Willis the Pilot by Adrien, Paul - CHAPTER XXIII.

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Willis the Pilot

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH WILLIS SHOWS, THAT THE TERM PRESS-​GANG MEANS SOME­THING ELSE BE­SIDES THE GEN­TLE­MEN OF THE PRESS.

"When I was a young­ster, about a year or two old­er than you are now, Mas­ter Fritz, I slipped on board the brig _Nor­folk_ as boatswain's mate. The ship at the time was short of hands, so there was no im­me­di­ate prob­abil­ity of her weigh­ing an­chor; but on the same day I scratched my name on the books a despatch ar­rived, in con­se­quence of which we left the har­bor, and pro­ceed­ed out to sea un­der sealed or­ders. One day, when off the Irish coast, I was called aft by the first lieu­tenant.

"'You know some­thing of Cork, my man, I be­lieve?' said he.

"'Yes, your hon­or, I have been ashore there once or twice,' said I.

"'Very good,' said he; 'get ready to go ashore there again as quick as you like.'

"Leave to go on shore is al­ways agree­able to a sailor. He prefers the sea, but likes to stretch him­self on land now and then, just to en­joy a change of air, and look about him a bit; so it was with all pos­si­ble ex­pe­di­tion that I made the req­ui­site prepa­ra­tions.

"When I reap­peared, I found a par­ty of twen­ty men mus­tered on deck in pipe-​clay or­der. A full ra­tion of small arms was served out to them, and, un­der the com­mand of the lieu­tenant, we em­barked in the long-​boat and rowed ashore. We land­ed at a point of the coast some miles dis­tant from Cork, and it was dark be­fore we reached the mil­itary bar­racks of that town, which, for the present, ap­peared to be our des­ti­na­tion.

"I had not the slight­est idea of what we were to do on shore. From our be­ing so heav­ily armed, I knew it was no mere es­cort or pa­rade du­ty that was in ques­tion, and be­gan to think there was work of some kind on hand. This gave me no kind of un­easi­ness. I on­ly won­dered what­ev­er it could be, for there was clear­ly a mys­tery of some kind or oth­er. Were we go­ing to be­siege Pad­dy, in his own peace­able city of Cork? Had some of the peep-​o'-day boys been burn­ing down farmer Ma­grath's ricks again? or was there a pri­vate still to be rout­ed out and de­mol­ished? I could not tell.

"Half an hour af­ter our ar­rival, I was called in­to a pri­vate room by the lieu­tenant, who was seat­ed at a ta­ble with a pack­age of clothes be­side him. The first lieu­tenant of the _Nor­folk_, I must re­mark, was a bit of an orig­inal. He had won his way up to the rank he then held from be­fore the mast. His build was rather squat, and his face was gar­nished with a pair of fiery red whiskers, so he was no beau­ty, added to which he was reck­oned one of the most rigid mar­tinets in the ser­vice; yet, for all that, his crew liked him, for they knew his heart was in the right place.

"'See, my man,' said he, 'take this pack­age, and rig your­self out in the tog­gery it con­tains.'

"I obeyed this or­der, and soon af­ter stood be­fore him, in a pair of jack-​boots, with a slouch­ing sort of tarpaul­ing hat on my head, so that I might ei­ther have passed for a man­ner out of luck or a dust­man.

"'Well,' said the lieu­tenant, laugh­ing, 'now you have quite the air of the hulks about you.'

"This re­mark not be­ing very com­pli­men­ta­ry, I did not feel called up­on to make any re­ply.

"'You know,' he con­tin­ued, 'that the brig is short about a dozen hands, and I want you to pick up a few like­ly lads here. I un­der­stand there are a num­ber of able-​bod­ied sea­men skulk­ing about the pub­lic-​hous­es, where they will like­ly re­main as long as their mon­ey lasts. I should like to se­cure as many of them as pos­si­ble, and then cap­ture a few stout lands­men to make up the num­ber; but, in the first place, I want you to go and find out the best place to make a razz­ia.'

"I stared when I found my­self all at once pro­mot­ed to the post of pi­oneer for a par­ty of kid­nap­pers, and mut­tered some­thing or oth­er about hon­or.

"'Hon­or, sir!' roared the lieu­tenant, 'what has hon­or to do with it, sir? It is du­ty, sir. It is the laws of the ser­vice, sir, and you must obey them, sir.'

"'But it is hard, your hon­or,' said I, 'that the laws of the ser­vice should force men to do what they think is wrong.'

"'And what right, sir, have you to think it is wrong, or to judge the acts of your su­pe­ri­ors? If the laws of the ser­vice or­der you fifty lash­es at the yard-​arm to-​mor­row, you will find that you will get them. Do you want to be hand­ed over to the drum­mer, and to cul­ti­vate an ac­quain­tance with the cat?'

"'No, your hon­or,' said I, laugh­ing.

"The lieu­tenant's face by this time was as red as his whiskers, and, though he was in a tow­er­ing rage, he quick­ly calmed down again, like boil­ing milk when it is tak­en off the fire.

"'Then,' said he, qui­et­ly, 'am I to un­der­stand you refuse?'

"'No, your hon­or,' said I. 'If it is my du­ty, I must obey; but you will par­don the lib­er­ty, when I say that it is hard to be forced to drag away a lot of poor fel­lows against their wills.'

"'Look ye,' replied the lieu­tenant, 'I tol­er­ate your free­dom of speech for two rea­sons--the first, be­cause we are here alone, and no harm is done; the sec­ond, be­cause I en­ter­tain the same opin­ion my­self; but, mind you, we are both bound by the reg­ula­tions of the ser­vice, and it is mutiny for ei­ther of us to dis­obey.'

"Ac­cord­ing to the moral law, the mis­sion with which I was charged could scarce­ly be con­sid­ered hon­or­able; but, ac­cord­ing to the laws of the land, or rather of the sea, it was per­fect­ly un­ex­cep­tion­able. Amongst the sea­men, a for­ay amongst the land­lub­bers was re­gard­ed more in the light of a spree than any­thing else. If, in­deed, it were pos­si­ble to pick up the lazy and idle amongst the pop­ula­tion, this mode of en­list­ment might be use­ful; but of­ten the in­dus­tri­ous head of a fam­ily was seized, whilst the idle es­caped. It was rare, how­ev­er, that a ship's crew were em­ployed in this sort of du­ty; men were more usu­al­ly ob­tained through the crimps on shore, who of­ten fear­ful­ly abused the au­thor­ity with which they were in­vest­ed for the pur­pose. As for my­self, the lieu­tenant's ar­gu­ments re­moved all my scru­ples, if I ev­er had any.

"I then sug­gest­ed a plan of op­er­ations, which was ap­proved. The men were to be kept ready for ac­tion, and the lieu­tenant him­self was to await my re­port at the 'Green Drag­on,' one of the ho­tels in the town.

“At that time there was in the out­skirts of Cork a sort of tav­ern and lodg­ing-​house, called the 'Mol­ly Bawn.' This es­tab­lish­ment was fre­quent­ed by the low­est class of sea­men and 'tramps.' Thith­er I wend­ed my way. It was late when I ar­rived in front of the place; and whilst hes­itat­ing whether I should ven­ture in­to such a pre­cious menagerie, I hap­pened to look round, and, by the light of a dim lamp that burned at the cor­ner of the street, I caught a glimpse of the lieu­tenant lean­ing against the wall, qui­et­ly smok­ing an Irish dudeen.”

“Like Rono the Great in the is­land of Hawai,” sug­gest­ed Jack.

"Some­thing. This, how­ev­er, cut short my de­lib­er­ations. I walked in. There was a crowd of men and wom­en drink­ing and smok­ing about the bar. These, how­ev­er, were not the peo­ple I sought. The reg­ular ten­ants of the house were not amongst that lot, and it was es­sen­tial for me to find out in what part of the premis­es they were stowed. I com­menced pro­ceed­ings by or­der­ing a nog­gin of whisky, and mak­ing love to the damsel that brought it in. Af­ter hav­ing for­mal­ly made her an of­fer of mar­riage, I asked af­ter the land­lord. She told me he was en­gaged with some cus­tomers, but of­fered to take a mes­sage to him.

“'Then,' said I, 'just tell him that a friend of One-​eyed Dick's would like to have a par­ley with him.'”

“And who was One-​eyed Dick?” in­quired Fritz.

"One of the crew of a pi­rat­ical craft cap­tured by one of our cruis­ers a few months be­fore, and who at that time was safe­ly lodged in Portsmouth jail.

"The girl soon re­turned. She told me to walk with her, and led me through some nar­row pas­sages in­to what ap­peared to be an­oth­er house. She knocked at a door that was strong­ly barred and fas­tened in­side. A slight glance at these pre­cau­tions made me aware that there was no chance of mak­ing a cap­ture here with­out cre­at­ing a great dis­tur­bance. So, af­ter re­flect­ing an in­stant, I de­cid­ed up­on adopt­ing some oth­er course.

“When the door was opened I could see noth­ing dis­tinct­ly; there was a turf-​fire throw­ing a red glare out of the chim­ney, a dim oil-​lamp hung from the roof, but ev­ery­thing was hid­den in a dense cloud of to­bac­co smoke, through which the light was not suf­fi­cient­ly pow­er­ful to pen­etrate.”

“The at­mo­sphere must have been sti­fling,” ob­served Fritz.

“Yes, it puts me in mind of your re­mark about the air, which, you said, con­sists of--let me see--”

“Oxy­gen and hy­dro­gen.”

“Just so; but the air a sailor breathes when he is at home con­sists al­most en­tire­ly of to­bac­co smoke. At last, I could make out twen­ty or thir­ty rough-​look­ing fel­lows seat­ed on each side of a long deal ta­ble cov­ered with bot­tles, glass­es, and pipes. Dan Hooli­gan, the land­lord, sat at the top--a fit pres­ident for such an as­sem­bly. He was part­ly a smug­gler, part­ly a pub­li­can, and whol­ly a sin­ner. I should say that the liquor con­sumed at that ta­ble did not much good to the rev­enue. How Dan con­trived to es­cape the laws, was a mys­tery per­haps best known to the po­lice.”

"So you are a pal of One-​eyed Dick's, are you?' said he.

"'Rather,' said I, adopt­ing the slang of the place.

"'Well,' said he, 'Dick has been a good cus­tomer of mine, and all his pals are wel­come at the 'Mol­ly.' I have not seen him late­ly, how­ev­er--how goes it with him now?'

"'Right as a triv­et,' said I, 'and mak­ing lots of rhi­no.'

"'Glad to hear it; and what lat­itude does he hail in now?'

"'That,' said I, 'is pri­vate and con­fi­den­tial.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'there are no out­siders here, we are all sworn friends of Dick's, ev­ery moth­er's son of us.'

“'Then,' said I, 'Dick is off the Cove in the schooner _Nan­cy_, of Brest,'”

“Hol­loa, Willis,” cried Jack, “there was a fib!”

“Well, I told you to look out for some­thing of that sort when I be­gan.”

"'What!' cried the land­lord, 'Dick in a schooner off the Irish coast?'

"'Yes,' said I; 'and aboard that schooner there is as tight a car­go of brandy and to­bac­co as ev­er you set eyes up­on.'

"Here the land­lord pricked up his ears, and the rest of the com­pa­ny be­gan to lis­ten at­ten­tive­ly. The fel­low that sat next me cool­ly told me that both he and Dick had been lagged for horse-​steal­ing, and had sub­se­quent­ly bro­ken out of prison and es­caped. He fur­ther told me that most of the gen­tle­men present had been all, one way or an­oth­er, mixed up with Dick's do­ings; from which I con­clud­ed they were a rare par­cel of scamps, and re­solved, with­in my­self, to try and bag the whole squad. They were all stout fel­lows enough, most of them sea­men. I thought they might be able to 'do the State some ser­vice,' and de­ter­mined to con­vert them in­to hon­est men, if I could.'

"'Dick can­not come ashore,' said I; 'some one of his old pals here has peached, and there is a war­rant out against him.'

"This in­for­ma­tion threw the as­sem­bly in­to a state of vi­olent com­mo­tion. They rose up, and swore ter­ri­ble vengeance against the head of the un­for­tu­nate cul­prit when they caught him. The oaths rather alarmed me at first, for they were of a most fe­ro­cious stamp.

“'Yes,' con­tin­ued I, 'Dick is aboard the schooner, but, as there are two or three war­rants out against him, he does not care about com­ing ashore; so said he to me, 'We want a lug­ger and a few hands to run the car­go ashore; and if you look in at the 'Mol­ly,' and see my old pal, Dan, per­haps you will find some lads there will­ing to give us a turn. The cap­tain said, if the thing was done clean off, he would stand some­thing hand­some.”

"'Just the thing for us!' shout­ed half a dozen voic­es.

"'But the lug­ger?' said I.

"'Oh, Phil Doolan, at the Cove, has a craft that has land­ed as many car­goes as there are planks in her hull. Be­sides, he has stowage for a fleet of East In­di­amen.'

“'Well, gen­tle­men,” said I, 'the chap­lain, One-​eyed Dick, and my­self, will be at Phil Doolan's to-​mor­row at mid­night; do you agree to meet us there?'

"This ques­tion was an­swered by a uni­ver­sal 'Yes;' and by way of clench­ing the af­fair, I or­dered a cou­ple of gal­lons of the stiffest potheen in the house. This was re­ceived with three cheers, and be­fore I left the 'Mol­ly' ev­ery man-​jack of them had dis­ap­peared un­der the ta­ble. Dan him­self, how­ev­er, kept tol­er­ably sober, and promised, on ac­count of his friend­ship for One-​eyed Dick, to have the whole kit safe at Phil Doolan's by twelve o'clock next night, and with this as­sur­ance I made my ex­it from the premis­es, and steered for the 'George and Drag­on.'

"The lieu­tenant agreed with me in think­ing that it would cause too much up­roar to at­tack the 'Mol­ly Bawn.' He con­grat­ulat­ed me on my suc­cess in lay­ing a trap for the peo­ple, and promis­ing to meet me at the Cove, he or­dered a car, and drove off in the di­rec­tion of the _Nor­folk's_ boat. Ear­ly next morn­ing I start­ed to re­con­noitre the ground and or­ga­nize my plan of op­er­ations. I found Phil Doolan's man­sion to be a mud-​built ten­ement, larg­er, and stand­ing apart from, the hous­es that then con­sti­tut­ed the vil­lage. It was os­ten­si­bly a sailor's lodg­ing-​house and tav­ern for way­far­ers, but, like the 'Mol­ly Bawn,' was in re­al­ity a ren­dezvous of smug­glers, oc­ca­sion­al­ly pa­tron­ized by fugi­tive poach­ers and pa­tri­ots. It was known to its fa­mil­iars as 'The Crib,' but was reg­is­tered by the au­thor­ities as the 'Fa­ther Ma­ho­ny,' who was rep­re­sent­ed on the sign-​post by a full-​length por­trait of James the Sec­ond. What gave me most sat­is­fac­tion was to ob­serve that the build­ing was con­ve­nient­ly sit­uat­ed for a sack.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

“When night set in I marched the _Nor­folk's_ men in close or­der, and as se­cret­ly as pos­si­ble, to the Cove. Ap­proach­ing Phil Doolan's in one di­rec­tion, I could just catch a glimpse of the red coats of a file of marines ad­vanc­ing in an­oth­er, with the lieu­tenant at their head, and, ex­act­ly as twelve o'clock struck on the parish clock, the 'Fa­ther Ma­ho­ny' was sur­round­ed on all sides by armed men. Two or three lanterns were now lit, and dis­po­si­tions made to close up ev­ery av­enue of es­cape.”

"'There he is!' cried Willis, in­ter­rupt­ing him­self, and star­ing in­to the air.

“Who?” in­quired Jack--“Phil Doolan?”

“No--Bill Stubbs, late of the _Nel­son_.”

“Where?”

“That squat, broad-​shoul­dered man there, brac­ing the main­tops.”

“Yes, now that you point him out, I think I have seen him be­fore,” said Fritz.

“Hol­loa, Bill,” cried Jack.

“You see,” said Willis, “he turned his head.”

“How d'ye do, Bill?” added Jack.

“Are you speak'ng to me, sir?” in­quired the sailor.

“Yes, Bill.”

“Then was your hon­or present when I was chris­tened? I ap­pear to have for­got­ten my name for the last six-​and thir­ty years.”

“No use, you see,” said Willis; “he is too old a bird to be caught by any of these dodges. But I have lost the thread of my dis­course.”

“You had sur­round­ed the cab­in, and were light­ing lamps.”

"Half a dozen men were sta­tioned at the door, pis­tol in hand, ready to rush in as soon as it opened. The lieu­tenant and I went for­ward and knocked, but no one an­swered. We knocked again, loud­er than be­fore, but still no an­swer.

"'Open the door, in the King's name!' thun­dered the lieu­tenant. Si­lence, as be­fore.

"Call­ing to the marines, he or­dered them to root up Phil Doolan's sign-​post, and use it as a bat­ter­ing ram against the door. The first blow of this ma­chine near­ly brought the house down, and a cracked voice was heard call­ing on the saints in­side.

"'Blessed St. Patrick!' croaked the voice, 'wha­tiv­er are ye kick­ing up such a shindy out there for? Wha­tiv­er d'ye want wid an old wom­an, and niv­er a livin' sowl in the house 'cept me­self and Kath­leen in her cof­fin?'

"'Kath­leen is dead, then?' said the lieu­tenant with a grin.

"'Save yer hon­or's pres­ence, she's off to glo­ry, an' as dead as a her­rin,' replied the voice.

"'Re­al­ly!' said the lieu­tenant, 'and where is Phil Doolan?'

"'Och, yer hon­or? he's gone to get some potheen for the wake.'

"'Well,' said the lieu­tenant, 'I should like to take a share in wak­ing the de­funct--what's her name?'

"'Kath­leen, yer hon­or.'

"'Well, just let us in to take a last look at the wor­thy crea­ture.'

“The door then creaked on its rusty hinges, and we en­tered. Not a soul, how­ev­er, was to be seen any­where, save and ex­cept the old wom­an her­self. The cof­fin con­tain­ing the re­mains of Kath­leen, rest­ing on two stools, stood in the mid­dle of the floor, with a plate of salt as usu­al on the lid. I fair­ly thought I had been done, and looked up­on my­self as the laugh­ing stock of the en­tire fleet.”

“So far,” re­marked Jack, “your sto­ry has been all right, but the last episode was rather neg­li­gent­ly han­dled.”

“How?” in­quired Willis.

“Why, you did not make enough of the cof­fin scene; your de­scrip­tion is too mea­gre. You should have said, that the wind blew with­out in fierce gusts, the weath­er­cocks screeched on the roofs, and caused you to dread that the ghost of the de­funct was com­ing down the chim­ney; large flakes of snow were rush­ing through the half-​open door; a soli­tary rush­light dim­ly lit up the cham­ber, and cast fright­ful shad­ows up­on the wall.”

“Well; but the night was fine, and there was not a breath of wind.”

“What about that? A lit­tle wind, more or less, a weath­er­cock or so, some drops of rain, or a few flakes of snow, do not ma­te­ri­al­ly de­tract from the truth, whilst they height­en the col­or of the pic­ture.”

“And if some light­ning tear­ing through the clouds were added?”

“Yes, that would most un­doubt­ed­ly in­crease the ef­fect; but go on with your sto­ry.”

“I knew Phil to be an art­ful dodger, and was de­ter­mined not to be foiled by a mere trick, so I laid hold of a lantern and close­ly ex­am­ined the walls and floor­ing. My in­ves­ti­ga­tion was suc­cess­ful, for just un­der the cof­fin I de­tect­ed traces of a trap-​door.”

“'Well, my good wom­an, what have you got down there?” in­quired the lieu­tenant.

"'Is it un­der­ground, ye mane, yer hon­or? div­il a hail's there, if it isn't the rats.'

"'Well, just re­move the cof­fin a lit­tle aside; we shall see if we can­not pep­per some of the rats for you.'

"Here the old wom­an ap­pealed to a vast num­ber of saints, and protest­ed against Kath­leen's re­mains be­ing dis­turbed. The lieu­tenant, how­ev­er, grew tired of this farce, and or­dered the cof­fin to be shift­ed. A sailor ac­cord­ing­ly laid hold of each end.

"'Blazes!' said one, 'here is a body that weighs.'

"'Per­haps,' said the oth­er, 'the cof­fin is lined with lead.'

"The trap-​door was drawn up, and the lieu­tenant, pis­tol in hand, de­scend­ed alone.

"'Now, my lads,' said he, ad­dress­ing some in­vis­ible per­son­ages, 'we know you are here, and I call up­on you to yield in the King's name--re­sis­tance is use­less, the house is sur­round­ed, and we are in force, so you had bet­ter give in with­out more ado.'

"No an­swer was re­turned to this ex­ordi­um; but we heard the mur­mur­ing of muf­fled voic­es, as if the rap­scal­lions were de­lib­er­at­ing. I now de­scend­ed with my lamp, fol­lowed by some of the sea­men, and be­held my friends of the night be­fore ei­ther stretched on the ground or propped up against the walls, like a lot of mum­mies in an Egyp­tian tomb.

"They were hand­cuffed one by one, pushed or hauled up the stairs, and then tied to one an­oth­er in a line. When we had se­cured the whole lot of them in this way--

"'Lieu­tenant,' said I, wink­ing, 'will you per­mit me to send a ball in­to that cof­fin?'

"'Please your­self about that, young man,' said he.

"Here the old wom­an recom­menced howl­ing again and called up­on all the saints in the cal­en­dar to pun­ish us for my sac­ri­le­gious de­sign.

"'Shoot a dead body,' said I, 'where's the harm?' Be­sides, what is that salt there for?'

"'To keep away evil spir­its,' was the re­ply.

“'Very well,' said I, 'my pis­tol will scare them away as well.' Then, cock­ing it with a loud clink, I pre­sent­ed it slow­ly at the cof­fin.”

“The lid all at once flew off--the salt-​was thrown on the ground with a crash--the de­funct sud­den­ly re­turned from the oth­er world in per­fect health, and sat half up­right in his bier. I did not rec­og­nize the in­di­vid­ual at first, but, on clos­er in­spec­tion, found him to be my com­mu­nica­tive com­pan­ion of the pre­ced­ing night--the horse-​steal­er of the 'Mol­ly Bawn;' and, be­ing a stout young fel­low, he was har­nessed to the oth­ers, and we com­menced our march to the boats.”

“You do not ap­pear to have had much trou­ble in ef­fect­ing the cap­ture,” re­marked Fritz.

“No; the men were un­armed, and were near­ly all in­tox­icat­ed. You nev­er saw such a troop; scarce­ly one of them could walk straight; they as­sumed all sorts of fig­ures; the file of pris­on­ers was just like a bar of mu­sic, it was a string of qua­vers, crotch­ets, and zig-​za­gs. Luck­ily, it was late at night, else we might have had the vil­lage about our ears, and, in­stead of flakes of snow and screech­ing weath­er­cocks, we might have had a show­er of dead cats and rot­ten eggs. Prob­ably a res­cue might have been at­tempt­ed; at all events, we might have cal­cu­lat­ed on a vol­ley of brick­bats on our way to the boats. There would have been no end of com­mo­tion, up­roar, con­fu­sion, and hub­bub, pos­si­bly smashed noses, black­ened eyes, bro­ken beads--”

“Hol­loa, Willis!”

“You said just now that a lit­tle colour­ing was nec­es­sary.”

“Cer­tain­ly; but the priv­ilege ought not to be abused. Be­sides, bro­ken heads and smashed faces are the re­al­ities, and not the ac­ces­sories of the pic­ture.”

“Oh, I see. If it is night, the moon should be in­tro­duced; and if it is day, the sun--and so on?”

“Of course; and, if the cir­cum­stances are of a pleas­ing na­ture, you must leave hor­rors and ter­rors on your pal­lette; change gusts in­to zephyrs, snow in­to ros­es and vi­olets, and the weath­er­cocks in­to gold­en vanes glit­ter­ing in the sun­shine.”

“I un­der­stand.”

“You want to col­or a pop­ular out­break, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should in­tro­duce a tem­pest howl­ing, the waves roar­ing, the light­ning flash­ing, and dis­cord rag­ing in the air as well as on the earth.”

“Well, to con­tin­ue my sto­ry. Al­though it was mid­night, the dis­tur­bance be­gan to wake up the vil­lagers, and a crowd was col­lect­ing, so we hur­ried off our pris­on­ers to the boats as speed­ily as we could. Some five and twen­ty able bod­ied men were thus added to his Majesty's fleet. The ob­ject of our vis­it to the Irish coast was ac­com­plished, and the _Nor­folk_ con­tin­ued her voy­age to the West In­dies. Now you know what is meant by the word _pressed_, and like­wise the nau­ti­cal sig­ni­fi­ca­tion of the word _press-​gang_.”

“And you say that Bill Stubbs has been trapped on board this ship by such means?”

“Yes, at New Or­leans.”

“Ac­cord­ing to your sto­ry, then, that does not say very much in his fa­vor?”

“No, not a great deal; still, that proves noth­ing--the fact of his call­ing him­self Bob is a worse fea­ture. A man does not gen­er­al­ly change his name with­out hav­ing good, or rather bad, rea­sons for it.”

“What ap­pears to me,” re­marked Fritz, “as the most sin­gu­lar fea­ture of your press-​gang ad­ven­ture is, that you are alive to tell it.”

“Why so?”

“Be­cause I think it ought to end thus: 'The vic­tims of the press-​gang stran­gled Willis a few days af­ter,'”

“Aye, aye, but you do not know what a sailor is; our re­cruits had not been a fort­night at sea be­fore they en­tire­ly for­got the trick I had played them.”

Just as Willis con­clud­ed his nar­ra­tive, the man at the mast-​head called out, “Sail ho!”

“Where away?” bawled the cap­tain.

“Right a-​head,” replied the voice.

The _Hobo­ken_ had hith­er­to pur­sued her voy­age un­in­ter­rupt­ed­ly, and the Yan­kee cap­tain now pre­pared to sig­nal­ize him­self by a cap­ture.