t am de press gang!" said the cook, who was a negro black as the ace
of spades named Job. "Dey am comin' to take off everybody dat looks like
a Britisher. Golly! do I look like a Britisher?"

Notwithstanding the gravity of the situation, a smile flitted
momentarily over the faces of the officers and crew. The boat by this
time was within hailing distance, though it had grown so dark the
inmates of it could be only dimly seen.

"Boat, ahoy!" cried the captain.

"Aye, aye, sir!" came back the response.

"What boat is that?"

"A boat from his majesty's ship the _Sea-Wing._ We wish to come aboard
your vessel."

When the captain asked them their business, they frankly confessed that
they were deserters and had been secreted all day on the island watching
an opportunity to reach the American brig.

Their story was a probable one, and the captain and his officers
believed it. A rope was tossed to them, and in a few moments five
stalwart jack tars in the uniform of the British Navy stood on the deck.

One tall, fine-looking seaman, who was every inch a gentleman, and whose
conversation was evidence of education and refinement, told their story.

Three of them were Americans, and two were Swedes. They had been seized
by the press gang and made slaves on board the frigate.

"It has been many years," said the tall sailor, "since I saw my native
land. I am a native of Hartford, Connecticut."

"Why didn't you escape sooner?" the Captain asked.

"Escape, captain, is no easy matter, and is attended with serious
consequences. They usually hang one who tries to desert. I am a gunner,
by profession, and but for the fact they need my services against the
French, I would have been hung long since for trying to desert."

The gunner impressed Captain Parson favorably. He was a man between
forty and forty-five years of age. His eyes were deep blue, his hair
light. His round, full face was smooth shaven. As he stood on the deck,
his brawny arms folded across his massive chest, he looked a perfect
model of a man and a tower of strength.

Captain Parson led him aside and said:

"You are no common sailor."

"I'm only a gunner now, captain."

"But in the past?"

"I once commanded a ship. I will tell you my story on the morrow. It is
a sad one, but, thank God, there's nothing in it at which I need blush.
For the present, however, let us get along as fast as your ship can make
it, for the _Sea-Wing_ is a swift vessel, and if we