T is about three hours after daybreak-a light breeze coming and going; the water sparkling, flashing, breaking into ripples that scintillate as if each drop were a glowing sapphire; the sea-birds skirling round and about on rapid wing; the sky already one blaze of sunlight-when that excellent, English-built, double-screw steamer, the Stormy Petrel, Captain Frank Hay, from Liverpool, steams into the port of Nassau, having made the run out in the short space of thirteen days and eleven hours from the moment of lifting anchor at Birkenhead. The history of the Stormy Petrel may be told, and her portrait sketched, in a few lines.

Built for Messrs. Bodger and Twelvetrees, of Leadenhall Street, and originally known to the commercial world by the less euphonious name of

the Molly Carew, this vessel had, for some five years past, plied as a merchant steamer between Liverpool and the Mauritius. She was an iron boat, trim and graceful enough, of 1,070 tons burden and 350 horse-power. Her length was 279 feet; her breadth of beam, 35 feet; her ordinary rate of speed, thirteen and a half knots (ie., fifteen miles) an hour. She drew eleven feet of water when loaded, and six feet four inches when unloaded; and her consumption of coal at half-speed was just twenty tons in twenty-four hours. At her fullest speed, she consumed about thirty. She carried coal for twelve days. Such was the Molly Carew; such, with certain novel peculiarities lately superadded, is the Stormy Petrel.

For the Molly Carew has changed owners, been re-christened, and, with a view to the new class of

work in which she is now about to be employed, has undergone sundry alterations and repairs. Her speed is now increased to fifteen and a half knots an hour. She used to carry passengers and "an experienced surgeon;" but now her cabin accommodation is of the scantiest, every spare inch of space below decks being given up for the stowage of cargo, and everything above deck being cleared away so as to bring down the visible proportions of the Stormy Petrel to the lowest minimum. The coal-bunkers, by means of an ingenious contrivance originated by De Benham himself, are disposed in the form of upright recesses lining the hull on either side of the waist of the vessel; thus, as it were, armour-plating with coal that important part where the engines are placed. Her spars are reduced to a light pair of lower masts, with only a "crow's nest on the foremast for a watch, and no cross-yards whatever. Her boats are lowered to the level of the gunwales. Her funnel, of the "telescope" kind, lies low and raking aft. And her hull is painted of a dull, bluish, sea-green hue, which even by daylight is scarcely distinguishable from that of the waves, and by night, or in the lightest fog, is wholly invisible. The Stormy Petrel, it should be added, burns only anthracite coal, which yields neither smoke nor sparks; and her engines are so constructed that, in case of a sudden stop, the steam can be blown off noiselessly under water.

Such are the outward lineaments and characteristics of the vessel which steams into Nassau Harbour this glorious early morning in the month of June, 1861, seeking fresh coal and a pilot; and a more stealthy-looking craft, or one more cleverly adapted to thread the perilous ways of a blockaded coast, never dropped anchor in that wild far-away British port. For the Stormy Petrel is bound for Charleston, having on board an assorted cargo of Manchester goods, ready-made clothing, and munitions of war; and this is her first trip in the character of a blockade-runner.

Not the boat alone, however, but her captain and crew are alike new to the work. Indeed, the work in itself is new. Blockade-running, so soon to develop into an organised system, has as yet scarcely begun; and the Stormy Petrel is the first well-appointed vessel in the field. But her commander has been accustomed to the navigation of these waters before ever the war was dreamed of on either side, and knows the whole coast and all the West India Isles by heart. He is a West-of-England man-a born sailor-short, active, hairy, broad-shouldered, taciturn, crossgrained, fearless as a lion, and about forty-four years of age. This officer, with three mates, a chief engineer, two assistant engineers, eight firemen, six seamen, supercargo, and one passenger are all the souls on board.

And now the Stormy Petrel anchors, for the nonce, not far from the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbour, keeping well away from the quays, which, however, are soon alive with spectators. De Benham hangs over the ship's side, sweeping the shore with his glass-that low-lying palmfringed shore, with its stunted shrubs, whitewashed houses, and dazzling coral sands all ablaze in the sunshine; watching the little silver fish that keep perpetually leaping and springing along the surface of the water; inhaling the soft and perfumed air; and revelling in this his first glimpse of the New World. The captain at once despatches his first mate to the town to purchase fuel, but permits none of the others of his crew to go on shore. The Stormy Petrel, however, is soon beset by a swarm of small boats filled with free niggers of both sexes, clamorous, grinning, importunate, who offer bananas, alligator pears, pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, shaddocks, and other tropical fruits for sale. Towards mid-day, the Stormy Petrel is brought in closer to the shore and moored alongside a private wharf, so as more conveniently to take the coal on board.

The crowd upon the quays, though constantly shifting and changing, continues, meanwhile, to increase. Here are sailors, soldiers, English officers wearing white linen hats with a flap behind the neck, porters, free niggers, and all the miscellaneous loungers of a small British West India station. A motley crowd, gathered together, apparently, from every quarter of the little town-a crowd to whom this low-lying seagreen steamer is evidently an object of the intensest curiosity.

And now towards evening, when the cooler breeze is beginning to set in from the sea, and the band is playing in front of the barracks, and the harbour is gay with pleasure-boats, the Stormy Petrel, having taken in her coal, moves out again to her former anchorage, and there awaits the arrival of her pilot-a seasoned, experienced, New Englander, native of a certain well-known whaling-station, yclept Martha's Vineyard, on the coast of Massachusetts-one Zachary Polter by name, who comes off presently in a row-boat with his wife, and has a private interview with the captain before bidding her good-bye.

This man's price for running the Stormy Petrel

into Charleston and back again to Nassau is seven hundred and fifty pounds for the round trip, and half the money down before starting. His risk is great, and, therefore, his pay is high. He will be roughly dealt with if the Stormy Petrel falls in with one of the Northern blockaders on the way. So he has five minutes with closed doors in the captain's cabin before starting, and there receives across the table three hundred and seventy-five pounds in good and true Bank of England notes. These he stows carefully away in

"Wa'al, cap'n, I guess our people hev skinned their eyes pretty clean for the work, this time." "What ships have they now off Charleston Harbour?"

"The Wabash, the Seminole, and the Roanoke; not keowntin' all kinder little wasps o' gunboats and other small fry," says Mr. Zachary Polter. "Humph! Only three ships of war."

"Wa'al, cap'n, I won't swear to that. The Pawnee and the Pocahontas hev been off that coast, I know; and thar's bin a whisper afloat

the recesses of a well-worn pocket-book, which he hands over to his wife, who puts it carefully in her bosom. A hard-faced, weather-beaten, rough fellow of a pilot, ready to take his life in his hand; but tender-hearted withal, and not ashamed to draw his sleeve across his eyes and kiss his wife at parting! This over, she goes away quite quietly and steadily, rowed by a stalwart young nigger in a striped jersey; and when she is some little way from the steamer, puts her handkerchief to her eyes, and looks back no more.

66 And now, Mr. Polter," says the captain, "what have we to expect out yonder? The Federals, I suppose, are on the look-out for

visitors?"

Mr. Zachary Polter, regarding the deck in the light of a monster spittoon, and behaving accordingly, replies drily:

this last day or tew that the Mohican is expected to jine."

"This is not your first attempt at running the blockade, Mr. Pilot ?" says the captain, sharply.

"Why, no, cap'n. It is the second time. I ran a rotten old Mississippi tug-boat over, jest three days arter them ships had come down; and pretty smart work it was, tew, with a crack in her steam-pipe big enough to let in a dollar piece edgeways. But it'll be smarter work this time. There's more ships out; and them Parrot guns dew hit at a confounded long range."

"Psha! we can afford to laugh at the Parrot guns, if only we keep well away from 'em," says the captain, contemptuously.

To which Mr. Zachary Polter (still labouring under that little misapprehension with regard to the deck) replies in his driest manner :

"Wa'al, cap'n, I guess it ain't exactly a pleasure trip we air takin' together. We'll laugh, if you please, when we git back agin into this here harbour."

And now the rapid dusk comes on. The men are at their posts; the captain gives the word; and the Stormy Petrel, which has been busily getting up her steam for the last hour or more, swings slowly round, and works out of port as composedly and unobtrusively as she had worked in. The chain of lamps along the quays, the scattered lights sparkling along the shores of the bay, the steady fire of the beacon at the mouth of the harbour, fade, and diminish, and are lost one by one in the distance. For a long time the Stormy Petrel skirts the coast-line, keeping in with the Bahamas, and pursuing her way through British waters; but a little after midnight (the crescent moon now dropping down the west, and a light breeze blowing from the south-east) she stands out to sea.

A lovely night! the horizon somewhat hazy after the heat of the day, but the sea breaking all over into phosphorescent smiles and dimples, and the heavens one glowing vault of stars. The Stormy Petrel, her steam being now well up, rushes on with a foam of fire at her bows and a train of molten diamonds in her wake. Now and then a shark plays round her in her course, distinctly visible in the light of his own progress, and then shoots off like a meteor. Thus the night wears, and at grey dawn the boy in the crow's-nest reports a steamer on the starboard quarter.

Scarcely has this danger been seen and avoided than another and another is sighted at some point or other of the horizon. And now swift orders, prompt obedience, eager scrutiny, are the rule of the day; for the Stormy Petrel is in perilous waters, and her only chance of safety lies in the sharpness of her look-out, and the speed with which she changes her course when any possible enemy appears in sight. All day long, therefore, she keeps doubling like a hare; sometimes stopping altogether, to let some dangerous-looking stranger pass on ahead; sometimes turning back upon her course; but, thanks to her general invisibility and the vigilance of her pilot, escaping unseen, and even making fair progress in the teeth of every difficulty.

And now the sun goes down, half-gold, halfcrimson, settling into a rim of fog-bank on the western horizon. Lower it sinks, and lower; the gold diminishing, the crimson gaining. Now, for a moment, it hangs, a bloody shield, upon the verge of the waters; and the sky is flushed to the zenith, and every ripple crested with living fire. And now, suddenly, it is gone-and before the glow has yet had time to fade, the southern night rushes in.

An hour or so later the wind drops, and the Stormy Petrel steams straight into a light fog, which lies across her path like a soft, fleecy, upright wall of cloud.

"This fog is in our favour, Mr. Polter," says De Benham, pacing the deck with rapid steps; for the night has now turned somewhat chill and raw.

"Wa'al, sir, that's as it may be," replies the pilot, cautiously. "The fog helps to hide us; but then, yew see, it likewise helps to run us into danger."

And the event proves that that sagacious renegade is right; for at a little after midnight, when all seems to be solitude and security, and no breath is stirring, and no sound is heard save the rushing of the Stormy Petrel through the placid waters, there suddenly rises up before the eyes of all on board a great, ghostly, shadowy Something-a Phantom Ship, vague, mountainous, terrific from the midst of which there issues a trumpet-tongued voice, saying :

:

"Steamer ahoy! heave-to, or I'll sink you.” "Guess it's the Roanoke," observed the pilot, calmly.

Even as he said the words the American loomed out distincter, closer, within pistol-shot from deck to deck.

The captain of the Stormy Petrel answered the hostile summons.

"Ay, ay, sir," he shouted through his speakingtrumpet. "We are hove-to."

And then he called down the tube to those in the engine-room, “Ease her!"

"You won't stop the vessel, Captain Hay?" exclaimed De Benham, breathlessly.

"I have stopped her, sir," snarled the captain. Then thundered a second mandate from the threatening phantom alongside. "Lay-to, for boats!"

To which the captain again responded, "Ay, ay, sir!"

De Benham ground his teeth. "But, man," he said, scarcely conscious of the vehemence of his tone, "do you give in thus-without an effort?"

The captain turned upon him with an oath.

Who says I'm going to give in?" he answered, savagely. "Wait till you see me do it, sir.” And now the Stormy Petrel, her steam being suddenly turned off, had ceased to move. All on deck stood silent, motionless, waiting with suspended breath. They could hear the captain of the cruiser issuing his rapid orders-trace, through the fog, the outline of the quarter-boats as they were lowered into the water-hear the splash of the oars, and the boisterous gaiety of the men.

De Benham uttered a suppressed groan, and the perspiration stood in great beads upon his

"Will you let them board us?" he said, hoarsely, pointing to the boats, now half-way between the two vessels.

The captain grinned, put his lips again to the tube, shouted down to the engineer, "Full speed a-head!" and, with one quivering leap, the Stormy Petrel shot out again upon her course, like a greyhound let loose.

"There, Mr. Supercargo," said the captain, grimly, "that's my way of giving in. Our American friend will hardly desert his boats upon the open sea on such a night as this-even for the fun of capturing a blockade-runner.'

At this moment a red flash and a tremendous report declared the prompt resentment of the Federal commander. But almost before these rolling echoes had died away the Stormy Petrel was half a mile a-head, and not an outline of the cruiser was visible through the fog.

"Wa'al now," said Mr. Zachary Polter, "that's what I call sinful extravagance. I calc'late them chaps will come to want good powder and shot some day afore they die."

De Benham went up to the captain with extended hand.

"Captain Hay," he said, frankly, "I spoke just now under excitement-I beg your pardon." The captain grunted, and yielded his hand somewhat unwillingly.

"It is not the supercargo's place, Mr. De Benham, to question the discretion of the captain," he said, with some asperity-and turned

away.

De Benham accepted the rebuke in silence, knowing that he had deserved it.

The night passed over without further incident, and by five o'clock next morning the 'tormy Petrel was within eight hours of her destination. Both captain and pilot had calculated on making considerably less way in the time, and had allowed a much wider margin for detours and delays; so that now they were not a little perplexed at finding themselves so near the end of their journey. To go on was impossible, for they could only hope to slip through the cordon under cover of the night. And yet to remain where they were was almost as bad. However, they had no alternative; so, after some little consultation, they agreed to lie-to for the present, keeping up their steam meanwhile, and holding themselves in readiness to repeat the manœuvres of yesterday whenever any vessel hove in sight.

The fog had now cleared off. The day was brilliant ; the sky one speckless dome of intensest blue; the sun, an intolerable splendour, fast climbing to the zenith. The blockade-runners, who would have given much for dark and cloudy

things of the glorious luminary; till presently a long black trail of smoke on the horizon warned them of a steamer in the offing, whereupon they edged away in the opposite direction as quickly as possible.

And now their troubles had begun again; sometimes it was a frigate, sometimes a merchant-ship, sometimes a steamer, sometimes a sloop of warbut it was always something; and the Stormy Petrel was perpetually sheering off to one or other point of the compass.

Towards sunset Mr. Zachary Polter began to look grave.

"Guess we shan't know whar we air if this game goes on much longer," said he. "It aren't in natur not to get out of one's reck'ning arter dodgin' and de-vi-atin' all day long in this style."

Still, there was no help for it. Dodge and deviate the Stormy Petrel must, if she was to be kept out of harm's way; and even so, with all her dodging and deviating, it seemed well-nigh miraculous that she should escape observation.

At length, as evening drew on and the sun neared the horizon, preparations were made for the final run. Both captain and pilot, by help of charts, soundings, and so forth, had pretty well satisfied themselves as to their position; and Mr. Zachary Polter, knowing at what hour it would be high tide on the bar, had calculated the exact time for going into the harbour.

""Twouldn't be amiss, cap'n," said this latter, "if you was to change that white weskit for suthin dark; nor if you, sir," turning to De Benham, "was to git quit o' that light suit altogether or the next few hours."

The captain muttered something about "infernal nonsense;" but went to his cabin, all the same, to change the obnoxious garment. Whereupon Mr. Zachary Polter gave it as his opinion that if the captain and all on board were to black the whites of their eyes and put their teeth in mourning it would not be more than the occasion warranted.

After this an unlucky cock, which had travelled with them in the character of a deck passenger all the way from Liverpool (but was addicted to crowing lustily about midnight and the small hours of the morning) was hurried by the steward to an untimely end. And then, the brief twilight being already past, the engineers piled on the coal, the captain gave the word, and the Stormy Petrel steered straight for Charleston.

And now it is night; clear, but not over clear, although the stars are shining. Objects, however, are discernible at some distance, and ships are sighted continually. But as none of these lie directly in his path, and as he knows his own boat to be invisible by night beyond a certain