NOT THE “DOLPHIN.”

The “Dolphin” ran down the river; whilst the crew, such as were sober, were busy putting things somewhat ship-shape before entering the Channel. Upon the whole it was a fairly good and steady crew. Peter Blake welcomed with much satisfaction two or three men who had the character of being thoroughly able seamen. Fleck was there; a sly, foxy-looking man, whose word was trusted by none of them, but who was an active, clever sailor. It was, above all, his presence that had made Peter willing to sail in the “Dolphin.” He knew Fleck would serve on board no ship that he thought unseaworthy; and Peter felt that he could rely upon his judgment as to the “Dolphin’s” sea qualities as well as he could upon his own. Fleck had sailed twice before in her, and knew her better than his house at home. Upon the whole Peter felt calmer now the die was cast, and there was no possibility of retreat.

The “Dolphin” was certainly heavily laden, and the crew was short of two hands. But Captain Norcott was a first-rate skipper; and as soon as they were round the North Foreland the light north-east wind would carry the vessel down the Channel like a bird. Peter felt that he could justly write a line home, to post at Gravesend, full of comfort and encouragement. Victor put in a few words, written in the highest spirits. Everything was first-rate to him; no better ship than the “Dolphin” had ever sailed down the Thames; and no hero had ever lived to be compared with her captain. He gave a loud, long, ringing cheer to the little steam-tug, as it fell away from them; and the men on board it answered him, but there seemed a lack of heartiness in their hurrah.

“Blake,” said Fleck, as they stood for a moment or two leaning over the gunwale, and looking after the steam-tug, “Blake,” and he lowered his voice mysteriously, “she’s not the ‘Dolphin.’”

“Not the ‘Dolphin,’” he repeated; “what do you mean, man?”

“Not the old ‘Dolphin’ as I sailed in before,” Fleck continued. “I’ve been hauling her over in my mind’s eye, and she’s not my old ‘Dolphin.’ She’s another craft altogether. Aye, aye! the other ‘Dolphin’ was a ship, of course she was, same as this; I’m none such a blunderhead as that. But these ain’t the rigging and the sails--no, nor the masts of my ‘Dolphin.’ I’m most in a maze. Is she the ‘Dolphin?’ I ask my own mind over and over again; and something inside of me says, No, Fleck, she’s not your ‘Dolphin.’”

“Are you sure of it, Fleck?” asked Peter. It was not possible to doubt him altogether. There was terror in his small, red eyes, and his face wore an anxious look. He was telling no lie now.

“Sure enough,” he answered; “I’ll swear it isn’t the ‘Dolphin.’ If I could have got off in yonder boat, I’d have served my three months in jail with a thankful heart, Peter Blake. What made me willing to come aboard her was thinking it was the old ‘Dolphin;’ the best boat Penrose had. I’d never have trusted myself to any other boat of his.”

“But this isn’t Penrose’s,” said Peter.

Fleck put his tongue into his cheek, and, in spite of his own anxieties, looked cunningly and contemptuously at Peter.

“Why, man alive! of course she’s Penrose’s,” he replied. “Where did we sign articles? At Penrose’s. Who paid your advance? Penrose. Not Penrose’s! Whose is she, then?”

“The owner’s name’s Blackburn,” he said, with a painful contraction of his heart. He seemed to see again, flashing across his mind for an instant, the bow-window, at home, with all his dear ones watching the ship sail by. Yet if Fleck was right, the “Dolphin” was only one of Penrose’s floating coffins?

“Blackburn’s nought save a bankrupt brother-in-law of Penrose’s,” said Fleck, half laughing. “There’s only One above as can take us safe to Algiers, and bring us home again; and it’ll be sore against Penrose’s wishes if He does.”

“Does our captain know?” asked Peter, fiercely.

“May be ay, may be no,” answered Fleck; “but the mate knows all about it, I swear. He could tell where we are bound for. Not Algiers, but Davy Jones’s locker, I reckon.”

He went away muttering the last words, for all hands were wanted; and Peter had to dismiss the painful thoughts crowding into his brain to attend to the working of the ship. It was when he was at last in his hammock that he had time to turn over what Fleck had said. How much he ought to believe, he hardly knew; but it was plain Fleck himself felt caught in a trap. Was it possible that the original ‘Dolphin’ could have been lost at sea, and some old hulk bought and rigged out to take her place? It was quite possible. Quite possible it was, too, that Penrose, finding it more and more difficult to meet with crews willing to man his vessels, should have put in, as a nominal owner, his brother-in-law, whose name had not yet gathered any ill-fame. Peter Blake had a brave heart, and his spirit was high; no man had ever accused him of cowardice. But as he thought of his position and of the risk he ran, with the almost certain death that lay before him, his spirit quailed. He was not sure that he had done all he ought to have done before signing articles. True, Captain Norcott had urged and over-persuaded him. True, Fleck, the coward, had agreed to be one of the crew. True, his funds were very low, and had he remained on shore, serious money difficulties were staring him in the face. But the thought of Bessie and little Nan, of his mother and the baby, brought the tears smarting and stinging under his eyelids. He had been guilty of real cruelty to them; and how terribly they would suffer for his over-rash courage and contempt of danger! If he had been aboard a good ship, well laden, and with a suitable crew, there was no peril of seas he dared not confront. But how could he look up to God and ask him to work a miracle that Penrose’s old hulk of a vessel, with its heavy cargo, might reach the appointed haven, spite of wind and weather? He was a reasonable man, and he knew that God’s blessing is granted to man’s best efforts; not given to avert from man the consequences of his own folly and crime.

“God forgive me!” he cried, “and God have pity on them at home!”

Peter Blake did not know it, but Captain Norcott was scarcely less troubled than himself. He had remonstrated in vain against the over-lading of the “Dolphin;” and he had been so twitted for growing timorous in his old age, that he had retreated from the wharf in indignant silence, leaving Penrose and the ship’s broker to load her as they pleased. When he came on board at the last moment, he knew that he and his crew were about to run a very narrow chance for their lives. If all the men had deserted, instead of two, he would not have been surprised. But before he had been in the ship twenty-four hours he had made two discoveries which heightened his misgivings. He found that the owner was no other than Penrose’s brother-in-law; and that the first mate, placed on board by them, was a near relative of Blackburn. There was, moreover, something about this man which irritated and jarred upon him. He was in supreme command himself; but he doubted whether in any hour of peril his mate would second him, or would not rather try to evade his orders.

There would be very little rest for him on this voyage. Only the most absolutely necessary repose must he take. If any man could take the “Dolphin” safely to Algiers, he would do it; but nothing on earth should induce him to command any vessel of Penrose’s again. He almost wondered why Penrose should have offered him the post, and on terms so good as to make him careless of whose the ship was. But it would speak well for Penrose that he had sent her out to sea under a good and well-known captain, who could not be suspected of conspiracy with him. He felt himself to have been a simple cat’s-paw in Penrose’s grasp.

One thing he resolved upon. He would save his men. One thing he regretted. He wished he had let Victor go at the last moment, when Blake had asked him. He was almost as fond of Victor as if he had been his own son. A lad that was as bright as a bird, and as lithe and active as a monkey. His singing kept up the spirits of the men, and his happy buoyant confidence seemed like sunshine among them. But Captain Norcott wished earnestly that he had not brought him. There was a more bitter reproval to him in the boy’s merry smile than in the dark and frowning faces of his crew.

Thank God it was fair weather! The sea was calm, and the wind soft and low; the only fault was that it was too calm. The “Dolphin” seemed to be rocked to sleep on the smooth, milky waters; and her sails flapped lazily in the almost still air. But they were making their way down the Channel. The fatal Goodwin Sands and the Dungeness Lighthouse lay behind them; Beachy Head had loomed out for a little while through the autumn mists, and the Isle of Wight was passed. If this weather held out, the voyage might be made without loss of life or vessel; but it would be a very slow one.