Old Jerry’s report of Iffley—Fears of the pressgang—Resolve to go inland—Commence our journey—Seized by men-of-war’s men—Iffley’s treachery—Find myself aboard a man-of-war bound for India—Iffley’s conduct—A gale—Fall overboard—Saved—Punishment aboard—Accused of stealing—Sentenced to be flogged—Iffley’s triumph.

Several days passed by, and I heard nothing of Iffley. The fears of my dear wife in consequence at length subsided, and she began to see that, after all, she had probably thought worse of my old shipmate than he deserved. We agreed that he must have been somewhat astonished at seeing me alive, and the husband of one whom he had hoped to marry himself, and that chiefly through bashfulness he had not been able to bring himself to come up and address us.

“Bashfulness!” said Aunt Bretta, when she heard this remark; “I cannot say that I should ever have given Charles Iffley the credit for a superabundance of that quality. However, strange things happen. He may have picked it up at sea, or among his associates on shore; but I doubt it.”

So did I, on reflection. Still, I was glad by any means to calm my wife’s apprehensions, which were the more painful because they were so very indefinite. In the evening there was a knock at the door, and old Jerry Vincent walked in.

“Sarvant, ladies; sarvant all,” said he, pulling off his hat to Aunt Bretta and my wife, who handed him a chair.

“Have you heard anything of that young man we told you of?” asked my wife. It was evidently the question she was most anxious to put.

“Yes, I have, marm, and not much good either,” was the answer. “I’ve found out that he is aboard the Royal William; she’s the flagship just now at Spithead. He doesn’t often come ashore, and that made me so long hearing of him.”

“What is he on board? Is he an officer?” asked Aunt Bretta.

“An officer, indeed, whew!” exclaimed Jerry. “Well, he is a sort of one, maybe. Not a very high rating, though. He’s neither more nor less than a boatswain’s mate. What do you think of that, marm?”

“Charles Iffley a boatswain’s mate!” said my wife in a tone of pity. “I thought he was an officer long ago.”

“Well, marm, I made inquiries on board, and among several people who knew him on shore, and from what I could learn, he would have been an officer long ago if he had conducted himself well. He was placed on the quarter-deck, for you see he has plenty of education, and knows how to act the gentleman as well as any man. But there are some men who never get up the tree but what they slip down again, and never can keep a straight course long together. Charles Iffley is of that sort. For something or other he did, he got disrated and dismissed the service; but he entered it again, and, from what I am told, I shouldn’t be surprised but what, if his early history isn’t known, he’ll work his way up again. The thing that is most against him is his extravagance. Every farthing he makes in prize-money or pay he spends on shore, in acting the fine gentleman. People can’t, indeed, tell how he gets all the money he spends. Of course, if it was known on board the pranks he plays on shore, his leave would be stopped; but he is so clever that he humbugs the officers, and they think him one of the most steady and best men. You see there’s another thing which brings him into favour with the captain and first lieutenant; he has a knack of finding men and getting them to join the ship, by making her out to be the most comfortable ship in the service, and there’s no man knows better how to ferret out seamen, and to lead a pressgang down upon a score of them together. I learned all these things from different people, do ye see, but putting this and that together, I made out my story as I tell it to you. To my mind, Charles Iffley is a man I would stand clear of. Depend on’t, he’s a deep one.”

Jerry Vincent stayed with us some time, and then he said he had an engagement and must go away. As he did so he beckoned me out of the room, and I accompanied him to the door.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr Weatherhelm,” said he, “you have been bred a seaman, and the pressgangs are very hot at work just now. They take everybody who has been at sea, no matter what his present calling—whether he has a wife and family depending on him or not. Now Iffley knows that you have no protection, and he has the power of getting hold of you. From what I hear, he’s just the man to use it. If you was his bosom friend, he’d do it; but if he owes you a grudge, depend on it he’ll not let you slip out of his gripe. He’d have been down on you before now, but he got a broken head the other night, in attacking the crew of a merchantman just come home from a three years’ cruise round the Horn, and had no fancy to be sent off to sea again when they had only just put their foot on shore. However, he is now on his legs again. If you stay here, you’ll hear something of him before long; but take my advice, just rig out as an old farmer, or a black-coated preacher, or something as unlike yourself as you can, and take your wife and go and live away somewhere up in the country. It’s your only chance. If you stay you’ll be nabbed, as sure as my name is Jerry Vincent.”

I thanked the old man very much for his advice, and replied that I had no doubt, on consideration, I should follow it.

“Oh, there’s a good lad! Don’t be waiting and considering. There’s no good comes of that. When a thing is to be done which must be done, go and do it at once.”

“Well, I will, Jerry, I will,” I answered, shaking him by the hand. I waited at the door, and while I watched him down the street I considered what course I would pursue. I was unwilling to tell my wife what he had said, because I knew it would agitate her very much, and I hoped that Jerry thought worse of Iffley than he deserved. Of course, however, I determined to consult Uncle Kelson, and to abide by his advice. It was a serious consideration whether I would, on the mere chance of Iffley’s being able to get hold of me, give up my occupation, in which I was succeeding so well, and go and live, for I knew not how long, in comparative poverty, without anything to do. I made an excuse for stepping out of the room to talk to Jerry, and my wife did not appear to suspect that he had had anything more to say about Iffley. As soon as she and my aunt had gone upstairs, I told Uncle Kelson all that I had learned. He looked graver than usual while he listened to the account.

“Well, he must be a scoundrel if he could do it!” he exclaimed at last, clenching his fist. “Still, such things have been done, but I did hope that no seaman would be guilty of them.” He was silent for some time, and lost in reflection. “I’ll tell you what, Will,” said he at last, “you must follow old Jerry’s advice. It’s sound, depend on it. That old man has more wisdom in his little finger than many a man has in the whole of his head. Go to your work to-morrow morning, and I’ll look down in the course of the day and see your employer, and explain matters to him frankly. He, I have no doubt, will give you leave of absence for a few weeks, and when you come back you can work double tides. If you stay, you see, you’ll be lost to him probably altogether.”

So the matter was arranged. I was rather ashamed, however, at the thought of having to go into hiding, as it were; but still I felt that my wife’s mind would be relieved from apprehension when once I was safe away out of Portsmouth. Uncle Kelson had a sister married to a farmer living in the north of Hampshire, and there we resolved to go.

The next day I went to my work as usual, and my uncle came down and had a talk with my employer, and the whole matter was arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.

“Come,” said Uncle Kelson, “you had better at once take your places by the coach, and start to-morrow. There is no time to be lost.”

We found on getting to the coach-office that all the coaches were full. At that time there was an immense traffic between Portsmouth and London. A post-chaise was somewhat beyond our means, but we found a light waggon starting, which took passengers, and Uncle Kelson and I agreed that this would prove a convenient and very pleasant conveyance, as we were in no hurry, and would not object to being some time on the road. It was to start pretty early in the morning. My dear wife was delighted at the thoughts of the journey, and speedily made the necessary preparations. We sent on our trunk by a wheelbarrow, while we followed, accompanied by Uncle Kelson. Even at that early hour the High Street was astir,—indeed, in those busy times, both during day and night, something or other was going forward. We passed several gangs of men-of-war’s men. Three or four men evidently just pressed, and who showed a strong disinclination to go and serve their country, were being dragged along by one of the gangs. I could not help pitying the poor fellows; so did my wife.

“Oh, Willand,” said she, “how thankful I am that you are not among them!”

Our waggon was a very nice one, covered over with a clean white tilt, and our waggoner, I saw at a glance, was an honest, good-hearted chaw-bacon. He was dressed in the long white frock, thickly plaited in front, which has been worn from time immemorial by people of his calling. Our trunk and bags were put in; we shook hands with Uncle Kelson, and having taken our seats just inside in the front part, with plenty of straw for our feet to rest on, the waggoner whipped up his four sturdy horses, and we began to move on. My dear wife pressed closer to my side, and we began to breathe more freely; she thought I was safe from the pressgang. We were just clear of the fortifications, and were getting into the open country, when I saw the waggoner turn round once or twice, and look over his shoulder behind him.

“What can they be after?” I heard him say. A minute more passed. “Hillo, men, what does ye want here?” he exclaimed suddenly, as half a dozen or more seamen sprang forward, and seized the horses’ heads, while others leaped up into the waggon.

“We are looking for a deserter,” cried two or three of them. “Turn out, my hearty; where are you stowed away?”

I felt, the instant the seamen appeared, that they had come to press me, but these words revived my hopes of escape.

“There is no one here, my men, besides my wife and me that I know of,” I observed. “You have made a mistake, I suspect.”

“Well, we must look,” said the men; “we are not quite so green as to take your word for it.”

“You may look as much as you like, measters,” said the waggoner; “you’ll find no one among my goods, unless he’s stowed hesself away unknowest to me.”

The seamen began to poke their cutlasses in between the packages, and would undoubtedly have run any one through who had been inside them. While they were thus employed, three or four other men came up.

“What are you about, mates?” exclaimed one of them, whose voice I felt sure I knew. “The man you want is sitting in the front of the waggon!”

On hearing these words my poor wife uttered a piercing shriek, and fell fainting into my arms. She, too, had recognised the voice, though the speaker had kept out of her sight; it was that of Charles Iffley. The seamen instantly sprang on me, and seized me by the arms.

“Hillo, mate, you were going to give us the go-by,” said one of them as they passed a rope round my elbows before I could lift an arm in my defence.

They literally dragged me from my poor wife. She would have fallen, but the waggoner humanely scrambled up into his waggon, and placed her securely at the bottom of it. She was still, I saw, completely insensible. I scarcely regretted that she was so, for I did not at the moment foresee the consequences. The honest carter was in vain expostulating with the seamen for seizing one whom he considered placed under his especial charge, to be delivered safe at the journey’s end.

“I don’t think as how you have any right to take that gentleman; he’s no more a sailor nor I bes,” I heard him say.

“Not a sailor! Why, the man has been at sea all his life till the last year or so,” said Iffley, now coming up, and throwing off all disguise; “he’s, moreover, to my certain knowledge, a deserter from his Majesty’s ship Brilliant, so attempt to detain him if you dare.”

These words had a great effect on the honest waggoner, who did not attempt to make any further efforts to detain me.

Generally speaking, the most ruffian-like and least scrupulous of the crew were employed in the pressgangs, for they often had very brutal work to perform. The men into whose hands I had fallen were as bad as any I had ever met. They seized me with the greatest ferocity, dragged me out of the waggon, and would not listen to my prayers and entreaties to be allowed to wait till my wife came to her senses; and before even I had time to speak to the waggoner, in spite of all the violent struggles I made to free myself, they hauled me off along the road as if I had been one of the worst of malefactors. In this they were encouraged by Iffley, who seemed to take a malignant pleasure in seeing me ill-treated, though he did not himself attempt to lay hands on me. When I tried to cry out, I found a gag thrust into my mouth, and thus I was rendered speechless as well as in every other way powerless.

My captors hurried me away, and with a feeling amounting to agony, I lost sight of the waggon. At first it occurred to me that Iffley had gone back for the purpose, as I dreaded, of speaking to my wife, and perhaps adding to her misery; but had he entertained such a thought, he had not dared to face her, for I saw him directly afterwards following close behind me, encouraging the other men to hasten along.

Though I made all the resistance of which I was capable, in the hopes that something or other might occur to enable me to free myself, we soon reached the entrance to Portsmouth.

Instead, however, of proceeding down the High Street, Iffley led the way down one of the by-streets to the right. Just as we were passing under the ramparts I looked up, and there I saw walking up and down, as if to enjoy the breeze, a person whom I recognised at a glance as Uncle Kelson. The moment I saw him, hope revived in my breast. I could at all events tell him to go in search of my wife. Perhaps he might even find means to liberate me; but when I tried to sing out, the horrible gag prevented me speaking. I could only utter inarticulate cries and groans.

In vain I shrieked. He did not even turn his head; the sounds were too common. He thought, probably, that it was only some drunken seaman, who had outstayed his leave, dragged back to his ship.

At length, for a moment, he looked round. I struggled more vehemently than before. I fancied that he must recognise me, but, urged by Iffley, my captors dragged me on faster than ever, and turning a corner we were hid from his sight. My strength was now almost exhausted. I could offer but a faint resistance. Hope, too, had abandoned me. Still I tried to make myself heard, on the possibility of some one knowing me and undertaking to carry a message to my uncle and aunt. People stopped and looked, but the same idea occurred to all—my frantic gestures made them believe that I was a miserable drunken sailor.

We reached the water’s edge. I was shoved into a boat with several other men who had been captured during the night. They all were sitting stunned, or drunken, or sulky (or some too probably broken-hearted and miserable), at the bottom of the boat, not exchanging a word with each other or with those who had pressed us. I also fell down stunned and unconscious. Who could have discovered the difference between me and my companions in misfortune? When I again opened my eyes, I found that the boat was almost at Spithead. I tried to sit up to look about me, but I could not, and, after a feeble attempt to rise, I again sank back, and once more oblivion of all that had passed stole over my senses. I had a sort of dreamy feeling that I was lifted up on the deck of a big ship, and then handed below and put into a hammock. Then I was aware that some one came and felt my pulse and gave me medicine, but I had no power to think, to recollect the past or to note the present.

At last, by degrees, I found that I was becoming more alive to what was taking place. I felt the movement of the ship. She was heeling over to a strong breeze. Then suddenly the recollection of my wife, of the way I had been torn from her, of the wretchedness I knew she must suffer, of the uncertainty she must feel for my fate, burst like a thunder-clap on me, and almost sent me back into the state from which I was recovering. I groaned in my agony. I wished that death might kindly be sent to relieve me of my misery. But the instant after I felt that such a wish was impious.

I lay quiet for some time, thinking and praying that strength might be given for my support. No, no, I’ll try to live, that I may get back to comfort her. What joy it would be once more to return to her! The very contemplation of such an idea revived me. “Whatever comes, I’ll do my duty like a man.”

“That’s right, my lad; that’s the proper spirit in which to take our misfortunes,” said a voice near me.

Unconsciously, I had spoken aloud. I turned round my head, and saw a gentleman I knew at once was the doctor of the ship.

“I know your story. You have told me a good deal about yourself while you have been lying there,” he remarked, in a kind voice. “I pity you from my heart, and will do what I can for you.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” I answered warmly, and almost melting into tears, for I was very weak. “Where are we? Where are we going? What ship is this? Is Iffley here?”

“One question at a time, my lad, and you will have a better chance of an answer, as a general rule,” he answered, smiling.

He was a Scotchman, and as warm-hearted, generous a man as the north ever produced, though somewhat peculiar in his manners. To a stranger he appeared slow; but, when time would allow it, he knew the advantage of deliberation.

“First, then, I will tell you that you are on board the Albion, and that we have under our convoy a large fleet of merchantmen. We are somewhere to the southward of Cape Finisterre. What you are thinking about is, how you can write home to let your wife know what has become of you. You’ll very likely soon have an opportunity. Let that comfort you.” He said all this that he might break more gradually all that was coming.

“But where are we going, sir?” I asked, in a trembling voice.

“You may perhaps have an opportunity of getting home,” he answered. “But you see, my lad, we are bound for the East Indies, and shall probably have a somewhat long cruise of it.”

“To the East Indies!” I cried, my voice sinking almost to a whisper. “When, when, Margaret, may I ever meet you again?”

“Cheer up, my lad, it’s a long road which has no turning, ye ken,” cried the kind doctor. “Remember your resolution to do your duty like a man. You’ll be well in a few days, I hope.”

He did not reply to my question about Iffley. Somehow or other, I could not bring myself again to repeat that man’s name. I did not forget the command to forgive our enemies, but I felt that flesh and blood—the depravity of human nature—must be struggled with and overcome, before the divine precept could be obeyed.

Once more I was on my feet again, and a man who attended on the sick helped me up on deck. It was a fine day—the sky was blue, the sea was calm, and some thirty ships, with all their canvas set, were grouped close around us. They were huge lumbering tea-chests, as we used to call Indiamen, but they were fine-looking craft for all that. The fresh sea-breeze revived me. Every hour I felt myself growing stronger and better. I looked round for Iffley. I had a nervous dread of meeting him, and yet I felt anxious to ascertain that he was on board.

A person may be on board a big ship like the Albion for several days without meeting another, provided they are not on duty together. Such was my case. I had been for two days on deck, an hour or so at a time, without seeing the man who had proved himself so bitterly my enemy. The doctor told me he thought that in a day or two more I might go to my duty, and that I should be the better for having work to do. I looked forward to work with satisfaction, and begged that I might as soon as possible be struck off the sick list. He told me that I should be so on the following day, and that he would speak to the first lieutenant about me, as he was a very kind man, and would see that I was not sent aloft till I had sufficiently recovered my strength. I thanked him with a hearty blessing for his kindness and consideration.

The very first man on whom my eyes rested when I went on deck returned fit for duty was Charles Iffley. He was going along the deck with his cat-o’-nine-tails in his hand. I knew by this that ............