The jolly-boat returned, pulling only two oars; the remainder of her crew, with Johnson and Merton, having taken this opportunity of deserting from their forced servitude.  With some hearty execrations upon the heads of the offending parties, and swearing that by G—­d there was no such thing as gratitude in a sailor, the commander of the cutter weighed his anchor, and proceeded to sea.

The orders received by the lieutenant of the cutter, although not precisely specifying, still implying, that he was to bring back his cargo alive, as soon as his Majesty’s cutter Lively was fairly out at sea the hatches were taken off, and the impressed men allowed to go on deck in the proportion of about one half at a time, two sailors with drawn cutlasses still remaining sentry at the coombings of the hatchway, in case of any discontented fellow presuming to dispute such lawful authority.

Newton Forster was happy to be once more on deck; so much had he suffered during his few hours of confinement, that he really felt grateful for the indulgence.  The sky was bright, and the cutter was dashing along the coast with the wind, two points free, at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour.  She was what sailors term rather a wet one, and as she plunged through the short waves the sea broke continually over her bows and chesstree, so that there was no occasion to draw water for purification.  Newton washed his face and head, and felt quite revived as he inhaled the fresh breeze, and watched the coast as the vessel rapidly passed each headland in her course.  All around him were strangers, and no one appeared inclined to be communicative; even the most indifferent, the most stoical, expressed their ideas in disjointed sentences; they could not but feel that their projects and speculations had been overthrown by a captivity so anomalous with their boasted birthright.

“Where are we going?” inquired Newton of a man who stood next him, silently watching the passing foam created by the rapid course of the vessel.

“To hell I hope, with those who brought us here!” replied the man, grinding his teeth with a scowl of deep revenge.

At this moment Judy Malony came pattering along the wet deck with a kid of potato-peelings to throw over the bows.  Newton recognised her, and thanked her for her kindness.

“It’s a nice boy that you are, sure enough, now that you’re swate and clean,” replied Judy.  “Bad luck to the rapparee who gave you the blow!  I axed my husband if it was he; but he swears upon his salvation that it was no one if it wasn’t Tim O’Connor, the baste!”

“Where are we going?” inquired Newton.

“An’t we going to dinner in a minute or two?”

“I mean where is the cutter bound to?”

“Oh! the cutter you mane!  If she can only find her way, it’s to Plymouth, sure;—­they’re waiting for ye.”

“Who is waiting for us?”