The Rock of the Lion. 2022 EDITION Book Reviews

The Rock of the Lion. 2022 EDITION by Molly Elliot Seawell Book Summary

CHAPTER I
The sun, a great orb of glory, hung low in the west, lighting up the sea and sky with a blaze of splendor. Long lances of rosy flame shot across the blue Mediterranean, even to the horizon, which was the color of pearls and opals. Afar off, in the dim distance, the Rock of Gibraltar, a huge, mysterious shadow, like a couchant lion, seemed to keep watch over sea and land. Vast and majestic, looming large in the clear obscure of evening, it dwarfed everything less great than itself into nothingness, except one—a magnificent ship of the line, the Thunderer, which swept along under a mountain of canvas. The ensign of England, which flew from her peak, seemed to kiss the skies, while the long pennant, signifying "homeward bound," that flew from the giant main-mast, touched the sapphire sea.
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 A hundred and twenty guns armed her mighty hull, and she carried a thousand men to fight them. The rush of the wind through her tremendous rigging was like the roar of a cataract, and as she cleft the seas they bellowed under her bows with a reverberation like thunder.
The crimson and gold rim of the sun still flamed angrily above the horizon, but the pearl and opal and ruby sky changed suddenly to a coppery red, streaked with green, and the wind rose steadily. Approaching the mighty battleship, on the opposite tack, was seen a small frigate, as perfect in her dainty way as the leviathan that was bearing down upon her. She, too, wore the colors of England. As soon as she got fairly within sight a signal-flag was broken out from her foretruck. In answer to it the ship of the line threw her maintop-sail aback and hove to. The frigate did likewise, and a cutter dropped into the water from her side. A midshipman and twelve men were in the boat, and another person—a lad of about sixteen, wearing a naval uniform, but different from the uniform of the midshipman. The boat was rapidly pulled across the blue water, now ruffled by the breeze, and soon lay rocking and tumbling like a cork under the huge hull of the ship of the line. The two
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 lads rose and grasped each other's hand. They said nothing, being Anglo-Saxons, but their looks were eloquent, and in the eyes of both there were tears. The midshipman said a word to the men, and they brought the boat alongside, just under the main-chains. The younger one, taking off his cap, nodded to the men in the boat, and, without waiting for the Jacob's-ladder which was about to be thrown over the side, made a spring like a cat and landed in the chain-plates. The men, ever pleased with a show of daring and dexterity, raised a cheer, in which some of the sailors hanging over the Thunderer's rail joined. The young fellow turned and waved his cap again, and then disappeared through the nearest porthole, a sailor throwing a small bundle after him. Almost before he had seized the chain-plates the maintop-sail yard had swung round, and the great ship was again bounding over the sea.
The boy threaded, with amazing swiftness, the gangways and ladders of the Thunderer, and soon found himself on the quarter-deck. An officer in an admiral's uniform stood alone on the poop, watching the boat as it disappeared rapidly in the distance, while the captain on the bridge looked anxiously towards the northwest, where clouds were gathering angrily.
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The boy walked up to the Admiral, and, making a low bow, cap in hand, said, "This, I believe, is Admiral Kempenfelt."
"Yes, sir," answered the Admiral.
"I have the honor to report to you, sir. I am Midshipman Baskerville, late of the Continental ship Bon Homme Richard, and afterwards in the Serapis. I was captured at the Texel, and am on my parole. This letter from Captain Lockyer, of the Seahorse, explains everything."
Admiral Kempenfelt took the letter which the little midshipman handed him, and read:
"Dear Sir,—This will be handed you by Midshipman Baskerville, a young rebel lately in revolt against his Majesty, and lately acting midshipman with that traitor and pirate, Paul Jones. After Jones reached the Texel in the Serapis, we kept, you may be sure, a close watch upon him, and the Seahorse, with eleven other ships of the line and frigates, cruised outside waiting for him. But will you believe, my dear Admiral, that this little midshipman is all the game we have bagged so far; and he was caught by his own imprudence in going off on a fishing excursion, when a boat's crew of the Seahorse nabbed him just as he got ashore? I received orders to the Mediterranean, and so hand this youngster over to you to take to England. He is the grandson and heir of your eccentric friend Lord Bellingham, of Bellingham Castle, Yorkshire. His father quarrelled with his grandfather, went to North America, and turned red-hot rebel. This boy, being left an orphan, was seduced by Jones to join
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 him, although he swears he begged Jones to take him, and would follow Jones all over the world and beyond. You see, my dear sir, that it would be a very good thing if we could bring this youth to a sense of his duty to the King; and as he is a lad of parts and spirit, I would be glad to see him in his grandfather's good graces. I intended to send him to England on his parole at the first opportunity; but blast me if I have met a ship going home since I took him aboard in October until now. I venture to hand him over to you, having given him orders to report at once to his grandfather when you land. This has been an infernal cruise, and if we have ten shillings apiece prize-money, it will be more than I expect. With best wishes, believe me, my dear sir,
"Your very sincere friend and obedient servant, 
"Ralph Lockyer."
While the reading of this letter was going on, Archy Baskerville stood in an easy but respectful attitude. There were a number of officers on deck who looked at him curiously, but he seemed to see no one. His eyes followed the course of the Seahorse, now growing rapidly smaller and fainter in the fading light, and again they filled with tears. He had been a prisoner, it is true, on board of her, but a prisoner kindly treated; and he had one friend—Langton, the midshipman, who had brought the boat to the Thunderer—whom he dearly loved. Should they ever meet again? He was roused from his reverie by Admiral Kempenfelt saying to him:
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"Do you know the contents of this letter, sir?"
"No, sir."
"I find you are the grandson of my old friend Lord Bellingham—his heir, so Captain Lockyer writes me."
Something like a grin appeared on Archy's handsome face.
"Hardly, sir. My father joined with my grandfather in cutting the entail, and I cannot get the estates; and I cannot use the title, as I am an American citizen."
"A what?" snapped Admiral Kempenfelt.
Now, this young gentleman, Archy Baskerville, had a reprehensible quality very common in youth. He liked to be as exasperating as he dared, and having devoted most of his time on the Seahorse to finding out how far he could presume on his position as a prisoner of war, he only smiled sweetly up into the Admiral's face and repeated, blandly:
"A citizen of the United States, sir."
The Admiral glared at him for a moment, and then, his countenance softening, he put his hand kindly on Archy's shoulder, saying, as if he were addressing a ten-year-old boy:
"Come, come, my lad; let us have no more of that. You are young; you are misguided; you
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 have a splendid destiny before you in England, and the vagaries of a mere lad like you, exposed to the seductions of a plausible fellow like that pirate Jones, will be easily overlooked if you return to your allegiance to your King and country."
During this speech a deep red had overspread Archy's countenance, but his quick wits had not deserted him.
"Sir," he said, straightening up his boyish figure, "a prisoner of war is subject to many temptations to betray his cause; but I did not think that Admiral Kempenfelt would suggest that I should turn traitor, and, what is harder to bear, should insult my late commander, Commodore Paul Jones, when I am not in a position to resent it."
If Archy had turned red the Admiral turned scarlet. His eyes and his teeth snapped at the same time, and, wheeling round, he abruptly walked to the end of the poop and back again, his heels hitting the deck hard and his hands twitching behind his back. The officers standing within hearing had difficulty in keeping their countenances, but Archy, smooth and unruffled, was like a May morning. The Admiral again turned and came back towards him. The notion of that youngster giving himself the airs of a
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 post-captain! thought the Admiral. The masthead was the only place for him, and yet the brat was sharp enough to know all he was entitled to as a prisoner of war and to claim it.
The Admiral made two more turns; then he came up close to Archy, and with the gleam of a smile said:
"May I have the pleasure of your company in my cabin at supper to-night, Mr. What's-your-name?"
"With pleasure, sir," replied Archy, promptly, "provided, of course, that you make no efforts to corrupt my loyalty, and say nothing disrespectful of my late commander."
Had the great main-mast tumbled over the side at that moment, the Admiral could not have been more amazed. He opened his mouth to speak, and was too astounded to shut it. He looked at Archy carefully from the crown of his curly head to the soles of his well-shaped feet—for the boy was elegantly made and bright-faced and handsome beyond the common. Archy bore the scrutiny without flinching. As for the officers, who were on-lookers, a universal grin went round, and one midshipman giggled outright.
Suddenly there was a sharp order and a rush of feet along the deck. The light had died out
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 as if by magic; sea and sky turned black, except a corner on the northwest horizon, where an ominous pale-green light played upon fast-gathering clouds, and the wind rose with a shriek. The men swarmed up the rigging to take in sail, and they were not a moment too soon. Every person on deck immediately found something to do except Admiral Kempenfelt and Archy Baskerville. The Admiral walked up and down, glancing coolly around, but making no suggestions. Archy leaned against the swifter of the mizzen-rigging, and his keen young eyes caught the last glimpse of the Seahorse as she disappeared—a mere speck in the darkness. The inky clouds came down like a curtain upon the lion-like Rock, and the air itself seemed to turn black. And then came the storm.
The Thunderer, under storm canvas, did battle with the tempest for two days and nights. Driven by mighty blasts, she staggered upon her course, descending into gulfs and then rising mountain high until it seemed as if her tall masts would meet the low-hanging pall of clouds. Her guns broke loose, and on all three of her decks these huge masses of brass and iron were pitched about to the danger of life and limb. Her stout masts and spars bent like whips. Violent gusts of
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 rain came with the scream of the tempest. Her men, drenched to the bone, nearly swept off their feet by the great hissing and roaring masses of water that fell upon the deck, knocked over, slipping up, falling down hatchways, sleepless and hungry, suffered all the dangers and miseries of one of the most frightful storms of the century; yet they never lost heart. The officers, from the captain down to the smallest midshipman, were cool, and apparently confident that the Thunderer could weather the storm; and as in the beginning, so to the end, there were but two persons on the ship who did nothing—Admiral Kempenfelt and the little American prisoner of war, Archy Baskerville; and in coolness and apparent indifference it is hard to tell which excelled—the seasoned Admiral or the young midshipman.
Neither the boy's spirit, nor even his sly impertinence, had injured him in Admiral Kempenfelt's opinion, and Archy's courage during those terrible two days was not overlooked. The Admiral felt an interest in the boy, from his long acquaintance with Lord Bellingham, and he thought it a pity that the heir to a great title and noble estates should throw them away by what the Admiral considered rank rebellion; but it was Archy's own fearless spirit that won him
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 the Admiral's respect. On that first dreadful night there was no pretence of serving supper; but, to the Admiral's mingled disgust and amusement, at seven o'clock Archy tumbled into the great cabin, where he found the Admiral seated with a soup-tureen between his knees, out of which he was ladling pea-soup into his mouth with great good-will, but indifferent success.
"Ah, here you are, Mr. Baskerville," called out the Admiral, who knew what a midshipman's appetite was, and supposed that Archy had shrewdly calculated on a good supper. "Sorry I can't order my steward to help you; but in that last lurch the ship gave he was pitched head-foremost over the table, and knocked out three teeth and blacked his eye—so he is now under the surgeon's care. But if you will kindly help yourself to that bowl— Oh, Jupiter!"
The Thunderer nearly went on her beam-ends, and so did the tureen. Archy, showing a very good pair of sea-legs, secured the bowl from a mass of broken crockery in the locker, and, presenting it, the Admiral filled it with pea-soup, only spilling about half.
"Excuse me, sir," said Archy, and plumped down flat on the floor, where, with the greatest
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 dexterity, he conveyed all the soup in the bowl to his mouth.
"Any casualties on deck since I left?" asked the Admiral.
"No, sir. The fact is"—here the ship righted herself with a suddenness that threw Archy's heels almost into the Admiral's face—"I don't think it much of a blow."
The Admiral stopped his ladling for a moment and looked the boy in the eye very hard.
Archy felt emboldened to indulge in a little more boyish braggadocio, and remarked, airily:
"That is, there's nothing alarming in the blow, sir. It was blowing harder than this when we made the Texel in the Serapis."
"Young man," answered the Admiral, "you never saw it blow as hard as this in your life, and you never may again."
Archy, somewhat abashed, said nothing, and had the grace to blush; but spying a loaf of bread rolling under the transom, he crawled after it, secured it, and handed it to the Admiral.
"Informal, but very welcome," was the Admiral's remark as he divided the loaf and gave Archy half. "As long as this keeps up, Mr. Baskerville, you may as well accept the 
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hospitality of my cabin, such as it is. I hardly suppose any one has thought of slinging you a hammock, and you couldn't stay in it if you had it; but there is the floor, and here is a pillow."
"Thank you, sir," said Archy.
"Have you ever seen your grandfather, Lord Bellingham?"
"No, sir."
The Admiral gave a short laugh.
"I should like to see your meeting."
Something in the Admiral's kind face gave encouragement to Archy, and he replied, "I hope he will receive me kindly, but I ask no favors of him. As a prisoner of war, I am sure to be taken care of, since Commodore Jones has obtained for us sea-officers the rights of prisoners of war, such as the land officers have had all the time. Is my grandfather very—very—dreadful?"
"He is a man of sense and honor, but he is very eccentric. I have known him for forty years. Excuse me now, Mr. Baskerville, I am going on deck. I need not ask you to make yourself at home." The Admiral smiled at this—he thought Archy needed very slight invitation to do that.
All night the tempest raged. At midnight, when it was at its worst, the Admiral came 
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below for a moment. There were no lights, but by striking his flint he saw a lithe, boyish figure on the floor, cunningly lashed to the transom, as was the pillow, and Archy was sleeping like a baby.
"The little beggar is no coward," thought the Admiral, a smile lighting up his face.
Next day and next night it was the same. The Admiral noticed many things in that mortal struggle of the great ship with all the powers of destruction, and among them were the different kinds and degrees of courage displayed by the officers and men. Not one showed fear, although each was conscious of the immediate and awful danger, but some bore the strain better than others. There was not one who stood it more calmly, more debonairly, than the little American midshipman.
At sunrise on the third day, when the storm passed off to the eastward, they found themselves near a rocky headland that jutted out into the sea. The sun shone brightly, but the sea was still angry, and as far as the eye could reach was wreckage. One glance on the rocks showed them the wreck of the Seahorse. Her masts and spars were gone, and the hulk rose and fell helplessly with the violence of the waves. Archy was 
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leaning sadly over the rail when he saw an object floating nearer that he recognized, with a sickening dread, as that of a man's body. It was swept shoreward under the very lee of the Thunderer. As it shot past, Archy uttered a cry. The morning light had revealed the pale face of his best friend Langton. Another cry went up from the men on the Thunderer's deck as they watched the ghastly sight. But at that very moment they had all they could do to claw off the land and save the Thunderer from the fate of the Seahorse. It was some days before the wind permitted them to return to the scene of the wreck, and they found not a vestige of the gallant ship or her brave company.

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