A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration TimesWesterman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
History
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration Times
Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
Adventure stories; Great Britain -- History -- Restoration, 1660-1688 -- Juvenile fiction
"As the pestilence rages in London town," said he, "it is not meet that
a man should risk an inglorious death when he would serve His Majesty
better by dying for his country while fighting the Dutch. Therefore,
instead of going by coach to London, and thence to Chatham by river, we
are sending a shallop to Dover, whence you can travel through the county
of Kent to Chatham. Several officers and men are making the passage, to
bring up the crew of the _Prince Royal_ to full strength, for she has
had some hard knocks, and promotion is sure to be rapid should she again
meet with the Dutch."
I thanked the commissioner heartily and withdrew. Having bade farewell
to my friends, and gathered together my few personal belongings, I
retired for the night, as the shallop was to sail at six the next
morning.
On going aboard I found that not less than four officers and thirty men
were packed in this little craft. To my surprise and delight Greville
Drake was amongst the former, he having been promoted to lieutenant.
There were also several of the old Gannets, and to me it seemed as if
the glorious doings in the stout old craft would be worthily followed by
the crew of the _Prince Royal_.
The shallop was but fifty feet over all, unarmed save for the muskets
and swords carried by the men, and relied on her speed only for safety
in case of attack.
With a fair wind the little craft tore eastwards, passing through the
Looe before nine o’clock. Then the wind fell lighter as the sun rose
higher, and midday found us forging slowly along off Littlehampton, on
the Sussex coast.
Four hours later we had Brighthelmstone on our larboard bow, the master
of the shallop keeping close inshore for fear of being attacked by a
French or Dutch man-of-war. Finding, however, that there was more wind
offshore, he altered the helm and stood more to the south-east.
At sunset a thick mist came on, which caused our careful and anxious
master to lose his bearings. Most of us remained on deck, though the
weather was exceedingly cold. As darkness set in our position became
still more uncertain, and even the oldest seamen began to look alarmed.
Drake and I stood side by side conversing in low tones as we clung to
the weather rails, the lively motion of the little craft making it a
difficult matter to keep one’s feet.
Between the gusts of wind I thought I heard a sound. Drake listened,
but could hear nothing. In a few minutes the noise was repeated, several
of the crew hearing it besides myself. It was the roll of a drum.
Again the sound was heard, this time nearer; but almost immediately it
was answered by another faint beating, another, and yet another, till
the sea seemed to echo with the rapid roll of drums.
"Stand by, lads, to ’bout ship!" shouted the master, slacking off the
tiller lines. "We are across the bows of a large fleet, if I mistake
not."
"God forfend ’tis not the French!" remarked Greville. "’Tis not to my
liking to see the inside of a French prison."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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