Captain Packenham assured him that he had done perfectly right, and that he would look after his interests. He spoke to the commodore about him that very afternoon, and it was agreed to give him a boatswain's warrant; but Tom at once declined the offer, saying that he had only done his duty, and did not want any reward. After Captain Packenham's return from the commodore's ship, he told me that he was going home at once with despatches, and that I was to be removed from the Porcupine into the Charon in order that I might with some of her crew take charge of the Saint Domingo, one of the galleons we had just captured. I had placed under me a mate, three midshipmen, and thirty-six of the best seamen of the Charon, including my two followers, for whom I got leave to accompany me. I had now a new follower, the dog I had captured in the burning town. I gave him the name of Omoa, to which he soon answered and became greatly attached to me. I at once set to work to get the prize ready for sea; but she had much to be done to her, and it was not till the 8th of November that, having scaled guns and bent sails a few days before, I warped out of the harbour, and made sail in company with the other ships of the squadron, leaving the Porcupine and the captured dhow for the defence of the fort. I must remark that a short time afterwards, the place being attacked by a thousand regular troops, the men we had left there in garrison were compelled to make their escape on board those two vessels. And now commenced one of the most unpleasant and anxious voyages I ever made in my life. I did not think it was to be so at the time, though. On the contrary, I was highly delighted at obtaining the command, when I got on board, and discovered that the galleon was the richest-laden vessel we had captured, and that several thousand pounds would come to my share alone if I succeeded in carrying her safely into port. Not, I must say, that I thought about the money for itself. I never was mercenary. I should have been considered wiser had I been so, but my thoughts instantly flew to Madeline Carlyon. I pictured to myself peace restored between the revolted provinces of America and England, and I, with wealth at my disposal, able to go over and claim with a good grace the hand of the only girl for whom I had ever felt that deep affection which would induce me to marry. She was always in my thoughts, and now that I felt that, with the required wealth within my grasp, there was a possibility of our being united, I began in my imagination to realise the happiness I anticipated. Whatever dangers or difficulties I was in, I always thought of her. She, though far away, spurred me on to exertion. She--in the tempest, on the lee-shore in unknown seas, in darkness and surrounded with rocks and shoals--was ever present, and I believe that, had it not been for her, I should more than once in despair have given up the struggle with the adverse circumstances which