"Silence," shouted Derry Duck in a tone of command. "Go on, boy."

Blair resumed. "I am on board the 'Molly,' Captain Knox, an American privateer, safe and sound, in full health and fair spirits, thanks to the good G.o.d who has watched over me. It would be a long story to tell you how I came here; that I will reserve till we meet. When the British commander found he could not _make_ me pilot him into Fairport, he put for the open sea, and there we took the gale. A real tear-away it was, and raked the old ship well-nigh clean from stem to stern; but they rigged her up again, and had her skimming the seas like a duck before two days were over. I had to leave Hal Hutchings on board of her; they claimed him for an English subject. It was like losing my eyes to part with him.

"I never thought to see such danger as has fallen to my lot since I kissed you good-by, dear mother; but my heart has never failed me. G.o.d has sustained me in every hour of trial, and I trust him for all that is before me, be it danger or temptation or death. He is all-powerful. In his strength I shall come off conqueror. He spread this smiling sky above me. He measured these limitless waters in the hollow of his hand.

He can, he will, keep me from all evil; and if death shall be my portion, he will take me, all unworthy as I am, to his kingdom of glory, for the sake of our crucified Redeemer."

Blair Robertson had the rare gifts of voice and manner which ever exercise an influence more powerful than force of argument or elegance of style. What he said went home to the hearts of his hearers. As he uttered the deep feelings of his soul, his rude listeners were awed into silence. He paused, and there was a moment of deathlike stillness.

It was interrupted by Brimstone, who uttered an oath in coa.r.s.e bravado, as he exclaimed that he for one would hear no more such stuff, fit only for milk-sop landlubbers and silly women.

"Read no more, my boy," said Deny Duck soberly. "You cast your pearls before swine."

Blair turned a quick look upon the mate as he said, "You then know something of Scripture, and can make a right use of it. I believe I have found a friend."

"You have, you have," said Derry Duck, grasping the offered hand of the stripling in a gripe that would have made him wince with pain but for the bounding joy of his heart.

Derry Duck was called away at that moment by a summons from the captain, and Blair, unmolested, closed his letter and dropped it in the mail-bag.

Prayer for the mate of the Molly was in the heart of Blair, even as his hands were busy with the melting wax, or loosing the rude entrance to the post-office on the sea.

CHAPTER XIII.

TEMPTATION.

Derry Duck was no mean ally. The strength of his arm, and his position as second in command, gave him great influence on board the Molly. There were traditions of the power of his bare fist to deal death with a single blow--traditions which won for him an odd kind of respect, and insured for him the obedience he never failed to exact. Derry having avowed himself the friend of Blair Robertson, it was well understood that there must be an end to the peculiar persecutions to which the boy had been subjected. He could not of course escape such rough usage of word and act as the crew had for each other, but he was to be no longer their chosen b.u.t.t and scape-goat.

Blair felt at once the advantage of having so powerful "a friend at court," and he eagerly seized upon the favorable turn in affairs to carry out his new plans and wishes for his a.s.sociates. It had struck him that there was but one way to avoid having his ears pained and his soul polluted by the conversation that was the entertainment of the mess. He must do his share of the talking, and so adapt it to his own taste and principles. The lion's share Blair determined it should be, and that without unfairness, as he had to make up for lost time. Once a.s.sured that Brimstone's unwashed hand was not to be placed over his mouth if he attempted to speak, and the cry, "Shut up, Mum," raised by his companions, Blair's tongue was set loose.

We have said that Blair was by no means averse to hearing his own voice; and much as his guiding motives and aims had changed, the Blair on board the Molly was still the same human being that he was in Joe Robertson's little parlor in Fairport. Never did city belle strive more earnestly to make her conversation attractive to her hearers, than did our young patriot, actuated by a motive which is in comparison with hers as the sunlight to the glow-worm's uncertain ray.

Blair had songs to sing and speeches to make. He had wild stories of the struggles of the early settlers of Maine, caught long ago from the lips of gray-haired men and treasured in the boy's heart, that had little reckoned the coming use for these h.o.a.rded wonders. The captains who had shared the services of the pilot of Fairport had filled his willing ears with tales of their adventures in every sea and on every coast, and the fond father had garnered these marvellous legends to tell to his little listener at home, till the child's eyes glowed bright as he panted to taste of peril, and do and dare amid the stormy waves.

Now indeed came a time of peril to Blair. With secret delight he found he had a power to charm and move even the rough band who gathered round him to catch every word of the glowing narratives he poured forth from his crowded storehouse. There is something within us all which prompts us to adapt our conversation to the taste and capacity of our companions. A kindly inclination it may be, and yet it is full of danger. He who may dare to be "all things to all men," must, like St.

Paul, have set his feet on the rock Christ Jesus, and be exalted by the continual remembrance of the "cloud of witnesses" in the heavenly kingdom, and the fixed, all-searching glance of the pure eye of G.o.d, reading the inmost soul.

Insensibly Blair inclined to use the language in which his hearers couched their own thoughts. As we speak baby-talk to the infant, and broken English to the Frenchman, he unconsciously dealt in expressions adapted to the wild eager faces that looked into his. Here had surely been a temptation that would have dragged the young speaker down to the pit which the great adversary had made ready for him, but for the strong Deliverer who walked amid the flames of fire with the three faithful "children" of old.

Blair saw his danger, and met it not in his own strength. Whether he sat down at table, or mingled in the groups on deck, or shared the watch of a companion, by a determined and prayerful effort he strove to keep in his mind the presence of "One like unto the Son of man." To him that face, unsullied by taint of sin or shame, was in the midst of the weather-beaten, guilt-marked countenances of the crew of the Molly. He who "turned and looked on Peter" was asking his young servant in a tender, appealing glance, "Will you blaspheme my name? Will you offend Him in whose eyes the heavens are not pure, and who chargeth even his angels with folly?"

A deep "No; so help me G.o.d," was the full response of the whole being of Blair Robertson. He would watch his tongue and guard his lips by the continual prayer which should stir in his heart in the midst of speech, song, or tale of wild adventure.

When the young sailor had taught his listeners gladly to hear when he would give them pleasure, he by degrees gave full utterance to the natural language and interests of his heart. They learned to love to listen even when he poured forth in his peculiarly melodious voice some majestic mariner's hymn, or told in thrilling tones how some G.o.d-fearing seaman had stood at the helm of a burning ship and headed her to land, until he pa.s.sed from amid the devouring flames to the glory of the kingdom of heaven. They heard and could not but admire the story of the unselfish Christian captain, who saw himself left alone on the sinking ship, but would not crowd the already overloaded boats with his manly form. He preferred to meet his doom in the path of duty, and on the deck where G.o.d had placed him go down to the depths of the sea, sure that his Saviour would there receive him and give him an abundant entrance into heaven.

Thus in his own way Blair was laboring for the welfare of his shipmates, ever praying that some good seed might be blessed by the Lord of the vineyard, and spring up unto eternal life.

CHAPTER XIV.

DERRY DUCK.

Derry Duck having vouchsafed his protection to the young stranger, for a time sought no further intimacy with him. He might be seen occasionally among the groups who were won to hear a song or a story from Blair, but he was apt to leave these scenes suddenly, as if for some call of duty or stirred by some quick and painful thrust of feeling.

Captain Knox was a stern, moody man, who had very little direct intercourse with his crew. Derry Duck was made his medium of communication on every ordinary occasion. The captain was the only person on board who kept a stock of writing materials, and from him, through Derry, Blair and the other sailors obtained such articles on the rare occasions when they were in demand. There was not much taste or time for literary efforts on board the Molly.

A pleasant evening had collected all the sailors on deck, and Blair had taken the opportunity to retire below to spend some time in recalling Scripture to his mind, which was now his subst.i.tute for reading in the holy book. He was roused from his meditations by the entrance of Derry Duck, with an inkstand in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.

Blair rose as the mate came towards him, supposing the writing materials were to be left in his charge for some shipmate.

"Sit down, boy," said Derry in his quick way, "sit down; I want you to do something for me."

"I should be right glad to do any thing I could for you. You have been a real friend to me," said Blair warmly. "You can't think how much I thank you for it."

Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two were for a moment silent. Blair and his "friend" formed a strange contrast to each other.

The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother's, would have been effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for some word or sign from his companion.

Deny Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and sinews. The knots on his bare arms were like k.n.o.bs of oak; and his great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a powerful living thing, having almost an ident.i.ty and will of its own.

Derry's body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall, stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and st.u.r.dy, ending in great flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the name by which he was known--originally "Daring Duck," but by degrees contracted into the "Derry Duck" which Blair had caught from the sailors.

It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother.

And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed that hardened man as a gift from G.o.d to nurse for him. His lips had been taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of G.o.d.

Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder's wild work, or the seaman's craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to the evil one the soul which G.o.d meant for himself.

"I want you to write a letter for me," said Derry, looking cautiously about him and then going on, "a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it inside of one of your love-letters to your mother. They mustn't get wind of it. They are not fit even to know I have such a child, much less to see her. Be secret! Can I trust you, my boy?"

"I'll write for you with all my heart," said Blair in astonishment; "and of course I wont name it if you don't wish me to; no, not to a soul on board. But I shall have to tell my mother, or she wont know what to do with the letter."

"Just ask her to mail it for one of your shipmates. That will be enough," said Derry quickly. "'Least said, soonest mended.' I have my reasons. I know which way the wind blows, and how to ward off a sou'-wester."

"What shall I say?" said Blair, taking up the pen, and reaching for the paper. Derry's hand lay on it, a "paperweight" that did not move itself off at Blair's motion.

"You see," began the sailor, "you see I've got a little daughter, not so old as you are by a year or two. I dare say you think she's made of coa.r.s.e stuff like me, fit for the rough and tumble of life. No such thing. Her hand is white as a sail on a summer sea, and her little round cheek is so soft, Oh, so soft, that when it snugs up to mine it seems as if an angel was touching me, and I feel as if I wasn't fit for such as her to love and fondle. Yet she loves me; she loves her old dad. She don't call me Derry Duck, not she. She don't know any thing about Derry Duck, and what he does when he 's off on the sea. I don't mean she ever shall. I'd rather die first, gnawed to pieces by a hungry shark. Her mother left her to me, a little two-year-old thing, a clinging little creature that would snug in my arms and go to sleep, whether I was drunk or sober. I killed her mother--sent her to the better country before her time. I didn't lay my hand to her; I wasn't bad enough for that.

But my ways took the pink out of her cheeks, and made her pine away and just go out of my sight like the wake of a pa.s.sing ship. Where she had been, there she was not. I loved her, boy, and these eyes cried; these great hands would have willingly been worn to the bone with hard work, if that could have restored her life. I don't drink any more. I've quit that. I haven't touched a drop since she died. I took to the sea. I made up my mind I wouldn't kill the little tender thing she left me. _She_ should never die for knowing how bad her father was. I took the little money I had, and bought a real gentleman's suit of clothes. Then I went to a minister I knew about, in a far away town, where my--never mind where the child's mother came from--and I asked him and his wife to take care of the little thing, for a sorrowful man that was going off on the sea, and would pay well for what they did. I knew it wasn't the money that would make them lay their hand to the work; but they had nothing to spare, and I didn't mean to leave her to charity. I wanted her brought up to be like her mother, in ways that wouldn't end where I'm going.

They took her, and there she is. n.o.body can see her without loving her, such a little, dainty, winning, clinging, pretty thing, nine years have made out of the toddlin' creature I put out of my arms, that ached after her till I was clear out of sight of land. Don't think I miss seeing her when I'm ash.o.r.e. Don't I leave Derry Duck aboard ship, and put on my landsman's clothes, and ride up to the door where she is, with my pocket full of money. She don't lack for any thing, I warrant you. She's dressed like a rose, all in pink and green, with little ribbons fluttering like her little heart when she sees me coming. She's learning too. Why, she knows most enough to teach the queen, the child does. And then she's so modest and asks me questions, as if I could tell her every thing. I always have a cold or a headache or something, and can't say much when I'm there. I keep still, and take my fill of looking at her, and hugging her close to this old tough heart. I wouldn't let out an oath before her. I'd rather see the Molly go to the bottom in fair weather. I'm scant of my talk, lest I should let out that my way of thinking is different from hers. I wouldn't have her pretty blue eyes turn away from me, so sorrowful, yet so loving, just as her mother's used to. I couldn't bear that. She loves me, that little pure thing, that says its prayers night and morning, and asks G.o.d to bless its father on the sea. She's my angel. Mayhap those little prayers will get heard some day, and a blessing will come to me and make me a different man. Only the Almighty could turn Derry Duck into a father fit for that child's eyes to look on. My heart yearns after her when I'm far away, but I don't let her write to me. I wouldn't have such men as I live with know where my flower hides its little head. I wouldn't have her run a chance of seeing any body who knows Derry Duck, and might tell her of his wild ways. It would break her little heart, it would. I can't write to her; not but what I was scholard somewhat, long ago; but these hands have had other work to do than holding a pen and making letters that a wise little girl like her would think all right. I couldn't either put into words just what I want to say. It a'n't much that I would say, neither, but a kind of letting out how I set all the world by her, and want her to be just so much better than other folks as I am worse.

Something would slip in that shouldn't, if I was to try; I know there would. But you can write for me. You would know just how to put it. She says she yearns after me when I'm gone, and would be so full of joy if she could once have a letter from me, all her own, to read over and over when she can't throw her arms round my neck and put her little loving face close up to mine. Will you write for me, boy, something for the dear girl to read over, and think the right kind of a father is talking to her, a man she wouldn't be ashamed of before the company her mother keeps _up there_?"

The last words were spoken reverently, and formed a strange contrast to much that had gone before. We have omitted the oaths and rough expletives with which Derry interlarded his speech. There is the taint of sin even in the repet.i.tion of such language.

Blair Robertson had listened with a throbbing heart and tearful eye to the sailor's story. It seemed to him that G.o.d had not quite cast off one who had such a tender care for the happiness and purity of his child.

Blair gently laid his slender hand on Derry's brawny fingers, and looked up earnestly into his face as he said, "Why can't you be just such a father, Derry?"