_ more than once narrowly escaped s.h.i.+pwreck, but fever visited the frigate and carried off many a victim. Dreadful were the ravings of the sufferers as they lay tortured by the fell disease. Jack a.s.sisted to tend his s.h.i.+pmates with the tenderness of a woman. While others stood aloof, fearless of danger he went among them.

Had he any talisman to guard him? No. But Jack knew that it was his duty to tend the sick, and he trusted in G.o.d's right arm that He would protect him. The fever at last disappeared, and Jack was unharmed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Five years pa.s.sed away before the _Hero_ returned once again to the sh.o.r.es of old England. Jack felt himself of more importance than he had ever been before. He had now a home of his own, and when the s.h.i.+p was paid off, while others were seeking further employment or knocking about idly in a seaport, he set off with joy to that humble abode. It never occurred to him that death might have been busy there of late. For many a long month he had not heard of Nancy. Neither of them were great scribes, but with the aid of friends and s.h.i.+pmates they had during his absence contrived to exchange letters. Jack trudged on manfully. He had brought home most of his pay, though no prize money burnt in his pockets, yet he did not expect to be received with less welcome. His was a kind trailing heart. It was dark when he reached his own door.

He looked in through the little lattice window. There was Dame Hughes and there was his Nancy sitting opposite to her busily plying her needle. He p.r.o.nounced her name just to prepare her, as he said, for his appearance. She gazed about with a startled look as if she could not believe her senses. He spoke again. This time she knew his voice, and it was not long before he had both her and her old mother in his arms.

Jack was as happy as the live long day, and many a tale of wonder had he to tell about those curious South Sea Islands and their savage inhabitants, and the icebergs and the whales, and the Patagonian giants and the huge sharks, and the waterspouts and the aurora borealis.

Two months thus pa.s.sed speedily away, and then Jack found that he must go to sea once more. He would have liked to stay much longer, but if Nancy once got used to him, as he said, she would not let him go at all; so he had better go while he could. This time he found his way to Portsmouth, and sailed in a line of battle s.h.i.+p for the East Indies.

Four years soon pa.s.sed by out there, though before they were over he longed to be again at home. Fever visited the s.h.i.+p and carried off many victims, but he was spared. He was in more than one tempest, and formed one of a boat's crew who boarded a dismasted Indiaman, at the risk of their own lives, and were the means of preserving those of all on board.

On his reaching England, he found that a fleet was fitting out for the Mediterranean, and that something was to be done. He would not miss the opportunity, though he longed to be at home; so he at once entered on board another line of battle s.h.i.+p, and then got a few days leave to run down and see his wife. He found her in great affliction, for she had just lost her mother, and much he wished to stay and comfort her, but duty called him away. Poor Nancy would be very lonely during his absence, and with a heavier heart than he had ever before in his bosom he left her, her only comfort his promise that he would return as soon as he had the power.

Long had the unhappy Greeks groaned under the grinding tyranny of the Turks. An army under Ibrahim Pacha was oppressing them with fresh exactions. Generous England, ever ready to a.s.sist the weak and injured, resolved to send a squadron to relieve them. It was placed under the command of Sir Edward Codrington. Jack was on board one of the line of battle s.h.i.+ps. Joined by the squadrons of France and Russia they entered the harbour of Navarin, where the Turkish and Egyptian fleets, mounting altogether nearly two thousand guns, lay moored in the form of a crescent, supported by some heavy batteries on sh.o.r.e. The Turks commenced hostilities by firing on a flag of truce and killing an officer and several men. The _Dartmouth_ on this opened a fire of musketry to protect the boat, and the action commenced in earnest. Jack had never before been in a general action. The allies had about thirty s.h.i.+ps, and the Turks had a hundred, and all these were now blazing away together. Shot, and sh.e.l.l, and musket b.a.l.l.s were flying thickly about.

Loud and deafening was the roar from upwards of three thousand guns as they sent forth their messengers of death, a dark canopy from their smoke forming overhead and serving as a funeral pall to many a brave man who fell that day. Each British s.h.i.+p was opposed to several of the foe, but discipline and true courage prevailed over fanaticism, and one after the other the Turkish s.h.i.+ps caught fire, and many blew up with terrific explosions, destroying their own crews and the ill-fated Greek prisoners they had on board. Jack stood manfully at his gun, seeing but little of what was going forward; but one thing he saw not to be forgotten, a British man-of-war cutter engage a brig and a corvette; and when the brig blew up, and her own cable being cut she drifted foul of a frigate, repel repeated boarding parties of the Turks, and in addition an attack from a large Turkish boat, which her two carronades knocked to pieces.

Jack had seen many of his s.h.i.+pmates fall. As he was in the act of hauling away at the tackle to run out his gun, he felt himself struck to the deck. He attempted to rise.

"Let me have another shot at them," he sung out, but his shattered leg shewed him how vain was the wish. He was carried below, and the surgeon made short work in lopping off the limb.

Minus his leg, yet unbroken in spirit, and with a heart warm as ever and his trust in G.o.d's mercy unabated, Jack returned once more to old England. Happily he had served long enough to ent.i.tle him to a berth in Greenwich Hospital. For that magnificent abode of England's gallant and worn-out defenders he accordingly bore up, and on his way there he sent for his faithful Nancy to nurse him and keep him company. A smiling black countenance under a three-cornered gold-laced hat greeted him on his arrival, and he found his hand warmly grasped by his old friend Sambo. For many a year were they known at the Hospital, and many a long yarn did Jack spin of the adventures which befel him during his nautical career.

The End.