“You black-hearted scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Bankhead warmly; for his indignation could be no longer controlled. “Would Somers push you overboard one minute, and dive after you the next?” The wretch was taken all aback when he learned that his injured topmate had saved his life at the peril of his own; and, having convicted the culprit, Mr. Bankhead went on deck, followed by Jack and Rushington; for the ship was now approaching the capes of Virginia. CHAPTER XI. THE COCKSWAIN OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG. The Harrisburg stood in between the capes, and, in the course of the forenoon, dropped her anchor off Fortress Monroe. Jack, from his lofty perch in the mizzen-top, obtained a fine view of that celebrated fortification, of which he had heard and read so much. As he gazed upon the “sacred soil” of Virginia, now consecrated by the ashes of heroic martyrs who had fallen in defence of the glorious old flag, his thoughts reverted to his soldier-brother; for there had occurred the stirring events in which Tom Somers had been an actor. Jack was proud of his brother, and thankful that he had done his duty bravely and faithfully in the army. He hoped he should soon have an opportunity to do something for the old flag; and, as he glanced at the ensign floating at the peak of the Harrisburg, he felt more than ever devoted to the good cause, and ready to die in defence of the cherished emblem. There was Virginia; and Tom could not be a great way off. He longed to see him; and he could not help thinking how smart he should feel in presenting himself before his soldier-brother in the uniform of the navy. But everything was very uncertain in time of war; and a bullet might kill Tom, a splinter or a round-shot place the gloomy “D. D.”[B] against his own name on the ships books. What would his poor mother do if either of them should be killed? His eye grew dim at the thought. His father, too, if living, was probably somewhere in Virginia; and these reflections had a very strong tendency to give him a fit of the blues. He felt like crying a little,--just as though a few tears would do him good. “What’s the matter, Jack?” demanded Bob Rushington. “You are foggy about the top-lights.” “I was thinking of my father and my brother,” replied Jack. “Well, aren’t it pleasant to think of, my lad?” “I haven’t seen my father for nearly a year. I suppose he is in the hands of the rebels, if he is alive.” “Don’t cry about it, Jack! The old gentleman will turn up all right one of these days,” added Bob in sympathizing tones.