A DILEMMA.

“Peter,” said Fleck, as they went forward to the forecastle, whilst young Penrose and the captain descended to the cabin, “Peter, lad, we’re all saved now.”

“How?” asked Peter, shortly.

“How! Won’t the skipper be bound to run into port with the young owner yonder? and then, why, man alive! which of us men’ll be fool enough to sail out again in this crazy old cockle-shell?”

“And how far are we from port?” asked Peter, gloomily; “haven’t we run into the Middle Channel? and how’s the wind blowing? Maybe I could catch a sight of land from the mast-head. Did you see the sea last night, Fleck, all ablaze? And the sky’s no longer blue, but white; and what do yonder tall clouds mean? The sea’s going to pay up its old debts. There are no birds about, and this morning at daybreak I saw a flock of them flying southward fast, as if they were scared. They’re in port by now, I guess; but I doubt whether all of us will set foot on shore again, though young Mr. Penrose is aboard.”

“Don’t you say so,” cried Fleck, terrified, “we’ll run in for shore at wunst; ay! if there were fifty mates and captains on board. Stir up the crew, Peter; they don’t need more than a word from you to stir ’em up. It’s for our lives, lad, and our poor girls at home.”

Peter Blake did not answer immediately. He stood shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing across the unbroken expanse of sky and sea. The water was still tranquil, but it was leaden-colored, and the sky above it looked wan and sickly. The clouds he had pointed out to Fleck stood up in tall, threatening pillars, towering behind a massive wall of dull grey. The wind had shifted since morning, and there was a low sighing in the air. Not a sail was in sight, not one of those little coasting vessels which run from port to port, and are careful not to put out in the face of a threatened storm.

“God help us!” he said, “and God help the women at home!”

“Stir up the men,” urged Fleck; “it’s not too late to run in, maybe. Stir up the men, and let’s go to the captain at wunst.”

“And be had up for mutiny!” answered Peter. “No, no; I’ll wait for orders, Fleck. They’ll run no risk they can help, with young Mr. Penrose on board.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon; and the sun set before five. With a heart torn with anxiety, Peter waited to hear orders given for changing the ship’s course. Any breeze, with such a ship, would be fraught with danger: and there was every sign of a gale rising. Night was coming on, too; night, which multiplied every peril tenfold. And still no orders came. Could the captain know what he was about? But Captain Norcott and his mate were having a stormy discussion in the cabin below. No one knew better than the mate what an unfortunate dilemma they were placed in by the unexpected presence of the owner’s son on board the “Dolphin.” That they must run for port was evident; yet it was certain that every man of the crew would desert, had they a chance given to them. Then the exposure and the scandal, how was Penrose to be saved from that? The mate did not care to lay the difficulty in plain words before his employer’s son; but Captain Norcott told him that the crew were on the point of mutiny, declaring the “Dolphin” to be unseaworthy.

“What’s the matter with her?” he asked; “she’s one of my father’s finest ships, isn’t she?”

“Some of the men say she’s not the true ‘Dolphin,’” replied the captain; “she was lost at sea, they say, and an older vessel has been named after her and put in her place. I can say nothing of my own knowledge about either ‘Dolphin.’”

“But what do you think, captain?” asked young Penrose.

“I think she’s a vamped-up, unseaworthy, infamous old cheat!” exclaimed the captain, losing for a moment his forced self-control.

“Do you mean my father knew it?” asked young Penrose, hotly.

“If it’s true, he must have known it,” he answered. “The old ‘Dolphin’ was his own ship. Blackburn here can tell you more than I know. They’d not dare to tell me.”

“It’s a lie, sir!” cried young Penrose; “and you shall answer for it. Blackburn, you know my father, and there isn’t a better man living. A kinder-hearted man couldn’t breathe; he never denied me anything, never. No! you shall not run the ‘Dolphin’ into port. I will go on with you wherever you are bound for. I shall feel no fear in one of my father’s ships. And when we reach home in safety, I’ll disgrace you publicly, captain; aye, if I can only do it by horse-whipping you in the streets of London.”

The passion of the owner’s son was so great, that it tended to calm Captain Norcott. He shook his head, sadly and silently. The mate, too, was silent; and in a minute or two young Penrose spoke again, less angrily.

“You don’t know my father,” he said, with a half sob, “but Blackburn knows him. What do you say about all this, Blackburn?”

“I say,” he replied reluctantly, “we’d better make for port, if we can, and chance the crew deserting. He has no other son but you, Mr. Arthur, and it would be the death of him if you were lost.”

“Do you mean there is real danger?” he asked, with a face of dread.

“A little, perhaps,” answered the mate. “It’s true the old ‘Dolphin’ was lost, and they put this in its place. But if the weather keeps fair it will be right enough; and if anything happened her, it would be by accident of the sea, and nobody to blame.”

“Then we’ll go on,” said young Penrose. “You shall not run into port for me. I’m not afraid of any ordinary peril by sea, and there can be no other in one of my father’s vessels.”

“Mr. Penrose,” said Captain Norcott, “under God I’m master of this vessel for the present voyage; and no soul on board shall meddle with my authority. The ‘Dolphin’ was meant to be cast away; she’s laden for it, and she’s manned for it. I’m going on deck now to run her ashore, and I shall not quit the deck for one moment till I see her safely anchored in the nearest haven. You and your father may do what you choose, and what you can. Only, please God, it may not be too late to save her!”

Both captain and mate hurried on deck, and in a moment all hands were at work. There was busy tramping about the ship; men ran aloft into the rigging cheerily, for the gloom of inaction and hopelessness was gone. A new spirit of vigor and obedience pervaded the crew, so lately on the verge of mutiny. Peter Blake worked with the energy of a man roused at last from despondency. The hope shone before him of returning to those whom he had left at home, and of restoring Victor to them. If the storm would but delay its coming, the freshening breeze would serve to waft them the more speedily to port. A ceaseless, though silent cry went up from his most inmost heart to God, that they might not perish on the sea.

But the night seemed to close in upon them more quickly than usual. A pall of thick clouds spread over the west, hiding the sun as it sank behind them. The wind had quickened to a moderate breeze, and with full sail set the “Dolphin” was making about five knots an hour. But the captain found himself farther from the coast than he thought, and both wind and tide were dead against him. If the wind continued to rise it would soon be impossible to carry all sail.

A thick darkness came on, with heavy rain. The breeze freshened until it was necessary to reef all but a few sails. But it was not a gale yet--nothing like it, the men said to one another; every one of them had been out in worse weather. Victor’s voice, chanting somewhere in the darkness, fell clearly upon Peter Blake’s ear through the whistling of the shrouds. He was singing his loudest to outvie the wind, a psalm that Bessie and he had often chanted together at home:--“The floods have lifted up their voice, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the voice of many waters; yea, than the mighty waves of the sea!”

“That lad chants well,” said a voice close at hand; and Peter could make out in the gloom the figure of young Penrose beside him. There was no one else near, so the remark must have been made to him.

“It’s my brother, sir,” he answered, “and it’s a bitter grief to me that he’s at sea this night.”

“Why?” asked young Penrose. “You don’t mean to say there’s any danger, with no more breeze than this.”

“Not if the ‘Dolphin’ was what she should be,” he replied; “but she’ll split up like a little match-box, as my poor mother says, if she only grazes a rock. Pray God we may keep in deep water whilst it’s dark!” “Do all the crew think as you do?” asked young Penrose. Peter could not see his face, but his voice was sad and faltering.

“To a man!” he answered; “every one amongst us. We knew there’d be little chance for us if any bad luck came. Oh! Mr. Penrose, sir, if ever you live to be a shipowner yourself, I pray God you may remember this night, and think of the poor sailors afloat, and their wives and children ashore, whose lives are in your hand. There’s four belonging to me at home, and scarce a man among us that hasn’t as many, or more, looking to him for bread; and here we’re floating away towards death in a rotten old coffin. Think of that, sir. And God Almighty will hold your father to account for this night’s work; aye! and many, a night like it, when crews have been lost at sea, and all gone down to the bottom, cursing him bitterly. Think of it, sir; and may God forgive him, if he can be forgiven for such a sin.”