As soon as the prize surrendered, parties were put on board to take possession, while the rest of the men were engaged in attending to their own and the Dutch wounded. The next day jury-masts were got up, and the
Jason
, with her prize in tow, sailed with the rest of the fleet for England. When they arrived at Sheerness the
Jason
was found to require a complete refit. The crew were therefore ordered to be paid off, and Will was promoted to the rank of captain, and at once appointed to the command of the frigate
Ethalion
, thirty-four guns, which had just been fitted ready for sea.
He had no difficulty in manning his ship, as a sufficient number of the
Jason’s
old crew volunteered, and he was soon ready for service.
He was at once despatched to join Lord Bridport’s fleet, and for nearly nine months was engaged in the incessant patrolling which at that time the British frigates maintained in the Channel.
Towards the end of July, 1798, the vigilance of the frigates, if possible, increased, for it became known that two French squadrons were being prepared with the intention of landing troops in Ireland. On the 6th of August a small squadron slipped out of Rochefort, and, eluding the British cruisers, succeeded, on the 22nd, in landing General Humbert and eleven hundred and fifty men at Killala Bay, and then at once returned to Rochefort.
The attempt ended in failure; the peasantry did not join as was expected, and on the 8th of September General Humbert surrendered at Ballinamuck to Lieutenant-general Lake.
Another fleet sailed from Brest on the 16th of September, 1798, consisting of one ship of the line, the
Hoche
, and eight frigates, under Commodore Bompart. It had on board three thousand troops, a large train of artillery, and a great quantity of military stores. It had set sail for Ireland before the news of the failure of Humbert’s expedition had arrived, and it was certain that as soon as it reached its intended place of landing in Ireland it would endeavour to return without delay. Two or three days earlier the
Ethalion
and the eighteen-gun brig
Sylph
had joined the thirty-eight-gun frigate
Boadicea
, which was watching Brest. At daybreak a light breeze sprang up, and the French made sail. Leaving the
Ethalion
to watch the French fleet, the
Boadicea
sailed to carry the news of the start of the expedition to Lord Bridport.
At two o’clock on the 18th the
Ethalion
was joined by the
Amelia
, a thirty-eight-gun frigate, and at daylight the French directed their course as if for the West Indies. At eight o’clock they bore up, and five of their frigates chased the English ships. Presently, however, finding that they did not gain, they rejoined the squadron, which bore away to the south-west. On the 20th the two frigates were joined by the forty-four-gun frigate
Anson
. At noon the French were nearly becalmed. There was now no doubt that the destination of the squadron was Ireland, and the news was despatched by the
Sylph
to the commander-in-chief of the Irish station.
On the 26th the French ships turned on the frigates, but gave this up about noon, and proceeded on their way. The sea now became so rough that all the ships shortened sail. On the 29th the weather moderated, and the French squadron again started in chase. About nine o’clock the French battle- ship, the
Hoche
, sprung her main-topmast, and one of the French frigates carried away her top-sail yard. At this both the French and the British ships shortened sail. The French ships wore away to the north-west, and the British again followed them; but the
Anson
had sprung her topmast, and in the evening the
Hoche
lowered hers. The weather now became very bad, and the frigates hauled up and soon lost sight of the enemy. A week later the
Amelia
left them, but three days after, they fell in with the squadron that had been despatched from Cawsand Bay when the
Boadicea
arrived with news of the start of the French squadron from Brest. They were also joined by the frigates
Melampus
and
Doris
, which while at Lough Swilly had received news from the
Sylph
of the destination of the French squadron. The whole were under the command of Sir John Warren.
With the hope that he had now shaken off his pursuers, Admiral Bompart bore away for Killala Bay, but as he neared the land his leading frigate signalled the appearance of the British squadron. Sir John Warren immediately gave the signal for a general chase, but a heavy gale set in that evening, during which the
Anson
carried away her mizzen-mast main-yard and main-topsail-yard. The
Hoche
, however, was even more unfortunate, for she carried away her main-topmast, and this in its fall brought down the fore and mizzen-topgallant-masts. A few hours later the
Résolue
signalled that she had sprung a leak which she could not stop, and the admiral signalled orders to her captain to sail towards the coast, and by burning blue lights and sending up rockets to endeavour to lead the British squadron after him, and so allow the rest of the fleet to make off.
Admiral Bompart now changed his course, but at daybreak found himself almost surrounded by the British vessels. Both squadrons waited, but with very different feelings, the order to commence action. The
Robust
led the way, followed closely by the
Magnanime
, and was received with a fire from the stern-chasers and the quarter guns of the French frigates
Embuscade
and
Coquille
. A few minutes later the
Robust
returned the fire, and bore down to leeward for the purpose of engaging the
Hoche
, which, like herself, was a seventy-four-gun ship. In half an hour all the French frigates that could get away were making off. The
Hoche
by this time was a mere wreck, having suffered terribly from the fire of the
Robust
; her hull was riddled with shot, she had five feet of water in her hold, twenty-five of her guns were dismounted, and a great portion of her crew were killed and wounded. After the battle had raged for three hours she struck her colours. The
Embuscade
had also surrendered. The other British vessels set out in pursuit of the fugitives. The
Coquille
, after a brave resistance, was forced to haul down her colours, and the
Ethalion
pursued and captured the
Bellone
. Five French frigates attempted to escape, and in doing so sailed close to the
Anson
, which had been unable to take part in the action owing to the loss of her mizzen-mast, and as they passed ahead of her, poured in such destructive broadsides that she lost her fore and main masts, and had much other serious damage. Of the ships that had escaped, the
Résolue
was captured two or three days later. The
Loire
made a good fight; she was pursued by the
Mermaid
, and
Kangaroo
. The latter, which was an eighteen-gun brig, engaged her, but lost her fore-topmast. The
Mermaid
, a thirty-two-gun frigate, continued the pursuit.
At daybreak the
Loire
, seeing that her pursuer was alone, shortened sail. As the
Loire
was a forty-gun ship the fight was a desperate one, and both vessels were so badly injured that by mutual consent they ceased fire. The
Mermaid
lost her mizzen-mast, main topmast, and had her shrouds, spars, and boats cut to pieces. She was also making a great deal of water, and was therefore necessarily obliged to discontinue the fight. The
Loire
, however, was out of luck, for a day or two later she fell in with the
Anson
and
Kangaroo
, and in consequence of her battered condition she had to surrender without resistance. Similarly, the
Immortalité
, while making her way to Brest, fell in with the
Fisgard
, a vessel of just the same size. The
Immortalité’s
fire was so well aimed that in a short time the
Fisgard
was quite unmanageable. Repairs, however, were executed with great promptness, and after a chase the action was recommenced. At the end of half an hour the
Fisgard
had received several shots between wind and water and she had six feet of water in her hold. Nevertheless she continued the fight, and at three o’clock the
Immortalité
, which was in a semi-sinking state, and had lost her captain and first lieutenant, hauled down her colours.
Thus seven out of the ten vessels under the command of Commodore Bompart were captured.
In the combat with the
Bellone
Will had been slightly wounded, and as he was most anxious to proceed with his investigation with regard to his relations, he applied for leave on his arrival at Portsmouth.
This was at once granted, and at the same time he received his promotion to post rank in consequence of his capture of the
Bellone
.
CHAPTER XIX
CONCLUSION
Will’s first visit, after arriving in London, was to Dulwich. He had visited the house with Mr. Palethorpe when it was in progress of building, and had been favourably impressed with it, but now that it was complete he thought it was one of the prettiest houses that he had ever seen. The great conservatory was full of plants and shrubs, which he recognized as natives of Jamaica, and the garden was brilliant with bright flowers.
“I am delighted to see you again, Will,” Mr. Palethorpe said, as he was shown in. “Alice is out at present, but she will be back before long. I must congratulate you on your promotion, which I saw in the
Gazette
this morning.”
“Yes, sir, my good fortune sticks to me, except for this wound, and it is nothing serious and will soon be right again.”
“Don’t say good fortune, lad. You have won your way by conduct and courage, and you have a right to be proud of your position. I believe you are the youngest captain in the service, and that without a shadow of private interest to push you on. I am very glad to hear that your wound is so slight.”
“You are not looking well, sir,” Will said, after they had chatted for a time.
“No, I have had a shock which, I am ashamed to say, I have allowed to annoy me. I came home with £70,000. Of that I invested £40,000 in good securities, and allowed the rest to remain in my agent’s hands until he came upon some good and safe security. Well, I was away with Alice in the country when he wrote to me to say that he strongly recommended me to buy a South Sea stock which everyone was running after, and which was rising rapidly. I must own that it seemed a good thing, so I told him to buy. Well, it went up like wildfire, and I could have sold out at four times the price at which I bought. At last I wrote to him to realize, and he replied that it had suddenly fallen a bit, and recommending me to wait till it went up again, which it was sure to do. I didn’t see a London paper for some days, and when I did get one I found, to my horror, that the bubble had burst, and that the stock was virtually not worth the paper on which it was printed. The blow has affected me a good deal. I admit now that it was foolish, and feel it so; but when a man has been working all his life, it is hard to see nearly half of the fortune he has gained swept away at a blow.”
“It is hard, sir, very hard. Still, it was fortunate that you had already invested £40,000 in good securities. After all, with this house and £40,000 you will really not so very much miss the sum you have lost.”
“That is exactly what I tell myself, Will. Still, you know, a dog with two bones in his mouth will growl if he loses one of them. Nevertheless £40,000 is not to be despised by any means, and I shall have plenty to give my little Alice a good portion when she marries.”
“That will be comfortable for her, sir, but I should say that the man would be lucky if he got her without a shilling.”
“Well, well, we’ll see, we’ll see. I have no desire to part with her yet.”
“That I can well understand, sir.”
“Ah, here she is!”
A rosy colour spread over the girl’s face when she saw who her father’s visitor was.
“I expected you in a day or two,” she said, “but not so soon as this. When we saw your name in the
Gazette
we made sure that it would not be long before you paid us a visit. I am glad to see that your wound has not pulled you down much.”
“No indeed. I am all right; but it was certain that I should come here first of all.”
“And what are your plans now?” Mr. Palethorpe asked.
“I am going to set to work at once to discover my family. I have not been to my lawyer yet, so I don’t know how much he has done, but I certainly mean to go into the business in earnest.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter to you much now, Will, whether your family are dukes or beggars. You can stand on your own feet as a captain in the royal navy with a magnificent record of services.”
“Yes, I see that, sir; but still I certainly do wish to be able to prove that I come of at least a respectable family. I have not the least desire to obtain any rank or anything of that kind, only to know that I have people of my own.”
“I do not say that it is not a laudable ambition, but I don’t believe that anyone would think one scrap better or worse of you were you to find that you were heir to a dukedom.”
Will slept there that night, and the next morning drove into the city to his lawyer’s office. “Well, Captain Gilmore?”said that gentleman as Will entered his private room. “I am glad to see you. I have been quietly at work making enquiries since you were last here. I sent a man down to Scarcombe some months ago. He learned as much as he could there, and since then has been going from village to village and has traced your father’s journeyings for some months. Now that you are home I should suggest employing two or three men to continue the search and to find out if possible the point from which your father started his wanderings. Assuming, as I do, that he was the son of Sir Ralph Gilmore, I imagine that he must have quarrelled with his father at or about the time of his marriage. In that case he would probably come up to London. I have observed that most men who quarrel with their parents take that step first. There, perhaps, he endeavoured to obtain employment. The struggle would probably last two, or three, or four years. I take the last to be the most likely period, for by that time you would be about three years old. I say that because he could hardly have taken you with him had you been younger.
“It is evident that he had either no hope of being reconciled to his father or that he was himself too angry to make advances. I therefore propose to send men north from London to enquire upon all the principal roads. A man with a violin and a little child cannot have been altogether forgotten in the villages in which he stopped, and I hope to be able to trace his way up to Yorkshire. Again, I should employ one of the Bow Street runners to make enquiries in London for a man with his wife and child who lived here so many years ago, and whose name was Gilmore. I am supposing, you see, that that was his real name, and not one that he had assumed. I confess I have my doubts about it. A man who quits his home for ever after a desperate quarrel is as likely as not to change his name. That of course we must risk. While these enquiries are being made I should like you to go back to your old home; it is possible that other mementoes of his stay there may have escaped the memory of the old people with whom you lived. Anything of that kind would be of inestimable value.”
“I will go down,” Will said. “I am afraid there is little chance of my finding them both alive now. I fancy they were about fifty-five when I went to live with them, which would make them near eighty now. One or other of them, however, may be alive. I have not been to my agent yet, and therefore do not know whether he still sends them the allowance I made them.”
After leaving the lawyer he went to his agent and found that the allowance was still paid, and regularly acknowledged by a receipt from the clergyman. He supposed, therefore, that certainly one, if not both, of the old people were still alive. He went back to Dulwich and said that he had taken a seat on the north coach for that day week. “I could not bring myself to leave before,” he said, “and I knew you would keep me.”
“Certainly, my boy. I don’t think either Alice or myself would forgive you were you to run away the moment you returned.”
When the time came Will started for the north, though he felt much reluctance to leave Alice. He acknowledged now to himself that he was deeply in love with her. Though from her father’s manner he felt that when he asked for her hand he would not be refused, about Alice herself he felt far less confident. She was so perfectly open and natural with him that he feared lest she might regard him rather as a brother than as a lover, and yet the blush which he had noticed when he first met her on his return gave him considerable hope.
On arriving at Scarborough he stopped for the night at the house of his old friend Mrs. Archer. She and her husband listened with surprise and pleasure to his stories of his adventures in spite of his assurances that these were very ordinary matters, and that it was chiefly by luck that he had got on. He was a little surprised when, in reply to this, Mrs. Archer used the very words Mr. Palethorpe had uttered. “It is of no use your talking in that way, Will,” she said. “No doubt you have had very good fortune, but your rapid promotion can only be due to your conduct and courage.”
“I may have conducted myself well,” he said warmly, “but not one bit better than other officers in the service. I really owe my success to the fortunate suggestion of mine as to the best method of attacking that pirate hold. As a reward for this the admiral gave me the command of
L’Agile
, and so, piece by piece, it has grown. But it was to my good fortune in making that suggestion, which really was not made in earnest, but only in reply to the challenge of another midshipman, that it has all come about. Above all, Mrs. Archer, I shall never forget that it was the kindness you showed me, and the pains you took in my education, that gave me my start in life.”
The next day he drove over to Scarcombe, and to his pleasure, on entering the cottage, found John and his wife both sitting just where he had last seen them. They both rose to greet him.
“Thank God, Will,” John said, “that we have been spared to see you alive again! I was afraid that our call might come before you returned.”
“Why, father, I don’t think you look a year older than you did when I last saw you. Both you and mother look good for another ten years yet.”
“If we do, Will, it will be thanks to the good food you have provided for us. We live like lords; meat every day for dinner, and fish for breakfast and supper. I should not feel right if I didn’t have a snack of fish every day. Then we have ale for dinner and supper. There is no one in the village who lives as we do. When we first began we both felt downright fat. Then we agreed that if we went on like that we never could live till you came back, so we did with a little less, and as you see we both fill out our clothes a long way better than we did when you were here last.”
“Well you certainly do both look uncommonly well, father.”
“And you ain’t married yet, Will?”
“No, I’ve not done anything about that yet, though perhaps it won’t be very long before I find a wife. I am not going to apply to go on service again for a time, so I’ll have a chance to look round, though I really have one in my mind’s eye.”
“Tell us all about it, Will,” the old woman said eagerly;“you know how interested we must be in anything that affects you.”
“Well, mother, among the many adventures I have been through I must tell you the one connected with this young lady.”
He then told her of his first meeting, of his stay at her father’s house, and of the hurricane which they experienced together.
“Well, mother, I met her again unexpectedly more than two and a half years ago in London. Her father had come over here to live, and has a fine house at Dulwich. I have just been staying there for a week, and I have some hope that when I ask her she will consent to be my wife.”
“Of course she will,” the old woman said quite indignantly.“How could she do otherwise? Why, if you were to ask the king’s daughter I am sure she would take you. Here you are, one of the king’s captains, have done all sorts of wonderful things, and have beaten his enemies all over the world, and you are as straight and good-looking a young gentleman as anyone wants to see. No one, who was not out of her mind, could think of saying ‘No’ to you.”
“Ah, mother, you are prejudiced! To you I am a sort of swan that has come out of a duck’s egg.”
They chatted for some time, and then Will said:
“Are you quite sure, John, that the bundle the clergyman handed over to me contained every single thing my father left behind him?”
“Well, now I think of it, Will, there is something else. I never remembered it at the time, but when my old woman was sweeping a cobweb off the rafters the other day she said:‘Why, here is Will’s father’s fiddle’, and, sure enough, there it was. It had been up there from the day you came into the house, and if we noticed it none of us ever gave it a thought.”
“I remember it now,” Will exclaimed. “When I was a young boy I used to think I should like to learn to play on it, and I spoke to Miss Warden about it. But she said I had better stick to my lessons, and then as I grew up I could learn it if I still had a fancy to do so.”
He got on to a chair, and took it from the rafter on which it had so long lain. Then he carefully wiped the dust off it.
“It looks a very old thing, but that makes no difference in its value to me. I don’t see in the least how this can be any clue whatever to my father’s identity. Still, I will take it away with me and show it to my lawyer, who is endeavouring to trace for me who my father was.”
“And do you think that he will succeed, Will?”
“I rather believe he will. At any rate he has found a gentleman, a baronet, who has the same name and bears the same coat of arms as is on the seal which was in my father’s bundle. We are trying now to trace how my father came down here, and where he lived before he started. You see I must get as clear a story as I can before I go to see this gentleman. Mind, I don’t want anything from him. He may be as rich as a lord for anything I care, and may refuse to have anything to do with me, but I want to find out to what family I really belong.”
“He must be a bad lot,” John said, “to allow your father to tramp about the country with a fiddle.”
“I would not say that,” Will said; “there are always two sides to a story, and we know nothing of my father’s reasons for leaving home. It may have been his fault more than his father’s, so until I know the rights and wrongs of the case I will form no judgment whatever.”
“That is right, my boy,” the old woman said. “I have noticed that when a boy runs away from home and goes to sea it is as often his fault as his father’s. Sometimes it is six of one and half a dozen of the other; sometimes the father is a brute, but more often the son is a scamp, a worth less fellow, who will settle down to nothing, and brings discredit on his family. So you are quite right, Will, not to form any hard judgment on your grandfather till you know how it all came about.”
“I certainly don’t mean to, mother. Of course I have so little recollection of my father that it would not worry me much if I found that it were his fault, though of course I would rather know that he was not to blame. Still, I should wish to like my grandfather if I could, and if I heard that my poor father was really entirely to blame I should not grieve much over it.”
“I can’t help thinking that he was to blame, Will. He was a curious-looking man, with a very bitter expression at times on his face, as if he didn’t care for anyone in the world, except perhaps yourself, and he often left you alone in the village when he went and wandered about by himself on the moor.”
“Well, well,” Will said, “it matters very little to me which way it is. It is a very old story now, and I dare say that there were faults on both sides.”
Will spent a long day with the old people and then returned to Scarborough, taking the violin with him. When he told how he had found it Mr. Archer took the instrument and examined it carefully.
“I think really,” he said at last, “that this violin may prove a valuable clue, as valuable almost as that coat of arms. That might very well have been picked up or bought for a trifle at a pawnshop, or come into the hands of its possessor in some accidental way. But this is different; this, unless I am greatly mistaken, is a real Amati, and therefore worth at least a couple of hundred guineas. That could hardly have come accidentally into the hands of a wandering musician; it must be a relic of a time when he was in very different circumstances, and may well have been his before he left the home of his childhood.”
“Thank you very much for the information, Mr. Archer! I see at once that it may very well be a strong link in the chain.”
Two days later he returned to London. Mr. Palethorpe was greatly pleased to hear that he had found so valuable a clue.
“I don’t care a rap for family,” he said, “but at the same time I suppose every man would like his daughter – ” Here he stopped abruptly. “I mean to say,” he said, “would like to have for his son-in-law a man of good family. I grant that it is a very stupid prejudice, still I suppose it is a general one. You told me, I think, that your lawyer had found out that this Sir Ralph Gilmore had only two sons, and that one of them had died suddenly and unmarried.”
“That is so, sir.”
“Then in that case, you see, if you prove your identity you would certainly be heir to the baronetcy.”
“I suppose so, sir. I have never given the matter any thought. It is not rank I want, but family. Still, I might not be heir to the baronetcy, for even supposing that my father was really the other son, he might have had children older than I am who remained with their grandfather.”
“That is possible,” Mr. Palethorpe said, “though unlikely. Why should he have left them behind him when he went out into the world?”
“He might not have wished to bother himself with them; he might have intended to claim them later. No one can say.”
“Well, on the whole, I should say that your chance of coming into the baronetcy is distinctly good. It would look well, you know – Captain Sir William Gilmore, R.N.”
“We mustn’t count our chickens too soon, Mr. Palethorpe,”Will laughed; “but nevertheless I do think that the prospects are favourable. Still, I must wait the result of the search that my lawyer has been carrying on.”
“Well, you know my house is your home as long as you like to use it.”
“Thank you, sir! but I don’t like to intrude upon your kindness too much, and I think that I will take a lodging somewhere in the West End, so that I may be within easy reach of you here.”
“Well, it must be as you like, lad. In some respects, perhaps, it will be best so. I may remind you, my boy, that it is not always wise for two young people to be constantly in each other’s society.” And he laughed.
Will made no answer; he had decided to defer putting the question until his claim was settled one way or the other.
In a few days he again called upon his lawyer.
“I have found out enough,” the latter said, “to be certain that your father started from London with his violin and you, a child of three. I have considerable hopes that we shall, ere long, get a clue to the place where he lived while in London. The runner has met a woman who remembers distinctly such a man and a sick wife and child lodging in the house of a friend of hers. The friend has moved away and she has lost sight of her, but she knows some people with whom the woman was intimate, and through them we hope to find out where she lives.”
“That is good news indeed,” Will said. “I had hardly hoped that you would be so successful.”
“It is a great piece of luck,” the lawyer said. “I have written to my other agents to come home. It will be quite sufficient to prove that he journeyed as a wandering musician for at least fifty miles from London. Of course if further evidence is necessary they can resume their search.”
“I have found a clue too, sir,” Will said; and he then related the discovery of the Amati, the possession of which showed that the minstrel must at one time have been in wealthy circumstances.
“That is important indeed,” the lawyer said, rubbing his hands. “Now, sir, if we can but find out where the man lived in London I think the chain will be complete, especially if he was in comparatively good circumstances when he went there. The woman will also, doubtless, be able to give a description of his wife as well of himself, and with these various proofs in your hand I think you may safely go down and see Sir Ralph Gilmore, whom I shall, of course, prepare by letter for your visit.”
Four days afterwards Will received a letter by an office-boy from his lawyer asking him to call.
“My dear sir,” he said as Will entered, “I congratulate you most heartily. I think we have the chain complete now. The day before yesterday the Bow Street runner came in to say that he had found the woman, and that she was now living out at Highgate. Yesterday I sent my clerk up to see her, and this is his report. I may tell you that nothing could possibly be more satisfactory.”
The document was as follows:
“I called on Mrs. Giles. She is a respectable person who lets her house in lodgings. Twenty-five years ago she had a house in Westminster, and let the drawing-room floor to a gentleman of the name of Gilmore. He was rather tall and dark, and very variable in his temper. He had his wife with him, and two months afterwards a child was born. It was christened at St. Matthew’s. I was its god-mother, as they seemed to have very few friends in the town. Mr. Gilmore was out a good deal looking for employment. He used to write of an evening, and I think made money by it. He was very fond of his violin. Sometimes it was soft music he played, but if he was in a bad temper he would make it shriek and cry out, and I used to think there was a devil shut up in it. It was awful! When he came to me he had plenty of money, but it was not long before it began to run short, and they lived very plain. He had all sorts of things, whips and books and dressing-cases. These gradually went, and a year after the child was born they moved upstairs, the rooms being cheaper for them. A year later they occupied one room. The wife fell ill, and the rent was often in arrears. He was getting very shabby in his dress too. The child was three years old when its mother died. He sold all he had left to bury her decently, and as he had no money to pay his arrears of rent, he gave me a silver-mounted looking-glass, which I understood his mother had given him, and he