First Performed at the Royal Surrey Theatre,on Tuesday, March 28th, 1854.
The Mill, School House, & Village Church, On The Beach Of Rock Head Ferry.
Dilapidated School House & Roofless Mill, The Churchyard and "Slab of Granite so grey."
Rags!
A bundle of 'em carefully tied up. I've paid every attention to the good old maxim—a stitch in time saves nine—in fact my worldly wardrobe is like a harlequin's jacket, all stitch and patch—neat, but not gaudy—spruce, but spangleless. There's a hat!
"What?
A hat! You can't mistake it for anything else—does it look like a wheelbarrow, Chawbacon ?
Chawbacon! Who are you, I should like to know ?
Should you ? I am forced to admit that I am in the same position; I often
ask myself who I am, and up to the present moment I've not received any
satisfactory answer, but I suppose I'm somebody, or at any rate, ought to be
somebody. I think I must have had a father and mother, although I don't carry in
my memory the slightest remembrance of that interesting event, all I
I know what you are—you are a Gipsey.
That's a general application as regards race and doesn't apply to an individual family—now you are a—
Well, what am I ?
Well, you're an individual specimen of an extensive class famed for ploughing and pudding—'taters and turnips—cabbage and cattle—cows and corn; one of the numerous necessary horde who get their bread by raising bread for others, who generally live until they are too old for work, and then end the remnant of their days in an independent retreat their labour has provided for them—the parish workhouse.
Well, dang it, there's some truth in that, but we can't help it.
Yes you can.
How?
Drink less ale and buy penny publications.
Advice gratis, as our doctor says.
And valued at about as much as it fetches—nix.
Slang !
No—polite language taught by adversity to assist necessity—figurative and melodious—one of the ancient tongues, so old that its origin is lost in the darkness of the past, handed down by the present.
Ah! you're one too many for me—yet they say in our village I'm bright.
Yes, bright as a blacking bottle !
Mary !
Moonlight!
What, Rags!
Don't turn up your nose at rags—riches are made by rags.
Turn up my nose at you! no, that I wouldn't, if you hadn't a rag to your back ; you know, Reuben, I love you.
Almost as much as you love Ben Bolt.
Respect, sir.
Christian Comfort.
Just so—when I wandered about a careless bare-footed child with no thought but for the bright skies and the green fields, Ben, then a child like myself, led me by the hand beneath that torch, and and asked the good man to give me that blessing, which humanizes all—knowledge.
And he gave it?
He did—he placed the little gipsy wanderer by the side of the child friend that brought her, and with no pay but the grateful tears of her he taught and fed, became a friend—a father to her—all this I owe to Ben, and my heart must be cold indeed, if I love not him who did so much for me.
And you have remained with the old gentleman and his daughter ever since, proving your gratitude by dusting out cupboards and sweeping down cobwebs.
Oh , I confess the case—I have been ungrateful—I determined to see the world, so starting with nothing but my natural
Impudence.
Well, I didn't forget to pack up a little of the last-named article in my travelling trunk.
A travelling trunk!—a cotton handkerchief, containing a-
Calico shirt and a worsted night cap.
Reuben!
Oh, a fact—I like to be particular.
You must have been, in your linen.
Oh, I had a change.
A change ?
Yes—two towels and a dickey.
Ah, change has been your ruin, you're so fond of roving-" A rolling stone gathers no moss."
Well, give me the rolling, and those that like may gather the moss.
Good morning, sir.
For a time, sir.
For some time, I hope, Reuben ; believe me, there's no place like home.
If Captain Cook had thought so, sir, we should have known nothing of Owhyhee and New Zealand.
Ah boy, we rarely want excuses to colour the wishes of our hearts ; there is one thing I am proud to say, that if in your wandering you have not gathered wisdom, you have at any rate avoided vice.
You compliment, sir.
No!
After the example I learnt from you, if I ran out of the course, I must have been a bad one, seeing so much goodness, so much —
Ah, now you are going to compliment.
No !
That voice!
I know it, 'tis Ben Bolt's.
Can it be ever taken for any one else's.
No swearing, shipmate.
No, no swearing; there are many bad habits, but that's a damned bad habit.
Reuben!
Oh, I wish I hadn't spoke.
Oh, it's no use, I can't resist it.
Hollo! what's the matter with you, mate ?
It's a way I have—a sort of joyous exclamation when I behold the happiness of those I respect; it's my joy.
Is it—well, I shouldn't have thought so by the sound of it. Well, Alice, my lass, I've cast adrift the cable of care; my small little sloop floats upon the waters of the bay, as trim and as beautiful as the dear girl whose name she bears. Servant, Master Comfort, or I should rather hail "Father," shouldn't I?—for if all goes fair, to-day sees the splicing of Ben Bolt and his pretty Alice.
Go along, do?
If ever father gave child with the assurance and prospect of a happy future, I do mine. I've known you, Ben, from careless infancy to manhood's riper days ; known yours, for the manly heart and noble spirit that makes the man, whate'er his station, noble is the noblest. My blessings on you both!
Oh, sir, in giving me Alice, you freight my heart with such a cargo of blessings that its weight seems almost to founder the hull that bears it. When in humbleness and poverty, I worked the reckoning to gain the prize I look upon, the thought of this moment was the bright light that drove the dark clouds of doubt and fear far away, amidst the broken waters in my wake; and when the storm came, and the loud tempest sent its raging waters round the devoted bark, and pale faces with sinking hearts looked upon the doom that threatened, there came to me a whisper of hope—a thought of Alice—and my heart grew firm as the planks I stood on! I flew to my duty, and clinging to the quivering mast that bent like a reed before the fierce hurricane, gathered the torn and shattered canvas until it lay furled and snug as the babe pressed to its mother's breast, and when the storm passed and the lull came, and the bold vessel careered on her homeward course, every wave that broke beneath our way, foam-crested, seemed to bear upon its glassy surface the name of her I loved.
Oh, what a terrible life to lead- braving death and danger hourly. I shall never hear the wind blow without thinking it brings danger to mine or sorrow to me.
Nonsense, my girl; it isn't every capful of wind capsizes a craft; stout hearts and strong timbers weather out the roughest gale; besides, my lass, I've given up long voyages; luck has squared the sails for me, I've made money enough to buy a craft of my own, and yonder she floats, every timber of her as fresh and as firm as your own heart, my dearest Alice.
Have you insured her?
No, but I will—I've only just paid for her and brought her round the point from the builder's—here's a letter to the underwriters ; you slip your cable, will you, father—put the direction on it, and ship it off to the agents ?
I will, boy.
Ben—when we are—are—
Spliced, my lass—out with it—don't be ashamed; I could carry on all day long, counting the knots that happiness has in store for me.
Well, then, when we are—
Spliced!
You shall go no more voyages without me.
What? lord love you—you don't mean that, do you? What swing hammocks afloat
and ashore ? my dear girl, you shall have a cabin fit for a sea queen. In fair
weather, we'll walk the deck together, and I'll spin you yarns of the wonders of
the waters
And in foul weather, Ben ?
Oh, we won't have any foul weather ! and if we do, it will but make us better love the fair that's sure to follow.
Don't fear me, Ben: be fate or fortune what they may I'll never shrink to share it with the man I love.
You're an angel!
I'm a woman, Ben !
Well, they're all angels, ain't they ? at any rate they ought to be; for where beauty builds the figure-head, evil passions should never hull beneath.
I've another reason—you'll say a foolish one—why I should not remain here while you are at sea. Ivan Ironlink—
The miller?
The same!
I don't like the lubber, nobody knows anything about him.
My father says—some years back, he came and settled here; but from where, no one can tell—bought the mill
Where he's harboured ever since—like a rat in the hold of a West India trader—sulky with the sweets that are stowed around him.
He made my father an offer for my hand, of course was rejected; and though polite and neighbourly, I never look upon his face, and mark the dark cold smile that gathers there, without a shrinking, and a thought of mischief.
Mischief! I should like to catch him at it. Mischief—I'd mischief him ! I'd serve him as Billy Blowhard served the Flushing skipper—start him end for end—tie him up in a double reef-knot- and then send him home to his disconsolate parents to get him out of the hank.
The very gentleman I was contemplating a pleasant treat for — I say, mate !
I know ! I know, my lass, he hasn't shown his teeth yet — I'll lay on my
oars and look for his bite.
Foul weather wishing fair days is like a dead calm to a voyage-paid coaster—neither welcome nor pleasant.
Give me credit for good wishes!
I'm very careless about your likings—I neither value nor
Hold hard, mate, let me put you square a bit, as regards the lass that's moored alongside me—she's the point I steered for from life's earliest rating; our hearts grappled ere one strand upon love's cable was known to us—but love grew with us as we grew—a few hours makes her my wife—I've got her consent, I've got her father's, I've got my own, and I shan't ask yours; so if you've anything to say to her, you'll say it to me, and the chances are, you'll get an answer rough or smooth, as the question may be.
Well, I should have thought words of good feeling and congratulation could never be construed into offence or evil meaning, I've no reason to wish ill to either her or you.
Oh, neither her nor I care a rope's end, for your good word, or your bad one.
I am sure I wish you both well, can there be harm in that ?
Certainly not, if you mean it.
I do mean it.
Then here's my hand, mate, and my heart's in it—I'd rather sail in convoy with good fellowship, than keep a look a-head for a secret enemy—don't let us have any misunderstanding, because Alice prefers me—we can't be all born good-looking—it was in my fate to be launched with a beautiful figure-head, yours, to be turned out in the rough, and though you've been some years in the world, time hasn't holy-stoned the sharp edges of your cast-iron mug; but don't despair, some things improve by keeping -who knows, in a year or two you may become good-looking.
I will not, and to prove it, I ask you in friendly heart to join our wedding guests, and by your presence cement a friendship that time may ripen—you'll not refuse—I ask it in mine and my husband's name.
Refuse, no, 'twill pleasure me to see your happiness, and although it may cost me a pang to look upon the prize I could not gain, there shall be no envy in the pang, no heart shall more rejoice to see your joy than mine.
Well said, mate—you're like a fog that comes before a fair weather breeze, whose darkness is forgotten in the brightness that follows! Look! Alice, my lass, look! there stands the village church ; astern of it, dwells the parson under hatches. I've got the ring. Time will turn the wheel until it logs the hour that makes me master of the charming Alice !
What's up, mate?
Breakfast!
I'm with you. Will you take a berth alongside our mahogany, sir—I need not say how welcome you'll be !
No, I've business in the mill; I'll join you when the other guests arrive.
Aye, aye, sir, all right—now bear a hand for the breakfast lanyards. Come along, Alice.
Now do you know what you've got to do ?
I've so many things to do, that I've forgotten them half.
Oh, what a head you've got!
Yes, I flatter myself the heading of the affair is highly tasty and respectable; it isn't every day you look upon so well-finished a frontispiece.
You're to wait at table.
i don't like waiting at table, I'd rather begin at once.
Will you listen ?
All day long to you, as the honey-bee hangs on the flower that gathers sweets.
And bears a sting.
Don't mention it.
Then you are to set the bells a-ringing.
Like winking.
Uncork the bottles—decant the wine—fill the glasses.
And empty them too, with any gentleman in the company; and when I get upon the table—
Take care you don't get under it.
Despise me if I do; an honest friend, a cheerful glass and a true-hearted wife, are heaven's gifts—to soften the mortal's thorny path in life's rough road,
You talk like a saint!
And you look like an angel!
Ah, that's what all the men say.
Well then, what everybody says, must be true.Oh,if you'd only marry me.
So I will!
When?
When you're settled !
Marry me, and that'll settle me.
I don't know that; sometimes it's only the woman that gets settled ; there are brutes who are cowards enough to ill use the woman who trusts them.
Ah, I'd have such fellows tried by a jury of old women and punished by a committee of young ones.
I should like to be on the committee !
So you shall be, if ever I forget myself.
Love is a lottery, and marriage, like coach-horses, go best in couples.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
But I mean it, I say plainly, yes—when you've a coin in your pocket and a crust in your cupboard.
Ah, you're a—
A what ?
. Why a Fol de rol lol, &c.
That's well—don't be seen.
Three cheers for the Captain!
And a little one in for his wife.
I know and feel I am at the flood-tide of joy and happiness —may you all feel as I now do, when you cast anchor in the bay of matrimony, may you light upon a craft as fair and true as the trim frigate that clings in confidence to him who loves her, dearer than his life; so here, messmates, let me give you a toast—"Health, happiness and true-hearted wives to you all."
Why, Reuben, you look as jolly as Rollicking Rowlover, the skipper of the Roun'about Brig I sailed on board of, bound for the Bermudas. My dear eyes, he was the chap to carry on—it was grog morning, noon and night with him. He kept his log on the head of a rum puncheon—slept and kept his dog watches with his mouth upon the vent peg, and wouldn't trade for any freight that wasn't cargoed with rum, sugar, lemons, and hot water; he pickled his junk in rum—soaked his biscuit in rum—rum'd his coffee—rum'd his tea—took his plum duff with rum sauce—swore as he lived by rum, he'd die by rum, and so he did, for he was found one morning's watch with his head down and his heels up, in an empty twelve-gallon hogshead.
Why who'd drank the rum ?
Why the skipper had, every mortal drop of it—then turned sulky and died because there wasn't more of it.
What twelve gallons of rum ?
Yes, he'd take that every day after tea, and think nothing of it-well, you see it was scarcely daylight when we found him, and one of the crew took a light to look in his pocket for the ship's papers, when, my eyes, the moment the candle came alongside him, off he went over the sides in a blue flame, leaving nothing behind him but the nails of his shoes, them I suppose the rum couldn't touch—but what say you to a rattling dance ? Alice and I will foot it away as merry as a ship's crew when the boatswain pipes for pay-day.
Oh, Mr. Bolt! Mr. Bolt!
Why what's the matter, mate ?—you look as white as a storm-bleached mainsail.
Your sloop
What of her?
She's on fire!
Quick ! to the boats! we may save her yet !
Every boat on the beach is staved ; there's been malice in it, for she's on
fire in different parts of her.
What's that ?
There's not a timber of your sloop left. Had you gunpowder on board ?
Not an ounce, as I'm a living man!
Then some devil's put it on board for you; that last report scattered to the broad waters every timber of your trim- built sloop.
Wrecked in sight of port! The savings of years scattered on the waste of
waters—hard lines—hard lines. Who could have done this ? In word or deed, I
never injured man ; I can't speak what I think, but I feel the time will come,
when I shall know the actor of this deed.
Burrowing like a rat don't suit my constitution ; I like the open air and the bright warm sun, not prowling about like an owl in the moonlight; I've had no luck after that affair of Bolt's. I've been a marked man ever since the burning of the sloop—although they couldn't prove it against me, they were satisfied in their own minds that it was done through my means, and every neighbour and customer cut me ; the mill went to decay—not that I care much for that, for thanks to my other profession, the loss of trade won't destroy my worldly prospects—but I've been even with them ; and if Bolt should ever come back from his cruisings, he'll find desolate home and a cold-hearted welcome, and have me to thank for both. None of the village for a moment think I'm living in the very heart of them—they give me credit for being far away; no no, I'm among them yet, and trust to make more mischief. There's no one stirring—I'll to the beach and plant the signal.
Porter's work done and small parcels carefully delivered. This is the reward
of industry—I work hard and am half starved; when I led an idle life, I was well
paid and well fed for doing nothing—now it's quite the reverse, I do everything
and get nothing for it. Mary—Mary!
Yes, my love!
I'm sorry for that, for if we go on in this way, he won't have much practice for his teeth when he gets them.
Oh, husband, you look tired and fagged—where have you been?
Down to the beach, looking out for squalls, after last night's storm; a vessel went ashore on the head rock, and with the rising tide she broke up.
And the crew ?
'Tis feared have all perished! some of our neighbours were lucky and picked
up trifles worth having—I've had my usual luck, that's the only trifle I've
picked up !
Do you call that a trifle ?
In value, though not in weight. Never mind, my dear, it will be a valuable adjunct to our domestic circle, it will do to keep the pot a-boiling.
Ah, Reuben, Reuben, times have changed with us since the death of our friend ! Ah, poor Alice! her loss broke her father's heart; and then such a fate for the poor girl—drowned in the sight of her own home— for when the ferry boat upset, her hat and cloak was found in the stream by the old mill yonder.
But the strangest part of the story is, that the body was never recovered!
Not at all strange! the receding tide doubtless bore it out to sea; the old gentleman to his dying day had but one opinion, and that was of the certain death of his daughter—or why did he erect a granite slab to her memory in the old churchyard ?
Oh, Mary, my dear, don't talk of churchyards. What have you got for supper ?
Nothing !
Well, let's have some of that then !
At any rate, very little.
Well, lately, we've not been accustomed to much, so I'll take a little of your little, and live in hopes to make the little more. We ought to do better—we try hard for it —we are freeholders, thanks to the old gentleman's bounty, who, when he died, left us his personal estate, cottage, copy books, canes, and cabbage garden.
The cabbages flourish!
Much better than we do. I'm sure it isn't for the want of trying, for I've turned my hand to almost everything, but everything seemed to slip through my fingers. I do verily believe, if I was to turn butcher, people would cease to eat meat, and vegetable diet become general.
Aye, we've been very unlucky since our marriage, we get nothing round us—
But children, and they come as fast as our misfortunes.
They are blessings.
Real blessings to mothers.
The dears!
There's no denying the expense.
Do you regret the expense ?
Certainly not, I shouldn't regret it if it was double, it's not a regret, it's a fear I have.
Fear ?
Yes, that we shall have more mouths than food to put in them.
Well, never mind, Reuben; Time, they say, will mend everything.
Will it? Well then, I wish it would try its hand on my shoes. I ought to have gone to sea with Ben.
I couldn't part with you then, as we were just married.
Ah, you wouldn't so much mind it now.
Not for a week or two—but Ben Bolt's been away four years, and were you to leave me for two years, I should fancy —
Yourself a widow, and look out for another Reuben; but come along, wife, let
us take in the wood and make a good fire —here, here's a good log to begin with.
That was burnt, by Ironlink, if I'm a living woman- although he managed to avoid the law, he couldn't save himself from a wise Providence, who, in its own good time, punished the wretch—look at the roofless house, the broken wheel, himself a wanderer—are not these certain signs of a judgment upon him ?
My mind misgives me; if it should be the ship, the chances are, that poor
Ben, like his promised bride, has found a grave in the bosom of his native
waters.
I've planted the signal, and when the moon goes down the lugger can launch
her boats and run her cargo in safety to my mill, and that's about the last
place the authorities would look for as a depot for contraband articles. I'm
playing a safe game- another run or two and I'm a made man, and then I'll really
quit the neighbourhood, and in a distant land, under an assumed name, all
remembrance of Ironlink, the smuggling miller, will be buried in oblivion. I
wonder what this is I picked up on the beach.
Ha! That voice—the devil! I reckon without my host; that's a sound that brings mischief with it, if I mistake not—I must play a cunning game here.
Nearer! now to my hiding place.
Ship ahoy! Why, how's this ? Still water, and not a sail
Her song, but not with her voice. Oh, Alice, Alice, has the lead line of
hope run to its last coil and fathomed in the grave ? I'll know the worst at
once, I can't bear this beating about, better every timber break up upon the
rock of certainty, than live in a sea of gloomy doubt.
Oh, how every note of the melody sounds to my heart like the boding scream of the sea bird, that tells of storm and tempest. Is there truth in the words I hear ? And has the good old man made his last voyage and reached the haven of peace and rest? If so may a seaman's prayer help to hallow the turf that covers him. But Alice—Alice !
Dead—dead! No—no ! Scarce launched on life's stream and to founder on her
first voyage—ere sun or storm had time to kiss her fair white canvas or bleach
the brightness of her eyes. In the churchyard—I'll look, though Death should
dwell upon the look; I can't see—mist and spray is gathering round me—the dark
dead reckoning is about me—there, I've dashed it off!
Who's there? Does anybody want anything ? I thought I heard somebody hanging
about my door. If it's a case of robbery and they think to pick anything up, I
can tell them it's a hopeless affair, for there isn't even a bone left to pick,
if it's any poor devil that wants a shelter, he shall have it; and though I've
got nothing to give him but cabbages, he can have plenty of them, with a hearty
welcome for a sauce!
What's the matter, Reuben ? Where are you ?
Oh ! come out!
I can't; but I can hear voices—I think there's something
Lift the covering from his face and let him look upon his friends.
Ironlink !—the lubber that worked me evil in my happiest hour.
Aye, and the bitterest foe that ever crossed your path, from the moment you became my rival.
Ha, ha, ha!
Brute! If I wasn't lashed and shackled by the swabs around me, I'd knock the teeth down your foul, unnatural throat, and choke the cold laugh in the heart that utters it!
Ah, you'd do great things, doubtless, but we'll not give you a chance of doing them.
Why am I seized and treated like a prisoner ? What have I done to deserve this treatment ?
Crossed my purpose—besides, by this time you have learned who and what I am, and, with that knowledge, it wouldn't be safe to let you loose.
You're no more than I ever thought you—you never looked like an honest man, your shrinking eye ever quailed before mine.
You don't know half you owe me.
Oh, I can pretty well guess it!
I burnt your sloop !
That's no news; and harkye, mate, if ever we meet, and I feel we shall, when you haven't this devil's crew around you, I'll take the insurance money out of your black and skulking carcase.
Oh, fire away, I've nothing now to live for—I should take the bullet as a mercy that robs me of the number of my mess—all that linked me to life is severed, and to be moored alongside her, would be a haven of happiness to an almost broken-hearted tar.
No ! I'll spare you.
Oh, don't give yourself so much trouble—you don't look one of the sparing sort!
Rail on, I've got that will pay back all your foul reproach --that which will turn your proud heart and bend your stubborn knee to kneel and pray to him you now revile and scorn!
Bend my knee to you! Ask the firm rock to bow and bend to the lashing waters that break in foam upon its stone-ribbed side —ask the loud gale that sweeps o'er the bending mast to stay its fury and spare the labouring bark—ask the opening billows to close their greedy mouths and save from death the sinking mariner—ask the ravenous shark to pass its prey and let the struggling swimmer reach his port of safety—when these are asked and granted, I'll bend my knee to you, but not before!
Well, time will prove. You little dream of the power I possess to break your boasting spirit. Listen—in a few hours we leave this place, and I trust for ever; you, if I do spare, we leave behind, lashed and helpless, to starve and rot; and to add to your heart's deep agony, one fleeting glimpse of happiness shall pass before your almost maddened eyes to make death more bitter.
I'm laden gunwale-deep in misery, and very little more freightage will sink me; the only regret I feel is, that I am to be broken up by a lubber like that. Heaven help me, I've no wish to beat about without compass, bolt, or stay, to bind me to the land that once looked fair and green, when my poor Alice was the star I steered by—now she's gone, the cable that bound me to life is every strand of it severed. Alice, poor dear Alice, I could cry like a child, but that my bursting heart hasn't the stowage left of a single tear!
What's that ? Has fancy taken a berth in my brain, does madness picture to
my wandering senses the sounds and memories of the past ?
Alice! Alice! let your spirit-voice cheer your broken-hearted Ben. Alice!
Ben !
Avast! hold hard for one moment—don't speak! let me look at you for an instant—for I feel the sound of your voice will bring such a flood of joy to my heart, that it will tear the ropes from it's very ring-bolts. Alice! Alice! now speak, if you are life I look upon!
Ben ! dear Ben !
He who did the wrong was Ironlink—he it was that crossed our loves, and worked an evil destiny on both—drove you from your home and ruined mine; his wicked spirit formed a devilish scheme to get me in his power—o'erthrew the ferry boat and cast me in the stream, and when I struggled on the waters, snatched me from them to bear me here, where by threats he thought to bend me to his will, and force me to become his wife; heaven has saved me—you are here, Ben, and I am safe !
Yes—while there's life left, I'll never leave you!
Oh, dear Ben, let us leave this place—take me to my home—to my father!
To your father, Alice ?
Aye, Ben, to my father, who will bless you for his child. He loves you, Ben ; but how much deeper will be his love, when he knows that by your means, I am again restored to his arms ! Oh, how happy will he be to see me—how pleasing will be my task to dry the tears his aged eyes have shed, shed for my absence! oh, we shall be so happy, Ben!
Happy!
Aye, happy! shall we not? I'll lead my dear father to the spots he loved—sit by his side with you, Ben, and talk to him of our coming happiness—you have seen him, Ben—wept with him at fancied death ! I know, I feel his poor heart was nearly broken! my redoubled care and love shall pay him for the past. Come, Ben, let us go, there's danger while we linger here.
Alice—I—I—I can't find the heart to tell her.
Ben, you turn from me—my father ! answer me—he lives —he's in health—tell me so. You pause—he's sick, sorrowing for me—lead me to him at once.
Alice, let me bear you from this place, harboured in my arms, no one shall take you from me.
My father!
A few hours will give me a husband's right, and then I shall be your natural commander! your friend! your protector!
Ben, my father!—my father! does he live ?
The best built ship will sometimes go on shore, and the stoutest built bark can't last for ever! and when we leave this life's anchorage, we leave it with the hope of cruizing in that latitude where storm and tempest never come.
I see it all—your looks tell me more certain than your
Alice! Alice, my girl, look up—poor girl! poor girl the grief is too great to bear; but we mustn't linger here, I must make sail out of this devil's port before the black crew bear down upon us.
Well, I've got into a good thing at last! if I haven't got a situation under
Government, I've got a situation under ground. I'm caught in a decided human rat
trap, dropped into it without the remotest idea of a nibble ! Well, I'm in and I
must get out. I hope my dear wife will gather the neighbours, for the sake
herself and the babbies. I know there's a screw loose, and the chances are, I
shall be well paid if I can tighten it. Oh, here's situation for the father of a
family! Oh, how cold I do feel! this place is a regular ice well; if I stay here
much longer I shall be a block of real Wenham. I have it—I've been used to
making shifts all my life, I'll see if I can't make a toga,
Well, all's square. I've packed up the bales of silk and cards of
lace—everything is ready; boats on the beach, round the rock, on the bight of
the bay—in an hour or so it will be high water and we on board the lugger, she
can run out, and all as right as heart can wish.
Well, where am I now ? I've seen nothing living yet—oh, how cold I do feel
wandering about this damp building. This seems the best room in the house,
certainly the warmest I met with yet. I declare, an excellent fire ; I'll take
the liberty to warm my toes.
I will, or sink with you, my lass.
Is all prepared for our departure ?
All! I've signalled the lugger, and all's ready to heave anchor the moment the boats reach her.
Then all's well; and now, sir, you must make up your mind to sail with us, and if we're overhauled with you on board us, there is not one of the crew but will swear you are the skipper of the craft you sail on board.
Psha! I laugh at a threat like that —I have those who sailed with me on board the Antelope that can tell of my whereabouts for these four years past!
And where will you seek their evidence ?—from the bosom of the waters, fathoms deep ? Except yourself, there isn't one of the crew saved.
A lie, mate! All were saved—passengers and crew. I shall slip my cable, mate, out of your lubberly hands before you make the port you sail for !
Tear her from his arms!—yet stay one moment, that I may tell him how complete is my triumph. You deem you've lost in the storm the fortune that you toiled for—'twas saved, and is here in my hands! Tis mine—the wrecker Ironlink's ! I found it on the beach, washed from a bark that bore no living soul on board her- you know the law of custom makes it mine—behold it!
Take it Ben, and stick to it like a brick !
Ah ! down with them !
Oh! but look out for squalls!
Heaven has sent us a chance for liberty—we must make a running fight for it. Come, Alice, our case is desperate, but it's for more than life we venture.
Look up, my girl, don't droop, don't sink—we've passed through the breakers, and have made the open sea. Up, girl, up, we've left mischief astern, and there's hope for us yet!
Oh, Ben, I feel I shall sink even here; the spirit that sustained me within, seems to forsake me now.
There my friends, the poker will keep them in for a bit Come on, Ben, and
the devil take the hindmost.
It's useless to contend, we have taken your lugger and you are now our prisoners.
Saved! Saved!
Yes, as it is to him we are indebted for the information, by his wife bringing intelligence of the smuggler haunt, his share of the forfeited stores will be a pretty considerable sum.
Say you so, then I shall retire from public life, and continue to cultivate my cabbages.
And thanks to you, Reuben, I've the means to make Alice happy, in the home she loves. I'll rebuild the old porch, plant fresh flowers, and if I can cast the line and find deep water, to sail with a fair breeze, fanned by your good wishes, I shall make port and cast anchor, a happy and contented Ben Bolt.
Don't refuse him, for the sake of—
Alice—
Mary—