Chapter One.

“Can you make her out, Ned? My eyes are not so sharp as they used to be, and I lost sight of the craft when came on.”

“She has tacked, uncle; I see her masts in one, and she’s standing to the westward.”

“I was afraid so; she must be a stranger, or she would have kept her course. She’ll not weather the head as she’s now standing, and if it doesn’t clear and show her the land, she’ll be on shore, as sure as my name is John Pack.”

The speaker was a strongly built man, dressed in a thick pea-coat buttoned closely over his breast, the collar turned up to protect his neck. A white, low-crowned, weather-beaten, broadish-brimmed hat covered his head, and he held in his hand a thick stick, which he pressed firmly on the ground as he walked, for he had been deprived of one of his legs, its place being supplied by a wooden substitute resembling a mop handle in shape. His appearance was decidedly nautical, and though habited in plain clothes, he might have been known at a glance to be a naval officer.

His companion, a boy of about fourteen years of age, though from his height and breadth of shoulders he might have been supposed to be older, wore a thick monkey jacket, a necessary protection against the strong wind and dense masses of rain and mist which swept up from the ocean.

They stood on the top of a cliff on the southern coast of England, which, circling round from the north-west to the south-east, formed a broad deep bay, terminated on the further side by a bluff headland, and on the other by a rocky point, a ledge partly under water extending beyond it.

The bay was indeed a dangerous place to enter with so heavy a gale from the south-west as was now blowing.

Lieutenant Pack and his young nephew Edward Garth were returning home from an errand of mercy to an old fisherman who had been severely injured by the upsetting of his boat, in a vain endeavour to go off to a coaster in distress, which foundered in sight of land, when he was washed on shore amid the fragments of his boat, narrowly escaping with his life. Although the fisherman’s cottage was upwards of two miles off, the old lieutenant trudged daily over to see him, and on this occasion had been accompanied by his nephew, carrying a basket containing certain delicacies prepared by the kind hands of Miss Sarah Pack, or sister Sally, as he was wont to call her. He and his nephew had started later than usual, and the gloom of an autumn evening had overtaken them when they were still some distance from home. He had caught sight of the vessel, apparently a large brig, and had at once perceived her dangerous position.

For some time he and his nephew stood watching the stranger from the cliff.

“Here she comes again!” cried Ned.

“She made out the land sooner than I expected she would,” observed the lieutenant; “but she’ll scarcely weather the point even now, unless the wind shifts. She can’t do it—she can’t do it!” he cried, striking the ground in his eagerness with his stick. “Run on, Ned, to the coast-guard station. If you meet one of the men, tell him, in case he hasn’t seen her, that I think the vessel will be on shore before long. But if you fall in with no one, go and let Lieutenant Hanson know what I say, and he’ll get his rockets ready, so as to be prepared to assist the crew whenever the vessel may strike. Take care, Ned, though, not to fall over the cliff—keep well away from it. On a dark night you cannot see the path clearly, and in many spots, remember, it ends abruptly in places where it wouldn’t do to tumble down. I cannot spare you, my boy.”

While the lieutenant was shouting out these latter sentences, Edward, eager to obey his uncle’s directions, had got to a considerable distance; he, however, very soon came back.

“I met one of the men, uncle,” he said, “and he went on to the station faster than I could in the dark, as he knows the short cuts.”

“Come along then, we’ll keep an eye on the brig as we walk homeward,” said the lieutenant. “I pray that after all she may claw off the land, although she will have a hard job to do it.”

The old officer and the boy proceeded on the way they had previously been pursuing. They had gone some distance when they saw a light approaching them.

“Now, if my sister Sally hasn’t sent Tom to look for us, or I am much mistaken,” he exclaimed to himself rather than to his companion. “Poor soul! she’s been in a precious quandary at our not returning sooner, and has been fancying that we shall be melted by the rain, or carried off the cliffs by the wind, though it blows directly on them.”

The lieutenant was right in his conjectures; in another minute a voice was heard shouting, “Dat you, Massa Pack an’ Massa Ned?”

“Aye, aye,” answered the lieutenant; “keep your lantern shaded from the sea, or it may be mistaken for a signal.”

Directly afterwards a tall figure could be discerned coming towards him. “Missie Sarah in drea’ful way, cos you an’ Massa Ned not come back when de wind an’ rain kick up such a hulabaloo,” said the same voice which had before spoken.

The lieutenant explained the cause of their delay, and bade Tom hasten back and tell his mistress that they would soon be at home, but were anxious to ascertain the fate of a vessel they had discovered closer in-shore than she should be. “Beg her not to be alarmed; and, Tom, you come back with a coil of rope and a couple of oars from the boat-house. We may not want them, for I hope the coast-guard men will be up to the spot in time to help, should the craft unfortunately come ashore, but it is just as well to be prepared to render assistance in case of need.”

Tom, handing the lantern to the boy, hurried back to execute the orders he had received, the lieutenant and his young companion following at a slower pace. The fast increasing darkness had now completely shut out the brig from sight. When last perceived, however, her head was pointed in a direction which, could she maintain, she might weather the rocks under her lee. Presently the loud report of a gun was heard sounding high above the roar of the seas which broke on the shore.

“That was fearfully near,” observed Edward.

“It was indeed,” said the lieutenant. “I hope that it will hurry Hanson and his men. The master of the brig has discovered his danger. There is no chance of her escaping, I fear.”

“I can see her!” cried the boy; “one of her top-masts has gone, she’s drifting bodily on shore.”

“Poor fellows! with a heavy sea beating on it; unless she’s a stout craft, she’ll knock to pieces in a few minutes,” observed the lieutenant. “We’ll go down to the beach and try what help we can render.”

A zig-zag pathway, well known to both of them, led downwards through an opening in the cliff, a short distance from the spot they had reached. The lieutenant and his nephew followed it without hesitation, the former leading and feeling the way with his stick, for it required care to avoid slipping over, and an ugly fall might have been the consequence of a false step. They reached the bottom, however, in safety; and as they hurried along the shingly beach, straining their eyes to discover the whereabouts of the hapless brig, another and another gun was heard, the loud reports rapidly succeeding the bright flashes, showing the nearness of the vessel. The whistling of the wind and the roaring of the waves overpowered all other sounds. They listened for another gun, but listened in vain.

“I feared it would be so,” exclaimed the lieutenant; “she must have struck already.”

“Yes, yes, I see a dark mass surrounded by foam; that must he her, and not fifty yards off,” cried Ned. As he spoke he