Blair was as prompt to act as to plan. A half hour after breakfast was over he was standing by the cottage of an old fisherman and knocking for admittance.
It took all Blair’s powers of persuasion to induce Jock to have any thing to do with what he called a “furriner.” The case seemed well-nigh lost, when Blair mounted on a chair, and made a small speech in his best style for the benefit of his single auditor. Whether won over by its logic or through a sense of the honor thus conferred upon him, Jock agreed to Blair’s proposition.
“The first speech I ever made to any purpose,” thought Blair, as he walked rapidly along the shore, wending his way to Mrs. McKinstry’s dwelling.
Hal had locked himself into his “castle,” as the only way in which he could escape the merciless scolding of his voluble hostess. She seemed to consider every stain on the injured garments a blot on the shield of the English boy which no apologies could excuse or efface. Hal fairly fled before the enemy; and once safe in his own room, whistled so lustily as to drown all sound of the railing from without.
It was an unusually busy day with Mrs. McKinstry, or it is doubtful whether she would have allowed even this close to the skirmish, for she had a taste for such encounters. Blair however heard the dripping and swashing of water in the rear of the house as he went up the narrow stairway. The wide cap-border of Mrs. McKinstry was fanning backwards and forwards, as she bent with a regular motion over the tub in which her red arms were immersed. She gave one look at Blair as he went up to her lodger’s room, but did not condescend even to exchange watchwords with him.
In answer to Blair’s knock was returned a resolute “Who’s there?”
The reply set Hal’s mind at ease, and the visitor was promptly admitted. Blair stated his business at once, but to his surprise he met with a blank refusal from Hal. He would not fall in with such a plan, not he. He would keep out of the water while there was any land left to stand on. He had had enough of plumping to the bottom, and coming up, ears singing, throat choking, and soul almost scared out of him. Better a crumb of bread and a morsel of cheese, than fatness and plenty earned in such a way.
It was hard for Blair to understand the nervous fear of drowning which had taken possession of poor Hal. Fairport boys could swim almost as soon as they could walk. They knew nothing of the helpless feeling of one who has the great deep under him, and is powerless to struggle in its waves.
But a few short days before, Blair would have pronounced Hal a coward, and left him in disdain. Now he stood silent for a moment, baffled and puzzled. “I’ll teach you to swim, Hal,” he said at length. “We’ll try in shallow water first, where you couldn’t drown, unless you wish to drown yourself. It is easy—just as easy as any thing, if you only know how. I’ll come for you after school this evening, and we’ll go up the creek, where the boys wont be about. I shouldn’t wonder if you were to take to it like a fish.”
The English boy looked into Blair’s frank pleasant face, and the dogged expression passed from his own. He took Blair’s hand as he said, “I’ll try. You shall see what you can make out of me.”
Before many weeks were over, Hal Hutchings was as good a swimmer as half the boys in Fairport. Old Jock no longer waded into the deep water to set his nets or push his boat ashore. He declared that Hal had scared the rheumatism out of his bones, and it was not likely to make bold to come back, if things went on as they seemed to promise.
CHAPTER V
Blair’s Company
Blair Robertson had long had a famous military company of his own, called the Fairport Guard. A guard against what had never been publicly stated; and as they had no written constitution for their association, posterity must ever remain in ignorance on this point. Up and down the streets of Fairport it was their delight to parade on a Saturday afternoon, to the infinite amusement of the small girls who ate molasses candy and looked at the imposing array.
The breaking out of the war infused a new military spirit into all the youngsters on the Atlantic coast, and the Fairport Guard came in for their share of this growing enthusiasm. Cocks’ tail feathers and broomsticks were suddenly in great requisition for the increasing rank and file, and the officers bore themselves with added dignity, and gave out their orders with an earnestness which proved that they appreciated the work they were imitating.
When it was rumored that Blair Robertson had become a communicant in the church to which his mother belonged, there was a general groan among his old followers and adherents. Here was an end, in their minds, to the Fairport Guard, and every other species of fun in which Blair had been so long a leader and abettor.
Blair was at first inclined to shrink from his old companions; but as the right spirit grew and strengthened within him, he mingled among them more freely, actuated by the desire to win new citizens for the kingdom of heaven, and to guide his wild associates into such paths as would make them a blessing to their native land.
Blair’s heart had been like rich ground, in which his mother had been sowing, sowing, sowing good seed, prayerfully waiting until it should spring up and take root to his own salvation and the glory of God. That happy time had come. All the words of counsel, all the pure teaching that had been stored in his mind, seemed now warmed into life, and ever rising up to prompt him to good and guard him from evil. Happy are the boys who have such a mother.
A series of rainy Saturdays had postponed the question as to whether the Fairport Guard should parade as usual under the command of their long honored captain. A bright sunny holiday came at last, and Blair’s decision on this point must now be declared. Long and prayerfully the boy had considered the subject, and his conclusion was fixed and unalterable.
The change in Blair’s principles and feelings had not alienated him from his former companions. Each one of them had now for him a new value. They were to him wandering children of his heavenly Father, whom he longed to bring back to that Father’s house. The wildest and most erring among them called forth his most tender interest, as farthest from the kingdom of heaven and in the most danger of utter destruction.
Blair’s love of his country too had been but deepened and increased by his late realization of the allegiance he himself owed to the King of kings. His native land was now to him a dear portion of the great vineyard on which he desired the especial blessing of God. He more deeply appreciated the fact that every true Christian man is indeed an element of wholesome life and prosperity to the neighborhood and land in which he dwells. The boys of the present day were soon to be the men on whom the state must rely for power and permanency. With a true patriot’s zeal, Blair resolved to do all in his power to bring the boys of Fairport to be such Christian men as would be a blessing in their day and generation. These thoughts had gone far to fix his decision with reference to the Fairport Guard.
It was with a burst of enthusiastic applause that the little company saw Blair appear upon the public square in his well-known uniform. His three-cornered hat of black pasteboard was surmounted by a long black feather, and fastened under his chin by a fine leather strap, the strap being bordered by a ferocious pair of whiskers, to afford which the “black sheep” of some neighboring flock had evidently suffered. His grandfather’s coat, which had been worn at Bunker Hill, enveloped his slender form, and increased the imposing effect of his tall figure upon the minds of his subordinates.
“Three cheers for Captain Robertson! Three cheers for Blair!” shouted the boys as their leader approached.
The cheers rung out on the air somewhat feebly, though that was owing to the weakness of the throats that raised them, rather than to any want of goodwill, and so Blair understood it.
“Now give us a speech before we fall into rank,” called out one of the company.
“That is just what I mean to do, if you will all listen to me,” said the captain in his most dignified manner.
The stump of a fallen tree served to elevate our speaker on this occasion, as it has many an older orator in circumstances no more interes
ting to his hearers than were the present to the eager group of listeners.
Blair had another purpose now than to hear himself talk. The short pause which preceded his opening sentence was not merely for effect. In those few seconds Blair was asking aid from his heavenly Father so to speak that he might have power to move his hearers and guide them aright.
“Boys,” he began, “boys, I want to be your captain. I don’t want to give up the Fairport Guard. We have had many a good time together, and I love you all; yes, every one. Our marching and drilling has hitherto been play, but now we ought to be in earnest. We should prepare to be really a guard to our native town. At any moment the British may land on our shores, and threaten the lives of those who are dearest to us. We must be able to protect our mothers and sisters if the evil day comes. We must learn the use of firearms. This musket did duty at Bunker Hill. Every young patriot here must learn to use it well. In due time we must each have our musket, and make it carry true, if need be, to the heart of the enemy. But, boys, if we are to be real defenders of our native land, we must be worthy of such an honor. I am willing, I want to be your captain; but hear the rules I propose for our company: We are to be a temperance band; no drop of the cup that intoxicates must pass our lips. No profane word must sully our tongues. The name of the God of our fathers must be honored among us. Any member of this company who shall be found guilty of a lie, a theft, or bullying the weak and defenceless, shall be cast out by common vote. We will strive to be a credit to our beloved home—true American citizens, who may dare to ask God to bless them in all their undertakings and prosper all they do. Boys, do you agree to these regulations? If so, I shall rejoice to be your captain. If not, I must sadly bid adieu to the Fairport Guard, and with this time-honored musket in my hand, stand alone on the threshold of my home in the hour of danger, trusting in God and in the strength of this single right-arm.”
As Blair concluded, he grounded his musket, and stood silently awaiting the reply of his companions.
There was a moment of hesitation; then one of the older boys, the first-lieutenant, stepped forward and silently placed himself at the side of his young commander. In true martial style the whole company followed, arraying themselves around their leader.
“We agree! We agree! We agree to every thing!” shouted one and all.
“May God help us to keep to our compact,” said Blair. Then, after a short pause, he added, “Let me propose to you a new member for our company—my friend Hal Hutchings, who, born on English soil, is yet a true American at heart. Let all in favor of his admission say Aye.”
Hal had been striving to give himself a military air by appearing in his red flannel shirt and trousers, while Old Jock’s red night-cap was perched above the yellow curls of the boy. As his name was mentioned, he raised to his shoulder a borrowed crutch which served him for a musket, as if to signify his readiness for martial duty.
“The English boy! Admit the English boy!” said several voices; but a hearty “Aye, aye” from two or three prominent members of the company decided the question in Hal’s favor, and he was admitted at once by general consent.
Forming now in regular ranks, the Fairport Guard went through their usual drill, and then set off in a creditable march, to let the citizens have a view of their doughty defenders.
CHAPTER VI.
A PILOT.
It is strange that the moon generally has all the blame for fickleness, when the sun quite as often hides his face without sufficient warning. The Fairport Guard had hardly made the circuit of the town, before the late smiling sky was overcast by dark hurrying clouds, and the weatherwise began to predict a coming storm, which was to be “no joke on sea or land.”
Luckless members of the Fairport Guard who had not had the precaution to tie on their head-gear, might be seen breaking rank and running indecorously in various directions in pursuit of hat or cap, while the skirts of the captain’s time-honored coat flapped in the wind, like the signal of a ship in distress.
It was in the endeavor to complete their usual tour, by passing along the wharf, that this military body was subjected to this attack from old Boreas. Worse confusion, however, soon broke up all order among them. A group of men on the wharf had been for some time looking at a ship nearing the harbor. They could not make her out, they said. She was a stranger in those waters, and yet bore the American flag. She seemed a man-of-war, and was evidently signalling for a pilot.
Fairport harbor, smooth and safe as it was, cradled among the overhanging cliffs, had a guard at its entrance which no stranger might defy. Its deep narrow channel went winding among hidden rocks, and woe betide the keel that ventured a dozen yards from its appointed path.
For thirty years Joe Robertson had been the pilot of Fairport, and was as well known to the frequenters of that harbor as was the tall spire which was the pride of the town. The sound of war had, however, roused within him the spirit of his father of Revolutionary memory. He declared he would not have it said that Joe Robertson was content to play door-keeper to the harbor of Fairport, while brave men were shedding their blood for the country, as dear to him as to them. Joe’s enthusiasm was contagious. It spread through all Fairport, and there was hardly a man who could bear arms on sea or land who was not off at his country’s bidding.
Old Jock, who had had one leg bitten off by a shark, men who had been crippled by a fall from mainmast or yard, and sickly sailors, worn out by the fevers of southern ports, were left at home to keep company with the few true landsmen, the shopmen of the town.
Old Jock had been content to serve as pilot since the departure of Joe, and well he knew the channel; but he seemed to have grown lazy, or particularly careful of himself, since Hal had come under his roof. Now he positively refused to go to the vessel in the offing. He plainly expressed his doubts as to what kind of a craft she was, and moreover declared that such a squall as was coming up was “not to be risked by any man in his senses, even if that old ship went to the bottom with every soul in her.”
Blair listened intently to this conversation. Too many times had he been to and fro with his father in his pilot’s duty not to know well the dangerous channel. Every crook and turn in it was as familiar to him as the windings of the little path in his mother’s flower-garden. The boy stood erect with growing determination as the speakers went on.
“She makes for the shore. She’ll surely run on the rocks if a pilot don’t go to her. If Joe Robertson were only here. What business had a man of his age going off to the war, instead of staying to look after the harbor of his own town?”
“He has left his son to take his place,” said Blair quickly. “I know the channel. I am not afraid. I will just speak to my mother, and then I’m off.”
In a few hurried words the son told his design to the mother who understood him so well. “May I go?” he added; “I know you will not refuse.”
The mother’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “I will not keep you, my noble boy. God bless and watch over you. The true Christian, like his Master, takes his life in his hand, and goes forth at the call of duty. The true patriot will risk all for his dear countrymen. Go. My prayers shall be around you like a guard.”
When Blair returned to the wharf it was with his mother at his side. The little pilot-boat had been made ready. As he jumped into it, another figure quickly followed him. It was Hal Hutchings. “I must go with you,” he said with determination. “I can manage a boat. I sha’n’t be in the way. I couldn’t stand it to wait on the shore. May-be two of us will be needed.”
Blair gave Hal one cordial grasp of the hand, then hoisted his bit of a sail, and soon over the wild waves the two boys took their course together.
“God help that Blair Robertson. He has the making of the right kind of a man in him,” exclaimed a bystander.
“He’s our captain, Blair is,” said one of the youngest members of the Fairport Guard.
“Who would have thought of Hal’s making such a venture?” said Old Jock. “He
’s a little skeary about water yet. But I believe he’d die for Blair Robertson. Whatever takes hold of that Hal Hutchings takes him strong.”
The mother’s eye followed the little boat as it went dancing over the waves, but her heart was uplifted in silent prayer.
CHAPTER VII
No!
The pilot-boat was nearing the strange vessel, when Blair suddenly exclaimed, “I see British uniforms on board. We have been tricked by that flag falsely displayed. It is an English man-of-war. Put about. We’ll pilot no such vessel into Fairport.”
Quick as thought the little boat had turned its head, and was making towards the shore. The movement was not unperceived on board the man-of-war, and its cause was at once understood. A boat, manned by a dozen strong rowers, had been made ready for such an emergency. They were quickly in pursuit of the retreating pilot. They gained rapidly upon the boys, and were soon alongside, commanding Blair to surrender, while half a dozen muskets were aimed at the brave lads.
“Fire! Do your worst! I am not afraid to die!” sprang to the lips of Blair Robertson; but he thought of his mother, and was silent. He had no right so to throw away the life of her only son.
“Surrender, or we shall fire,” was again repeated.
“A couple of unarmed boys, decoyed within your reach, would be a worthy mark for your treacherous British muskets,” said Blair boldly. “I would dare you to fire, but there are those at home who would miss us too much. Do what you will with us; we are your prisoners.”
The British tars handled their captives without ceremony, and hurried them at once on board the man-of-war and presented them before its impatient commander.
Not a little surprised at the grotesque appearance of the prisoners, he exclaimed in astonishment, “Who and what are you?”
“I am a Yankee boy, the captain of the Fairport Guard,” said Blair frankly. “We had been parading, when your signal for a pilot called me too suddenly away for me to have time to lay aside this dress, this coat which my grandfather wore at Bunker Hill.”
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