Transcriber’s Note

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DEEP-SEA PLUNDERINGS

By FRANK T. BULLEN.

Deep-Sea Plunderings. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

The Apostles of the Southeast. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

The Log of a Sea-Waif. Being Recollections of the First Four Years of My Sea Life. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Idylls of the Sea. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

The Cruise of the Cachalot. Round the World After Sperm Whales. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, New York.

They met in full career, rolling each over each.

(See [page 6].)

DEEP-SEA
PLUNDERINGS

BY
FRANK T. BULLEN, F. R. G. S.

AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE CACHALOT,”
“THE APOSTLES OF THE SOUTHEAST,” ETC.

With Eight Illustrations

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1902

Copyright, 1901
By FRANK T. BULLEN
All rights reserved

Published March, 1902

TO
Dr. ROBERTSON NICOLL
A SMALL BUT SINCERE
TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION AND ESTEEM

F. T. B.

PREFATORY NOTE

Warned by previous experience, I do not propose to make any apology for the publication of these stories in book form, but I hope my generous critics will at least pardon me for expressing my gratitude for the way in which they have received all my previous efforts. Naturally, I sincerely hope they will be equally kind in the present instance.

F. T. Bullen.

New Bedford, Mass., September, 1901.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DEEP-SEA PLUNDERINGS

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER

“What a clumsy, barrel-bellied old hooker she is, Field!”

Thus, closing his telescope with a bang, the elegant chief officer of the Mirzapore, steel four-masted clipper ship of 5000 tons burden, presently devouring the degrees of longitude that lay between her and Melbourne on the arc of a composite great circle, at the rate of some 360 miles per day. As he spoke he cast his eyes proudly aloft at the splendid spread of square sail that towered upward to a height of nearly 200 feet. Twenty-eight squares of straining canvas, from the courses, stretched along yards 100 feet or so in length, to the far-away skysails of 35 feet head, that might easily be handled by a pair of boys.

Truly she made a gallant show—the graceful ship, that in spite of her enormous size was so perfectly modelled on yacht-like lines that, overshadowed as she was by the mighty pyramid of sail, the eye refused to convey a due sense of her great capacity. And the way in which she answered the challenge of the west wind, leaping lightsomely over the league-long ridges of true-rolling sea, heightened the illusion by destroying all appearance of burden-bearing or cumbrousness. But the vessel which had given rise to Mr. Curzon’s contemptuous remark was in truth the antipodes of the Mirzapore. There was scarcely any difference noticeable, as far as the contour of the hull went, between her bow and stern. Only, at the bows a complicated structure of massive timbers leaned far forward of the hull, and was terminated by a huge “fiddle-head.” This ornament was carved out of a great balk of timber, and in its general outlines it bore some faint resemblance to a human form, its broad breast lined out with rude carving into some device long ago made illegible by the weather; and at its summit, instead of a head, a piece of scroll-work resembling the top of a fiddle-neck, and giving the whole thing its distinctive name.

The top-hamper of this stubby craft was quite in keeping with her hull. It had none of that rakish, carefully aligned set so characteristic of clipper ships. The three masts, looking as if they were so huddled together that no room was left to swing the yards, had as many kinks in them as a blackthorn stick; and this general trend, in defiance of modern nautical ideas, was forward instead of aft. The bow-sprit and jibboom looked as if purposely designed by their upward sheer to make her appear shorter than she really was, and also to place her as a connecting link between the long-vanished galleasses of Elizabethan days and the snaky ships of the end of the nineteenth century. In one respect, however, she had the advantage of her graceful neighbour. Her sails were of dazzling whiteness, and when, reflecting the rays of the sun, they glistened against the deep blue sky, the effect was so fairy-like as to make the beholder forget for a moment the ungainliness of the old hull beneath.

The wind now dropped, in one of its wayward moods, until the rapid rush past of the Mirzapore faltered almost to a standstill, and the two vessels, scarcely a mile apart, rolled easily on the following sea, as if in leisurely contemplation of each other. All the Mirzapore’s passengers, a hundred and twenty of them, clustered along the starboard poop-rail, unfeignedly glad of this break in what they considered the long monotony of a sailing passage from London to the colonies. And these seafarers of fifty-five days, eagerly catching their cues from the officers, discussed, in all the hauteur of amateur criticism, the various short-comings of the homely old tub abeam. Gradually the two vessels drew nearer by that mysterious impulse common to idly-floating things. As the different details of the old ship’s deck became more clearly definable, the chorus of criticism increased, until one sprightly young thing of about forty, who was going out husband-seeking, said—

“Oh, please, Captain James, do tell me what they use a funny ship like that for.”

“Well, Miss Williams,” he replied gravely, “yonder vessel is one of the fast-disappearing fleet of Yankee whalers—‘spouters,’ as they love to term themselves. As to her use, if I don’t mistake, you will soon have an object-lesson in that which will give you something to talk about all the rest of your life.”

And as he spoke an unusual bustle was noticeable on board of the stranger. Four boats dropped from her davits with such rapidity that they seemed to fall into the sea, and as each struck the water she shot away from the side as if she had been a living thing. An involuntary murmur of admiration ran through the crew of the clipper. It was a tribute they could scarcely withhold, knowing as they did the bungling, clumsy way in which a merchant seaman performs a like manœuvre. Even the contemptuous Curzon was hushed; and the passengers, interested beyond measure, yet unable to appreciate what they saw, looked blankly at one another and at the officers as if imploring enlightenment.

With an easy gliding motion, now resting in the long green hollow between two mighty waves, and again poised, bird-like, upon a foaming crest, with bow and stern a-dry, those lovely boats sped away to the southward under the impulse of five oars each. Now the excitement on board the Mirzapore rose to fever-heat. The crew, unheeded, by the officers, gathered on the forecastle-head, and gazed after the departing boats with an intensity of interest far beyond that of the passengers. For it was interest born of intelligent knowledge of the conditions under which those wonderful boatmen were working, and also tempered by a feeling of compunction for the ignorant depreciation they had often manifested of a “greasy spouter.” Presently the boats disappeared from ordinary vision, although some of the more adventurous passengers mounted the rigging, and, fixing themselves in secure positions, glued their eyes to their glasses trained upon the vanishing boats. But none of them saw the object of those eager oarsmen. Of course, the sailors knew that they were after whales; but not even a seaman’s eye, unless he be long-accustomed to watching for whales, possesses the necessary discernment for picking up a vapoury spout five or six miles away, as it lifts and exhales like a jet of steam against the broken blue surface. Neither could any comprehend the original signals made by the ship. Just a trifling manipulation of an upper sail, the dipping or hoisting of a dark flag at the mainmast head, or the disappearance of another at the gaff-end sufficed to guide the hunters in their chase, giving them the advantage of that lofty eye far behind them.

More than an hour passed thus tantalizingly on board the Mirzapore, and even the most eager watchers had tired of their fruitless gazing over the sea and at the sphinx-like old ship so near them. Then some one suddenly raised a shout, “Here they come!” It was time. They were coming—a-zoonin’, as Uncle Remus would say. It was a sight to fire the most sluggish blood. About five hundred yards apart two massive bodies occasionally broke the bright surface up into a welter of white, then disappeared for two or three minutes, to reappear at the same furious rush. Behind each of them, spreading out about twenty fathoms apart, came two of the boats, leaping like dolphins from crest to crest of the big waves, and occasionally hidden altogether by a curtain of spray. Thus they passed the Mirzapore, their gigantic steeds in full view of that awe-stricken ship’s company, privileged for once in their lives to see at close quarters one of the most heart-lifting sights under heaven—the Yankee whale-fisher at hand-grips with the mightiest, as well as one of the fiercest, of all created things. No one spoke as that great chase swept by, but every face told eloquently of the pent-up emotion within.

Then a strange thing happened. The two whales, as they passed the Mirzapore, swerved each from his direct course until they met in full career, and in a moment were rolling each over each in a horrible entanglement of whale-line amid a smother of bloody foam. The buoyant craft danced around, one stern figure erect in each bow poising a long slender lance; while in the stern of each boat stood another man, who manipulated a giant oar as if it had been a feather, to swing his craft around as occasion served. The lookers-on scarcely breathed. Was it possible that men—just homely, unkempt figures like these—could dare thrust themselves into such a vortex amongst those wallowing, maddened Titans. Indeed it was. The boats drew nearer, became involved; lances flew, oars bent, and blood—torrents of blood—befouled the glorious azure of the waves. Suddenly the watchers gasped in terror, and little cries of pain and sympathy escaped them: a boat had disappeared. Specks floated, just visible in the tumult—fragments of oars, tubs, and heads of men. But there was no sound, which made the scene all the more impressive.

Still the fight went on, while the spectators forgot all else—the time, the place; all senses merged in wonder at the deeds of these, their fellow-men, just following, in the ordinary way, their avocation. And the thought would come that but for an accident this drama being enacted before their eyes would have had no audience but the screaming sea-birds hovering expectantly in the unheeding blue.

The conflict ceased. The distained waters became placid, and upon them floated quietly two vast corpses, but recently so terrible in their potentialities of destruction. By their sides lay the surviving boats—two of them, that is; the third was busy picking up the wrecked hunters. And the old ship, with an easy adaptation of her needs to the light air that hardly made itself felt, was gradually approaching the scene. The passengers implored Captain James to lower a boat and allow them a nearer view of those recently rushing monsters, and he, very unwillingly, granted the request. So slow was the operation that by the time the port lifeboat was in the water the whaler was alongside of her prizes, and all her crew were toiling slavishly to free them from the entanglement of whale-line in which they had involved themselves. But when the passengers saw how the lifeboat tumbled about alongside in the fast-sinking swell, the number of those eager for a nearer view dwindled to half a dozen—and they were repentant of their rashness when they saw how unhandily the sailors manipulated their oars. However, they persisted for very shame’s sake, their respect for the “spouters’” prowess, and, through them, for their previously despised old ship, growing deeper every moment. They hovered about the old tub as they saw the labour that was necessary to get those two enormous carcases alongside, nor dared to go on board until the skipper of her, mounting the rail, said cheerily, “Wunt ye kem aboard, sir,’n’ hev a peek roun’?”

Thus cordially invited, they went, their wonder increasing until all their conceit was effectually taken out of them, especially when they saw the wonderful handiness and cleanliness of everything on board. The men, too, clothed in nondescript patches, with faces and arms almost blackened by exposure, and wearing an air of detachment from the world of civilized life that was full of pathos; these specially appealed to them, and they wished with all their hearts that they might do something to atone for the injustice done to these unblazoned warriors by their thoughtless, ignorant remark of so short a time before.

But time pressed, and they felt in the way besides; so, bidding a humble farewell to the grim-looking skipper, who answered the inquiry as to whether they could supply him with anything by a nonchalant “No, I guess not; we aint a-ben eout o’ port hardly six month yet,” they returned on board, having learned a corner of that valuable lesson continually being taught: that to judge by appearances is but superficial and dangerous, especially at sea.

Night fell, shutting out from the gaze of those wearied watchers the dumpy outlines of the old whale-ship. Her crew were still toiling, a blazing basket of whale-scrap swinging at a davit and making a lurid smear on the gloomy background of the night. One by one the excited passengers sauntered below, still eagerly discussing the stirring events they had witnessed, and making a thousand fantastic additions to the facts. Gradually the conversation dwindled to a close, and the great ship was left to the watch on deck. Fitful airs rose and fell, sharp little breaths of keen-edged wind that but just lifted the huge sails lazily, and let them slat against the masts again as if in disgust at the inadequacy of cat’s-paws. So the night wore on, till the middle watch had been in charge about half an hour. Then, with a vengeful hiss, the treacherous wind burst upon them from the north-east, catching that enormous sail-area on the fore side, and defying the efforts of the scanty crew to reduce it. All hands were called, and manfully did they respond; Briton and Finn, German and negro toiled side by side in the almost impossible effort to shorten down, while the huge hull, driven stern foremost, told in unmistakable sea-language of the peril she was in. Hideous was the uproar of snapping, running gear, rending canvas, breaking spars, and howling wind; while through it all, like a thread of human life, ran the wailing minor of the seamen’s cries as they strove to do what was required of them.

Slowly, oh, so slowly! the great ship paid off; while the heavier sails boomed out their complaint like an aerial cannonade, when up from the fore-hatch leapt a tongue of quivering flame. Every man who saw it felt a clutch at his heart. For fire at sea is always terrible beyond the power of mere words to describe; but fire under such conditions was calculated to paralyze the energies of the bravest. There seemed to be an actual hush, as if wind and waves were also aghast at this sudden appearance of a fiercer element than they. Then rang out clear and distinct the voice of Captain James—

“Drop everything else, men, and pass along the hose! Smartly, now! ’Way down from aloft!” He was obeyed, but human nature had something to say about the smartness. Men who have been taxing their energies, as these had done, find that even the spur actuated by fear of imminent death will fail to drive the exhausted body beyond a certain point. Moreover, all of them knew that stowed in the square of the main-hatch were fifty tons of gunpowder, which knowledge was of itself sufficient to render flaccid every muscle they possessed. Still, they did what they could, while the stewards went round to prepare the passengers for a hurried departure. All was done quietly. In truth, although the storm was now raging overhead, and the sails were being rent with infernal clamour from the yards, a sense of the far greater danger beneath their feet made the weather but a secondary consideration.

Then out of a cowering group of passengers came a feeble voice. It belonged to the lady querist of the afternoon, and it said, “Oh, if those brave sailors from that wonderful old ship were only near, we might be saved!”

Simple words, yet they sent a thrill of returning hope through those trembling hearts. Poor souls! None of them knew how far the ships might have drifted apart in that wild night, nor thought of the drag upon that old ship by those two tremendous bodies alongside of her. So every eye was strained into the surrounding blackness, as if they could pierce its impenetrable veil and bring back some answering ray of hope. The same idea, of succour from the old whale-ship, had occurred to the captain, and presently that waiting cluster of men and women saw with hungry eyes a bright trail of fire soaring upward as a rocket was discharged. Another and another followed, but without response. The darkness around was like that of the tomb. Another signal, however, now made itself manifest, and a much more effective one. Defying all the puny efforts made to subdue it, the fire in the fore-hatch burst upward with a roar, shedding a crimson glare over the whole surrounding sea, and being wafted away to leeward in a glowing trail of sparks.

“All hands lay aft!” roared the captain, and as they came, he shouted again, “Clear away the boats!”

Then might be seen the effect of that awful neglect of boats so common to merchant ships. Davits rusted in their sockets, falls so swollen as hardly to render over the sheaves, gear missing, water-breakers leaky—all the various disastrous consequences that have given sea-tragedies their grim completeness. But while the almost worn-out crew worked with the energy of despair, there arose from the darkness without the cheery hail of “Ship ahoy!”

Could any one give an idea in cold print of the revulsion of feeling wrought by those two simple words? For one intense moment there was silence. Then from every throat came the joyful response, a note like the breaking of a mighty string overstrained by an outburst of praise.

Naturally, the crew first recovered their balance from the stupefaction of sudden relief, and with coils of rope in their hands they thronged the side, peering out into the dark for a glimpse of their deliverers.

“Hurrah!” And the boatswain hurled the mainbrace far out-board at some dim object. A few seconds later there arrived on board a grim figure, quaint of speech as an Elizabethan Englishman, perfectly cool and laconic, as if the service he had come to render was in the nature of a polite morning call.

“Guess you’ve consid’ble of a muss put up hyar, gents all,” said he; and, after a brief pause, “Don’t know ez we’ve enny gre’t amount er spare time on han’, so ef you’ve nawthin’ else very pressin’ t’ tend ter, we mout so well see ’bout transhipment, don’t ye think?”

He had been addressing no one in particular, but the captain answered him.

“You are right, sir; and thank you with all our hearts! Men, see the ladies and children over-side!”

No one seemed to require telling that this angel of deliverance had arrived from the whale-ship; any other avenue of escape seemed beyond all imagination out of the question. Swiftly yet carefully the helpless ones were handed over-side; with a gentleness most sweet to see those piratical-looking exiles bestowed them in the boat. As soon as she was safely laden, another moved up out of the mirk behind and took her place. And it was done so cannily. No roaring, agitation, or confusion, as the glorious work proceeded. It was the very acme of good boatmanship. The light grew apace, and upon the tall tongues of flame, in all gorgeous hues that now cleft the night, huge masses of yellow smoke rolled far to leeward, making up a truly infernal picture.

Meanwhile, at the earliest opportunity, Captain James had called the first-comer (chief mate of the whaler) apart, and quietly informed him of the true state of affairs. The “down-easter” received this appalling news with the same taciturnity that he had already manifested, merely remarking as he shifted his chaw into a more comfortable position—

“Wall, cap’, ef she lets go ’fore we’ve all gut clear, some ov us ’ll take th’ short cut t’ glory, anyhaow.”

But, for all his apparent nonchalance, he had kept a wary eye upon the work a-doing, to see that no moment was wasted.

And so it came to pass that the last of the crew gained the boats, and there remained on board the Mirzapore but Captain James and his American deliverer. According to immemorial precedent, the Englishman expressed his intention of being last on board. And upon his inviting his friend to get into the waiting boat straining at her painter astern, the latter said—

“Sir, I ’low no dog-goned matter ov etiquette t’ spile my work, ’n’ I must say t’ I don’ quite like th’ idee ov leavin’ yew behine; so ef yew’ll excuse me——”

And with a movement sudden and lithe as a leopard’s he had seized the astonished captain and dropped him over the taff-rail into the boat as she rose upon a sea-crest. Before the indignant Englishman had quite realized what had befallen him, his assailant was standing by his side manipulating the steer-oar and shouting—

“Naow then, m’ sons, pull two, starn three; so, altogether. Up with her, lift her, m’ hearties, lift her, ’r by th’ gre’t bull whale it’ll be a job spiled after all.”

And those silent men did indeed “give way.” The long supple blades of their oars flashed crimson in the awful glare behind, as the heavily-laden but still buoyant craft climbed the watery hills or plunged into the hissing valleys. Suddenly there was one deep voice that rent the heavens. The whole expanse of the sky was lit up by crimson flame, in the midst of which hurtled fragments of that once magnificent ship. The sea rose in heaps, so that all the boatmen’s skill was needed to keep their craft from being overwhelmed. But the danger passed, and they reached the ship—the humble, clumsy old “spouter” that had proved to them a veritable ark of safety in time of their utmost need.

Captain James had barely recovered his outraged dignity when he was met by a quaint figure advancing out of the thickly-packed crowd on the whaler’s quarter-deck. “I’m Cap’n Fish, at yew’re service, sir. We haint over ’n’ above spacious in eour ’commodation, but yew’re all welcome t’ the best we hev’; ’n’ I’ll try ’n’ beat up f’r th’ Cape ’n’ lan’ ye’s quick ’s it kin be did.”

The Englishman had hardly voice to reply; but, recollecting himself, he said, “I’m afraid, Captain Fish, that we shall be sadly in your way for dealing with those whales we saw you secure yesterday.”

“Not much yew wunt,” was the unexpected reply. “We hed t’ make eour ch’ice mighty sudden between them fish ’n’ yew, ’n’, of course, though we’re noways extravagant, they hed t’ go.”

The simple nobility of that homely man, in thus for self and crew passing over the loss of from eight to ten thousand dollars at the first call from his kind, was almost too much for Captain James, who answered unsteadily—

“If I have any voice in the matter, there will be no possibility of the men, who dared the terrors of fire and sea to save me and my charges, being heavily fined for their humanity.”

“Oh, thet’s all right,” said Captain Silas Fish.

THE OLD HOUSE ON THE HILL

CHAPTER I

There is something in the stress and struggle of tumultuous life in a vast city like London that to me is almost unbearable. Accustomed from a very early age to the illimitable peace of the ocean, to the untainted air of its changeless circle of waves and roofless dome of sky, I have never been able to endure satisfactorily the unceasing roar of traffic in crowded streets, the relentless rush of mankind in the race for life which is the normal condition of our great centres of civilization. Yet, for many years, being condemned by circumstances to abide in the midst of urban strife and noise without a break from one weary year to another, I lived to mourn departed peace, and feed my longing for it on memory alone, without a hope that its enjoyments would ever again be mine. Then came unexpected relief, an opportunity to visit a secluded corner of Wiltshire, that inland division of England which is richer, perhaps, in memorials of our wonderful history than any other part of these little islands, crowded as they are with reminiscences of bygone glorious days.

I took up my quarters in a hamlet on the banks of the Wylye, a delightful little river, taking its rise near the Somersetshire border, and wandering with innumerable windings through the heart of Wiltshire, associating itself with the Bourne and the Nadder, until at Salisbury it is lost in that most puzzling of all streams, the Avon. I said puzzling, for I believe there are but a handful of people out of the great host to whom the Avon is one of the best-known streams in the world from its associations, who know that there is one Avon feeding the Severn near Tewkesbury, which is Shakespeare’s Avon; there is another, upon which Bristol has founded her prosperity, and there is yet another, the Avon of my first mention, which, accumulated from numberless rivulets in the Vale of Pewsey, floweth through Salisbury, and loses itself finally in the waters of the English Channel at Christchurch in Hampshire. But I must ask forgiveness for allowing the wily Avon to lure me away thus far.

One of the chief charms of Wiltshire is its rolling downs rising upon either side of the valley, which in the course of ages the busy little Wylye has scooped out between them in gentle undulations, a short, sweet herbage for the most part covering their masses of solid chalk, coming to within a foot or two of those emerald surfaces. This is the place to come and ponder over the rubbish that is talked about the over-crowding of England. Here you shall wander for a whole day if you will, neither meeting or seeing a human being unless you follow the road that winds through the Deverills, five villages of the valley, all, alas, in swift process of decay. Even there the simple folk will stare long and earnestly at a stranger as he passes, before turning to resume their leisurely tasks, the uneventful, slumberous round of English village life. To me it was idyllic. A great peace came over me, and I felt that it was a sinful waste of nature to shut myself within four walls even at night. Long after the thirty souls peopling our hamlet had gone to bed I would sit out on the hillside behind the cottage, steeping my heart in the warm silence, only manifested—not broken—by the queer wailing cry of an uneasy plover as it fluttered overhead. And when, reluctantly, I did go to bed, I was careful to prop the windows wide open, even though I was occasionally awakened by the soft “flip-flip” of bats flying across my chamber, dazzled by the small light of my reading lamp.

The grey of the dawn, no matter how few had been my hours of sleep, never failed to awaken me, and, hurrying through my bath and dressing, I gat me out into the sweet breath of morning twilight while Nature was taking her beauty sleep and the dewdrops were waiting to welcome with their myriad smiles the first peep of the sun. And so it came to pass that one morning, just as the eastern horizon was being flooded with a marvellous series of colour-blends in mysterious and ever-changing sequence, that I mounted the swell of the down opposite to the village of Brixton Deverill, with every sense quickened to fullest appreciation of the lovely scene. Hosts of rabbits, quaint wee bunches of grey fur, each with a white blaze in the centre, scuttled from beneath my feet, and every little while, their curiosity overpowering natural fear, sat up with long ears erect and big black eyes devouring the uncouth intruder on their happy feeding grounds. Great flocks of partridges, almost as tame as domestic fowls (for it was July), ran merrily in and out among the furze clumps, or rose with a noisy whir of many wings when I came too close; aristocratic cock pheasants strolled by superciliously with a sidelong glance to see that the erect biped carried no gun, and an occasional lark gyrated to the swell of his own heart-lifting song as he rose in successive leaps to his proper sphere. I felt like singing myself, but Nature’s music was too sweet to be disturbed by my quavering voice, so I climbed on, all eyes and ears, and nerves a-tingle with receptivity of keenest enjoyment. Reaching the summit, I paused and surveyed the peaceful scene. Far to the left lay Longleat, its dense woods shimmering in a blue haze; to the right, Heytesbury Wood, in sombre shadow; and behind, the forest-like ridge of Chicklade. But near me, just peeping over the bare crest of an adjoining down, were the tops of a clump of firs, and, curious to know what that coppice might contain (I always have had a desire to explore the recesses of a lonely clump of trees), I turned my steps towards it, only stopping at short intervals to admire the gracefulness of the purple, blue, and yellow wild flowers with which the short, fine rabbit-grass was profusely besprent. Meanwhile the sun appeared in cloudless splendour, his powerful rays dissipating the spring-like freshness of the morning and promising a most sultry day. Yet as I drew nearer the dark fastness of the coppice I felt a chill, an actual physical sensation of cold. At the same time there arose within me a positive repugnance to draw any closer to that deep shade. This unaccountable change only made me angry with myself for being capable of feeling such a nonsensical, unexplainable hindrance to my purpose. So I took hold of it with both hands, and cast it from me, striding onward with quickened step until I really seemed to be breasting a strong tide. Panting with the intensity of my inward struggle, I reached the shadow cast by that solemn clump of pines, and saw the pale outlines of a wall in their midst. Now curiosity became paramount, and, actually shivering with cold, I pressed on until I stood in front of a fairly large house, surrounded by a flint wall on all sides, but at some yards distance from it. Through large holes in the encircling wall the wood-folk scampered or fluttered merrily but noiselessly; rabbits, hares, squirrels, and birds, and as I drew nearer there was a sudden whiff of strong animal scent, and a long red body launched itself through one of the openings, flitting past me like a flash of red-brown light. Although I had never seen an English fox before on his native heath, I recognized him from his pictures, and forgave him for startling me. Skirting the wall, I came to a huge gap with crumbling sides, where once had been a gate, I suppose. It commanded a view of the front of the house, which I now saw was a mere shell, its walls perforated in many places by the busy rabbits, which swarmed in and out like bees upon a hive. No windows remained, but the front door was fast closed and barred by a thick trunk of ivy, which had once overspread the whole building, but was now quite in keeping with it, for it was dead. The space between the wall and the house was thickly overgrown with nettles to nearly the height of a man, but there was no sign of any useful plant, and even the roof of the building, which was of red tiles and intact, had none of that kindly covering of house-leek, stone-crop, and moss, which always decks such spaces with beauty in the country. Upon a sudden impulse I turned, and behind me I saw with a shudder that only a few feet from where I stood there was a sheer descent of some thirty feet, a veritable pit some ten yards wide, but with its farther margin only a few feet high. Tall trees sprang from its bottom and sides, their roots surrounding a pool of black-looking water that seemed a receptacle for all manner of hideous mysteries. Involuntarily I shrank into myself, and looked up for a glint of blue sunlit sky, but it was like being in a vault, dark and dank and cold. Still, the idea never entered my head to get out until I had seen all that might be there to be seen, although I confess to comforting myself, as I have often done on a dull and gloomy day, with the reminder that just outside the sun was shining steadily.

Turning away from that grim-looking pit, I thrust myself through the savage nettle-bed, my hands held high so that I could guard my face with my arms, until I reached the first opening in the house wall that offered admission. With just one moment’s hesitation I stepped within, and stood on the decayed floor of what had once been the best room. And then I had need of all my disbelief in ghosts, for around me and beneath me and above were a congeries of all the queer noises one could conjure up. Soft pattering of feet, hollow murmurings as of voices, the indefinite sound of brushing past that always makes one turn sharply to see who is near. I found my mouth getting dry and my hands burning, in spite of the chill that still clung to me; but still I went on and explored every room in the eerie place, noting a colony of bats that huddled together among the bare roof-beams, prying into the numerous cavities in floors and walls made by the rabbits and the rats, but seeing nothing worthy of note until I reached a sort of cellar which looked as if it had been used as a bakehouse. Upon stepping down the decrepit ladder which led to it, I startled a great colony of rats, that fled in all directions with shrill notes of affright, hardly more scared than myself. The place was so dark that I thankfully remembered my box of wax matches, and, twisting two or three torches out of a newspaper I found in my jacket pocket, I soon had a good light.

It revealed a cavity in the floor just in front of a huge baker’s oven, into the dim recesses of which I peered, finding that it extended for some distance on either side of the opening. Lighting another torch, I jumped down and found—three oblong boxes of rude construction, and across them the mouldering frame of what had once been a man. At last I had seen enough, and with something tap-tapping inside my head, I scrambled hastily out of the hole, my body shaking as if with ague, and my lungs aching for air. I looked neither to the right nor the left as I went, nor paused, regardless of the nettle grove, until I emerged upon the bright hilltop, where I flung myself down and drank in great gulps of sweet air until my tremors passed away and the tumult of my mind became appeased.

Without casting another look back at that lonely place, or attempting to speculate upon what I had seen, I departed for home, and, after a hasty breakfast, sought out a friend in the next village, Longbridge Deverill, who had already given me many pleasant hours by retailing scraps of local history reaching back for hundreds of years. I found him in his pretty garden enjoying the bright day, with a look of deep content upon his worn old face—the afterglow of a well-spent life. Staying his rising to greet me, I flung myself down on the springy turf by his side, and almost without a word of preface, gave him a hurried account of my morning’s adventure. He listened in grave silence until I had finished, and then began as follows.

CHAPTER II

It is certainly a strange coincidence that you should stumble across that sombre place, because, after what you told me the other day about your family connection with this part of the country, I have no doubt whatever that the unhappy tenants of Pertwood Farm (as it is called even now) were nearly related to yourself. Their tragical story is well known to me, although its principal events happened more than sixty years ago, when I was a boy. The house had been built and enclosed, and the trees planted, by a morose old man who wished to shut himself off from the world, yet was by no means averse to a good deal of creature comfort. He lived in it for some years, attended only by one hard-featured man, who did apparently men and women’s work equally well—lived there until local rumour had grown tired of inventing fables about him, and left him to the oblivion he desired. Then one day the news began to circulate that Pertwood had changed hands, that old Cusack was gone, and that a middle-aged man with a beautiful young wife had taken up his abode there, without any one in the vicinity knowing aught of the change until it had been made. Then the village tongues wagged loosely for awhile, especially when it was found that the new-comers were almost as reserved as old Cusack had been. But as time went on Mr. Delambre, whose Huguenot name stamped him as most probably a native of these parts (you have noticed how very frequent such names are hereabout), leased several good-sized fields lower down the hill towards Chicklade, and began to do a little farming. This, of course, necessitated his employing labour, and consequently, by slow degrees, scraps of personalia about him filtered through the sluggish tongues of the men who worked for him. Thus we learned that his wife (your grandmother’s sister, my boy) was rarely beautiful, though pale and silent as a ghost. That her husband loved her tigerishly, could not bear that any other eyes should see her but his, and it was believed that his fierce watchful jealousy of her being even looked upon was fretting her to death. Quite a flutter of excitement pervaded the village here not long after the above details became public property, by one of the labourers from Pertwood coming galloping in on a plough-horse for old Mary Hoddinot, who had nursed at least two generations of neighbours in their earliest days. She was whisked off in the baker’s cart, but the news remained behind that twin boys had arrived at Pert’ood, as it was locally called, and that Delambre was almost frantic with anxiety about his idol. The veil thus hastily lifted dropped again, and only driblets of news came at long intervals. We heard that old Mary was in permanent residence, that the boys were thriving sturdily, and that the mother was fairer than ever and certainly happier. So things jogged along for a couple of years, until an occasional word came deviously from Pertwood to the effect that the miserable Delambre was now jealous of his infant boys. Self-tortured, he was making his wife a living martyr, and such was his wild-beast temper that none dare interfere. At last the climax was put upon our scanty scraps of intelligence by the appearance in our midst of old Mary, pale, thin, and trembling. It was some time before we could gather her dread story, she was so sadly shaken; but by degrees we learned that after a day in which Delambre seemed to be perfectly devil-possessed, alternately raging at and caressing his wife, venting savage threats against the innocent babes “who were stealing all her affection away from him,” he had gone down the hill to see after enfolding some sheep. He was barely out of sight before his wife, turning to old Mary, said, “Please put your arms round me, I feel so tired.” Mary complied, drawing the fair, weary head down upon her faithful old bosom, where it remained until a chill struck through her bodice. Alarmed, she looked down and saw that her mistress was resting indeed.

Although terrified almost beyond measure, the poor old creature retained sufficient presence of mind to release herself from the dead arms, rush to the door, and scream for her employer. He was returning, when her cries hastened his steps, and, breaking into a run, he burst into the room and saw! He stood stonily for a minute, then, turning to the trembling old woman, shouted “go away.” Not daring to disobey, she hurried off, and here she was. After much discussion, my father and the village doctor decided to go to Pertwood and see if anything could be done. But their errand was in vain. Delambre met them at the door, telling them that he did not need, nor would he receive, any help or sympathy. What he did require was to be left alone. And slamming the door in his visitors’ faces, he disappeared. Even this grim happening died out of men’s daily talk as the quiet days rolled by, and nothing more occurred to arouse interest. We heard that the boys were well, and were often seen tumbling about the grass-plot before the house door by the farm labourers. Rumour said many things concerning the widower’s disposal of his dead. But no one knew anything for certain, except that her body had never been seen again by any eye outside the little family. Delambre himself seemed changed for the better, less harsh and morose, although as secretive as ever. He was apparently devoted to his two boys, who throve amazingly. As they grew up he and they were inseparable. He educated them, played with them, made their welfare his one object in life. And they returned his care with the closest affection, in fact the trio seemed never contented apart. Yet they never came near the village, nor mixed with the neighbours in any way.

In this quiet neighbourhood the years slip swiftly by as does the current past an anchored ship, and as unnoticeably. The youthful Delambres grew and waxed strong enough to render unnecessary the employment of any other labour on the farm than their own, and in consequence it was only at rare intervals that any news of them reached us in roundabout fashion through Warminster, where old Delambre was wont to go once a week on business. So closely had they held aloof from all of us that when one bitter winter night a tall swarthy young man came furiously knocking at the doctor’s door, he was as completely unknown to the worthy old man as any new arrival from a foreign land. The visitor, however, lost no time in introducing himself as George Delambre, and urgently requested the doctor to accompany him at once to Pertwood on a matter of life and death. In a few minutes the pair set off through the heavy snow-drifts, and, after a struggle that tried the old doctor terribly, arrived at the house to find that the patient was mending fast.

A young woman of about eighteen, only able to mutter a few words of French, had been found huddled up under the wall of the house by George as he was returning from a visit to the sheepfold. She was fairly well dressed in foreign clothing, but at almost the last gasp from privation and cold. How she came there she never knew. The last thing that she remembered was coming to Hindon, by so many ways that her money was all spent, in order to find a relative, she having been left an orphan. Failing in her search, she had wandered out upon the downs, and the rest was a blank.

In spite of convention she remained at Pertwood, making the dull place brighter than it had ever been. But of course both brothers fell in love with the first woman they had ever really known. And she, being thus almost compelled to make her choice, with all a woman’s inexplicable perversity, promised to marry dark saturnine George, although her previous behaviour towards him had been timid and shrinking, as if she feared him. To the rejected brother, fair Charles, she had always been most affectionate, so much so, indeed, that he was perfectly justified in looking upon her as his future wife, to be had for the asking. This cruel blow to his almost certain hopes completely stunned him for a time, until his brother with grave and sympathetic words essayed to comfort him. This broke the spell that had bound him, and in a perfect fury of anger he warned his brother that he looked upon him as his deadliest enemy, that the world was hardly wide enough for them both; but, for his part, he would not, if he could help it, add another tragedy to their already gloomy home, and to that end he would flee. Straightway he rushed and sought his father, and, without any warning, demanded his portion. At first the grim old man stared at him blankly, for his manner was new as his words were rough; then, rising from his chair, the old man bade him be gone—not one penny would he give him; he might go and starve for ought he cared.

“Very well,” said Charles, “then I go into the village and get advice as to how I shall proceed against you for the wages I have earned since I began to work. And you’ll cut a fine figure at the Warminster Court.”

The threat was efficient. With a face like ashes and trembling hands the father opened his desk and gave him fifty guineas, telling him that it was half of his total savings, and with an evidently severe struggle to curb his furious temper, asked him to hurry his departure. Since he had robbed him, the sooner he was gone the better. The young man turned and went without another word.

That same night old Delambre died suddenly and alone. And Louise, instead of clinging to her promised husband, came down to the village, where the doctor gave her shelter. The unhappy George, thus cruelly deserted, neglected everything, oscillating between the village and his lonely home. The inquest showed that the old man had died of heart disease; and George then, to every one’s amazement, announced his intention of carrying out his father’s oft-repeated wish, and burying him beneath the house by the side of his wife.

CHAPTER III

And now we must needs leave Pertwood Farm and its doubly bereaved occupant for a while, in order to follow the fortunes of the self-exiled Charles. His was indeed a curious start in life. Absolutely ignorant of the world, his whole horizon at the age of twenty years bounded by that little patch of lonely Wiltshire down, and his knowledge of mankind confined to, at the most, half a dozen people. He had great native talent, which, added to an ability to keep his own counsel, was doubtless of good service to him in this breaking away into the unknown. His total stock of money amounted to less than £50, to him an enormous sum, the greater because he had never yet known the value of money. His native shrewdness, however, led him to husband it in miserly fashion, as being the one faithful friend upon which he could always rely.

And now the salt strain in his mother’s blood must have asserted itself unmistakably, if mysteriously, for straight as a homing bee he made his way down to the sea, finding himself a week after his flight at Poole. I shall never forget the look upon his face as he told me how he first felt when the sea revealed itself to him. All his unsatisfied longings, all the heart-wrench of his rejected love, were forgotten in present unutterable delight. He was both hungry and weary, yet he sat contentedly down upon the verge of the cliffs and gazed upon this glorious vision until his eyes glazed with fatigue, and his body was numbed with the immovable restraint of his attitude. At last he tore himself away, and entered the town, seeking a humble lodging-place, and finding one exactly suited to his needs in a little country public-house on the outskirts of the town, kept by an apple-cheeked dame, whose son was master of a brigantine then lying in the harbour. She gave the handsome youth a motherly welcome, none the less warm because he appeared to be well able to pay his way.

Against the impregnable fortress of his reserve she failed to make any progress whatever, although in the attempt to gratify her curiosity she exerted every simple art known to her. On the other hand he learned many things, for one of her chief wiles was an open confidence in him, an unreserved pouring out to him of all she knew. He was chiefly interested in her stories of her son. Naturally she was proud of that big swarthy seaman, who, when he arrived home that evening, loomed so large in the doorway that he appeared to dwarf the whole building. As Englishmen will, the two men eyed one another suspiciously at first, until the ice having been broken by the fond mother, Charles in his turn began to pump his new acquaintance. Captain Jacks, delighted beyond measure to find a virgin mind upon which to sow his somewhat threadbare stock of yarns, was gratified beyond measure, and thenceforward until long after the usual hour for bed, the young man was simply soaking up like a sponge in the rain such a store of wonders as he had never before even dreamed of. At last the old dame, somewhat huffed by the way in which Charles had turned from her garrulity to her son’s, ordered them both to bed. But Charles could not sleep. How was it possible? The quiet monotone of his life had been suddenly lifted into a veritable Wagner concert of strange harmonies, wherein joy and grief, pleasure and pain, love and hate, strove for predominance, and refused to be hushed to rest even by the needs of his healthful weariness.

Out of it all one resolve arose towering. He would, he must go to sea. That alone could be the career for him. But he would write to Louise. Knowing nothing of her flight from the old home or of his father’s death, he felt that he must endeavour to assert a claim to her, more just and defensible than his brother’s, even though she had rejected him. And then, soothed by his definite settlement of future action, he fell asleep, nor woke again until roused by his indignant landlady’s inquiry as to whether “’ee wor gwain t’ lie abed arl daay.” Springing out of bed, he made his simple toilet in haste, coming down so speedily that the good old dame was quite mollified. A hasty breakfast ensued, and a hurried departure for the harbour in search of Captain Jacks’ brigantine. Finding her after a short search, he was warmly welcomed by the gallant skipper, and, to his unbounded delight, succeeded in inducing that worthy man to take him as an extra hand without pay on his forthcoming voyage to Newfoundland. Then returning to his lodging, he made his small preparations, and after much anxious thought, produced the following letter, which he addressed to Louise, care of the old doctor at Longbridge.

“My Dearest Loo,

“Though you chose George instead of me I don’t mean to give you up. I mean to do something big, looking forward to you for a prize. I believe you love me better than you do George in spite of what you did. You will never marry him, never. You’ll marry me, because you love me, and I won’t let you go. I know you’ll get this letter, and send me an answer to Mrs. Jacks, Apple Row, Poole. And you’ll wait for my reply, which may be late a coming, but will be sure to come.

“Yours till death,
“Charles Delambre.”

A few minutes afterwards he was on his way down to the Mary Jane, Captain Jacks’ brigantine. He was received with the gravity befitting a skipper on shipping a new hand, and after bestowing his few purchases in a cubby-hole in the tiny cabin, returned on deck in his shirt-sleeves, to take part in whatever work was going on, with all the ardour of a new recruit. Next morning at daylight the Mary Jane departed. Under the brilliant sky of June the dainty little vessel glided out into the Channel, bounding forward before the fresh north-easterly breeze, as if rejoicing to be at home once more, and freed from the restraint of mooring chains and the stagnant environment of a sheltered harbour.

Charles took to his new life wonderfully, feeling no qualms of sea-sickness, and throwing himself into every detail of the work with such ardour that by the time they had been out a week he was quite a useful member of the ship’s company. And then there arrived that phenomenon, a June gale from the north-west. Shorn of all her white wings but one, the little brigantine lay snugly enough, fore-reaching against the mighty Atlantic rollers that hurled themselves upon her like mountain ranges endowed with swiftest motion. So she lay throughout one long day and far into the night succeeding, until just at that dread hour of midnight when watchfulness so often succumbs to weariness at sea, a huge comber came tumbling aboard as she fell off into the trough of the sea. For a while she seemed to be in doubt whether to shake herself clear of the foaming mass, and then splendidly lifting herself with her sudden burden of a deck filled with water, she resumed her gallant struggle. Just then it was discovered that her lights were gone. Before they could be replaced, out of the darkness came flying an awful shape, vast, swift, and merciless. One of the splendid Yankee fliers of those days, the Columbia, of over a thousand tons register, was speeding eastward under every stitch of sail, at a rate far surpassing that of any but the swiftest steamships. A good look out was being kept on board of her, for those vessels were noted for the excellence of their discipline and careful attention to duty. But the night was pitchy dark, the Mary Jane had no light visible, and before anything could be done her doomed crew saw the Columbia’s bow towering over their vessel’s waist like some unthinkable demon of destruction. Up, up, up, she soared above them, then descending, her gleaming bow shone clean through the centre of the Mary Jane’s hull, tearing with it the top-hamper of masts and rigging, and rushing straight through the wreckage without a perceptible check. One wild cry of despair and all was silent. Over the side of the Columbia peered a row of white faces gazing fearfully into the gloom, but there was nothing to be seen. The sea had claimed her toll.

As usual, after such a calamity, there was a hushed performance of tasks, until suddenly one of the crew shouted, “Why, here’s a stranger.” And there was. Charles had clutched instinctively at one of the martingale guys as the Columbia swept over her victim, and had succeeded in climbing from thence on board out of the vortex of death in which all his late shipmates had been involved. Plied with eager questions, his simple story was soon told, and he was enrolled among the crew. The Columbia was bound to Genoa, a detail that troubled him but little; so long as he was at sea he had no desire to select his destination. But he found here a very different state of things obtaining. The crew were a hard-bitten, motley lot, prime seamen mostly, but “packet rats” to a man, wastrels without a thought in life but how soon they might get from one drinking-bout to another, and at sea only kept from mutiny, and, indeed, crime of all kinds, by the iron discipline imposed upon them by the stern-faced, sinewy Americans who formed the afterguard. There were no soft, sleepy-voiced orders given here. Every command issued by an officer came like the bellowing of an angry bull, and if the man or men addressed did not leap like cats to execute it, a blow emphasized the fierce oath that followed.

Charles now learned what work was. No languid crawling through duties with one ear ever cocked for the sound of the releasing bell, but a rabid rush at all tasks, even the simplest, as if upon its immediate performance hung issues of life or death. “Well fed, well driven, well paid,” was the motto on board those ships, albeit there were not wanting scoundrelly skippers and officers, who, in ports where fresh hands were to be obtained cheaply, were not above using the men so abominably that they would desert and leave all their cruelly-earned wages behind. Strangely enough, however, Charles became a prime favourite. This son of the soil, who might have been expected to move in clod-hopper fashion, developed an amazing smartness which, allied to a keenness of appreciation quite American in its rapidity, endeared him specially to the officers. In the roaring fo’c’sle among his half-savage shipmates he commanded respect, for in some mysterious way he evolved masterly fighting qualities and dogged staying powers that gave him victory in several bloody battles. So that it came to pass, when Genoa was reached, that Charles was one day called aft and informed that, if he cared to, he might shift his quarters aft and go into training for an officer, holding a sort of brevet rank as supernumerary third mate. He accepted, and was transferred, much to the disgust of his shipmates forward, who looked upon his move aft as a sort of desertion to the enemy. But they knew Charles too well to proceed further with their enmity than cursing him among themselves, so that as much peace as usual was kept.

From this port Charles wrote lengthily to Louise at Longbridge as before, and to Poole to Mrs. Jacks, breaking her great misfortune to her, and begging her to write to him and send him at New York any letters that might have arrived for him. And then he turned contentedly to his work again, allowing it to engross every thought. He was no mere dreamer of dreams, this young man. In his mind there was a solid settled conviction that, sooner or later (and it did not greatly matter which), he would attain the object of his desires. This granitic foundation of faith in his future saved him all mental trouble, and enabled him to devote all his energies to the work in hand, to the great satisfaction of his skipper. Captain Lothrop, indeed, looked upon this young Englishman with no ordinary favour. A typical American himself, of the best school, he concealed under a languid demeanour energy as of an unloosed whirlwind. His face was long, oval, and olive-brown, with black silky beard and moustache trimmed like one of Velasquez’s cavaliers, and black eyes that, usually expressionless as balls of black marble, would, upon occasion given, dart rays of terrible fire. Contrasted with this saturnine stately personage, the fair, ruddy Charles looked like some innocent schoolboy, the open, confiding air he bore being most deceptive. He picked up seamanship, too, in marvellous fashion, the sailorizing that counts, by virtue of which a seaman handles a thousand-ton ship as if she were a toy and every one of her crew but an incarnation of his will. But this very ability of his before long aroused a spirit of envy in his two brother officers that would have been paralyzing to a weaker man. Here, again, the masterly discipline of the American merchantman came to his aid, a discipline that does not know of such hideous folly as allowing jealousy between officers being paraded before the crew, so that they with native shrewdness may take advantage of the house divided against itself. When in an American ship one sees a skipper openly deriding an officer, be sure that officer’s days as an officer are numbered; he is about to be reduced to the ranks. So, in spite of a growing hatred to the —— Britisher, the two senior mates allowed no sign of their feelings to be manifested before the crew. Perhaps the old man was a bit injudicious also. He would yarn with Charles by the hour about the old farm and the sober, uneventful routine of English rural life, the recital of these placid stories evidently giving him the purest pleasure by sheer contrast with his own stormy career.

In due time the stay of the Columbia at Genoa came to an end, and backward she sailed for New York. In masterly fashion she was manœuvred out through the Gut of Gibraltar, and sped with increased rapidity into the broad Atlantic. But it was now nearly winter, and soon the demon of the west wind made his power felt. The gale settled down steadily to blow for weeks apparently, and with dogged perseverance the Columbia’s crew fought against it. Hail, snow, and ice scourged them, canvas became like planks, ropes as bars of iron. Around the bows arose masses of ice like a rampart, and from the break of the forecastle hung icicles which grew like mushrooms in a few hours of night. The miserable crew were worn to the bone with fatigue and cold, and had they been fed as British crews of such ships are fed they would doubtless have all died. But, in spite of their sufferings, they worked on until one night, having to make all possible sail to a “slant” of wind, they were all on deck together at eight bells—midnight. With the usual celerity practised in these ships, the snowy breadths of canvas were rising one above the other, and the Columbia was being flung forward in lively fashion over the still heavy waves, when Charles, who was standing right forward on the forecastle, shouted in a voice that could be heard distinctly above the roar of the wind and sea and the cries of the seamen, “Hard down!” Mechanically the helmsman obeyed, hardly knowing whither the summons came, and the beautiful vessel swung up into the wind, catching all her sails aback, and grinding her way past some frightful obstruction to leeward that looked as if an abyss of darkness had suddenly yawned in the middle of the sea, along the rim of which the Columbia was cringing. The tremendous voice of Captain Lothrop boomed out through the darkness, “What d’ye see, Mister Delamber, forrard there?” “We’ve struck a derelict, sir,” roared Charles, and his words sounded in the ears of the ship’s company like the summons of doom. The ship faltered in her swing to windward, refused to obey her helm, and swung off the wind again slowly but surely, as if being dragged down into unknown depths by an invisible hand whose grip was like that of death.

CHAPTER IV

In this hour of paralyzing uncertainty Charles rose to the full height of his manhood. Passing the word for a lantern, and slinging himself in a bowline, he ventured into the blackness alongside, and presently reappeared with the cheering news that no damage was done. A few strokes of an axe and they would be set free. And arming himself with a broad axe, he again disappeared into the outer dark, this time under the watchful eye of the skipper, and presently, with a movement which was like a throb of returning life to every soul on board, the Columbia regained her freedom. Charles was hauled on board through the surf alongside like a sodden bundle of clothing, unhurt, but entirely exhausted, having made good his claim to be regarded as one of the world’s silent heroes, a man who to the call of duty returns no dubious answer, but renders swift obedience.

This last adventure seemed to exhaust the Columbia’s budget of ill-luck for the voyage. Although the wind was never quite fair, it allowed them to work gradually over to the westward, and with its change a little more genial weather was vouchsafed to them. They arrived in New York without further incident worthy of notice, and Charles found himself not only the guest of the skipper, but honoured by the owner, who, as an old skipper himself, was fully alive to the glowing account given him by Captain Lothrop of Charles’s services to the Columbia. The other two officers left early, and Charles, now a full-blown second mate, saw his prize almost within his grasp. The more so that a letter (only one) awaited him; it was from Louise, and contained only these words—

“Dear Charles,

“It is that I am yours. Whenever it shall please you to come for me, I am ready. I leave the house to the day of your parting, for your father is dead immediately, and I go not there any more. I wait for you only.

“Louise.”

He accepted this news with perfect calmness, as of one who knew that it would come, and turned again to his work with a zest as unlike that of a love-sick youth as any one ever saw. Not a word did he say of his affairs even to his good friend the skipper, and when, their stay in New York at an end, they sailed for China, that worthy man was revolving all sorts of projects in his mind for an alliance between Charles and his wife’s sister, who, during Charles’ stay in New York, had manifested no small degree of interest in the stalwart, ruddy young Englishman. He, however, took no advantage of the obviously proffered opportunity, and in due course the Columbia sailed for Hong Kong, petroleum laden. Captain Lothrop carried his wife with him this voyage, and very homely indeed the ship appeared with the many trifles added to her cabin by feminine taste. A new mate and third mate were also shipped—the former a gigantic Kentuckian, with a fist like a shoulder of mutton, a voice like a wounded buffalo bull, and a heart as big and soft as ever dwelt in the breast of mortal man. Yet, strangely enough, he was a terror to the crew. Long training in the duty of running a ship “packet fashion” had made him so, made him regard the men under his charge as if they were wild beasts, who needed keeping tame by many stripes and constant, unremitting toil. The third mate was a Salem man, tall enough, but without an ounce of superfluous flesh on his gaunt frame. He seemed built of steel wire, so tireless and insensible to pain was he. With these two worthies Charles was at home at once. Good men themselves, they took to him on the spot as an Englishman of the best sort, who is always beloved by Yankees—that is, genuine Americans—and loves them in return in no half-hearted fashion.

It was well for them all that this solidarity obtained among them, for they shipped a crowd in New York of all nationalities, except Americans or English, a gang that looked as if they had stepped direct from the deck of a pirate to take service on board the Columbia. The skipper was as brave a man as ever trod a quarter-deck; but his wife was aboard, and his great love made him nervous. He suggested at once that each of his officers should never be without a loaded six-shooter in their hip-pockets by night or day, and that they should watch that crowd as the trainer watches his cage of performing tigers. Fortunately the men were all prime seamen, and full of spring, while the perfect discipline maintained on board from the outset did not permit of any loafing about, which breeds insolence as well as laziness, that root of mischief at sea. So, in spite of incessant labour and the absence of any privileges whatever, the peace was kept until the ship, after a splendid passage of one hundred days, was running up the China Sea under as much canvas as she could drag to the heavy south-west monsoon. All the watch were busy greasing down, it being Saturday, and, unlike most English ships, where, for fear of the men grumbling, this most filthy but necessary work is done by the boys or the quiet men of the crew, here everybody took a hand, and the job was done in about twenty minutes from the word “go.” A huge Greek was busy at the mizzen-topmast, his grease-pot slung to his belt, when suddenly the pot parted company with him and fell, plentifully bespattering sails and rigging as it bounded and rebounded on its way down, until at last it smashed upon the cabin skylight and deposited the balance of its contents all around.

“Come down here, ye Dago beast!” bellowed the mate. Slowly, too slowly, ’Tonio obeyed. Hardly had he dropped from the rigging on to the top of the house when Mr. Shelby seized him by the throat, and, in spite of his bulk (he was almost as big as the mate himself), dragged him to the skylight, and, forcing his head down, actually rubbed his face in the foul mess. ’Tonio struggled in silence, but unavailingly, until the mate released him; then, with a spring like a lion’s, he leaped at his tormentor, a long knife, never seen till then, gleaming in his left hand. Mr. Shelby met him halfway with a kick which caught his left elbow, paralyzing his arm, the knife dropping point downwards and sticking in the deck. But the fracas was the signal for a general outbreak. The helmsman sprang from the wheel, the rest of the watch slid down backstays, and came rushing aft, bent on murder, all their long pent-up hatred of authority brought to a climax by the undoubted outrage perpetrated upon one of their number. But they met with a man. His back to the mizzen-mast, Mr. Shelby whipped out his revolver, and, as coolly as if engaged in a day’s partridge-shooting ashore, he fired barrel after barrel of his weapon at the rushing savages. Up came the skipper and the other two officers, not a moment too soon. A hairy Spaniard clutched at Charles as he appeared on deck, but that sturdy son of the soil grappled with his enemy so felly, that in a few heart-beats the body of the Latin went hurtling over the side. Then the fight became general. The ship, neglected, swung up into the wind and was caught aback, behaving herself in the fashion of a wounded animal, while the higher race, outnumbered by four to one, set its teeth and fought in primitive style. The groans of the wounded, the hissing oaths of the combatants, and the crack of revolver shots made up a lurid weft to the warp of sound provided by the moaning wind and murmuring sea. Then gradually those of the men who could do so crawled forrard, leaving the bright yellow of the painted deck aft all besmeared with red, and the victory was won for authority.

But a new danger threatened. Attracted, perhaps, like vultures, by the smell of blood, several evil-looking junks were closing in upon the Columbia, and but for the tremendous exertions of the officers, aided by the cook and steward and the captain’s wife, who, pale but resolute, took the wheel, there is no doubt that the Columbia would have been added to the list of missing ships. That peril was averted by the ship being got before the wind again, when her speed soon told, and she hopelessly out-distanced the sneaking, clumsy junks. And before sunset a long smear of smoke astern resolved itself into one of the smart little gun-boats which, under the splendid St. George’s Cross, patrol those dangerous seas. In answer to signals, she came alongside the Columbia, and soon a boat’s crew of lithe men-o’-war’s-men were on board the American ship, making all secure for her safe passage into Hong Kong. There she arrived two days later, and got rid of her desperate crew, with the exception of two who had paid for their rash attempt the only price they had—their lives.

From Hong Kong the Columbia sailed for London, arriving there after an uneventful passage of one hundred and twenty days. Charles, turning a deaf ear to the entreaties of the captain and his fellow-officers, determined to take his discharge. A load-stone of which they knew not anything was drawing him irresistibly into the heart of Wiltshire, and, with all his earnings carefully secreted about him, he left the great city behind, and set his face steadfastly for Longbridge Deverill. There he suddenly arrived, as if he had dropped from the sky, just as the short winter’s day was closing in. The few straggling villagers peered curiously at the broad, alert figure that strode along the white road with an easy grace and manly bearing quite foreign to the heavy slouch of their own men-folk. There was, too, an indefinable foreign odour about him which cut athwart even their dull perceptions and aroused all their curiosity. But none recognized him. How should they? They had hardly ever known him, except by rumour, which, during his absence of nearly two years, had died a natural death for want of something to feed upon. Straight to the old doctor’s house he went as a homing pigeon would. To his confident knock there appeared at the door Louise, the light of love in her eyes, her arms outstretched in gladdest welcome. Neither showed any surprise, for both seemed to have been in some unexplainable way in communion with the other. Yet, now the first speechless greeting over, the first caresses bestowed, instead of contentment most profound came unease, an indefinite fear lest this wonderful thing that had befallen them should by the sheer perversity of fate be swept away, leaving them in the outer dark.

The quavering voice of the old doctor removed them from each other’s close embrace, and shyly, yet with a proud air of ownership, Louise led the way into the cosy parlour, where the good old man sat enjoying the rest and comfort he so fully deserved. He looked up inquiringly as with dazzled eyes the big man entered the room, hesitatingly, and with a rush of strange memories flooding his brain.

“Who is it, Loo?” said the doctor. “I don’t recognize the gentleman.”

And, rising stiffly from his armchair, he took a step forward.

“It’s Charles, doctor, Charles Delambre,” faltered Louise.

“Yes, doctor; and I’ve come to take away your treasure. Also to thank you with my whole heart for your loving kindness in taking care of her. Without you what would she have done, me being so far away?”

Almost inarticulate with joy, the old man caught Charles’s hands in both his own, and pushed him into a chair. Then sinking back into his own, he gasped breathlessly—

“Ah, my boy, my boy, how I have longed for your return! It has given me more pain than you can think—the idea that I might die and leave this poor child friendless and alone in the world. But she has had no fear. She knew you would come, and she was right. But, Charley, my boy, before we say another word—your brother. You mustn’t forget him, and if, as I fear, your quarrel was fierce, you must forgive. His sufferings have been great. Never once has his face been seen in the village since you left, and, except that we hear an occasional word of him brought by a tramp, he might be dead. Go to him, Charles, and make it up, and perhaps the good Lord will lift the cloud of misery that has so long hung heavily over your house.”

Charles heard the kindly doctor’s little speech in respectful silence, then, speaking for the second time since entering the house, he said—

“You are right, doctor. I will be friends with George if he’ll let me. But I must first secure my wife. After all that has passed, I dare not waste an hour until we are married.”

Louise sat listening with the light of perfect approval on her fine face; and the doctor also in vigorous fashion signified his entire acquiescence. The rest of that happy evening was devoted to a recital of Charles’s wanderings, his escapes, and his good fortune, until, wearied out, those three happy people went to bed.

Next day Charles was busy. A special license had to be procured, and Louise must procure her simple wadding array. The facilities of to-day did not exist then, and the impatient young lover chafed considerably at the delay involved. But in due time the wedding came off, with the dear old doctor as guardian to give the bride away. The village was in a state of seething excitement; the labourers left their work, their wives left their household tasks, and all discussed with an eagerness that was amazingly different to their usual stolidity of demeanour the romantic happenings in their midst. Then, when the newly-married pair had returned to the doctor’s roomy house, and the villagers had drifted reluctantly homeward again, the ripples of unwonted disturbance gradually smoothed out and subsided. Charles and his wife sat side by side in the doctor’s parlour as the evening shadows fell, their benefactor’s glowing face confronting them, and the knowledge that half his home was theirs removing all anxiety for the immediate future from their minds.

They sat thus, holding each other’s hands in silence, until Louise, looking up in her husband’s face, said, “Charles, let us go and see George. I feel I must before I sleep.” And Charles answered, “Yes, dear; it was in my heart too to do so, but I’m glad you spoke first.” So, gently disregarding the remonstrances of the doctor, who protested that the morrow would be a more appropriate time, they departed, warmly wrapped up against the piercing cold, and carrying a lantern. As they passed from the village on to the shoulder of the swelling down a few soft snow-flakes began to fall....

All through that night the large round flakes fell heavily incessantly, until, when the pale cold dawn straggled through the leaden clouds, the whole country was deep buried in a smooth garment of spotless white. For three days the terrible, silent fall went on. The poor folk almost starved in their homes, and all traffic throughout the country was stopped. When at last communications could be opened, the old doctor, his heart aching with worry and suspense, made his way, accompanied by my father, to Pertwood Farm. There they found only a few hastily scribbled sheets of paper on the kitchen table. They contained words to the effect that George had been startled by a long wailing cry at a late hour on the night of the first snow. He had gone to the door, and there, on the very spot where she had lain years before, was his lost love. But this time she was dead. He had buried her by the side of his parents, and hoped to join the party soon.

A little search revealed the fact that after writing those lines he had gone down into the cellar and died, for his body lay across the rude box containing the remains of Louise. But of Charles nothing was ever again seen or heard. I have always felt that he might have been found at the bottom of that dank tarn among the pines, into which he may have fallen on that terrible night. But I don’t know, the mystery remains.

YOU SING

CHAPTER I

Regarded collectively, the Chinese may safely be classified under the head of unpleasant races. Most people who have had personal dealings with them will doubtless admit that, while there are to be discovered among them a tiny sprinkling of really decent men and women, taken “by and large” they are, to Westerns at any rate, anathema. And yet, when due allowance is made for environment, and for hereditary peculiarities of many strange kinds—for which, of course, the individual is in no way responsible—it may not be too bold an assertion that the Chinese are a people who only need a little real leadership on Western lines to become a truly great nation. They possess all the necessary qualifications for such a splendid future and few of the drawbacks. Many virtues that are among us only inculcated by much laborious tuition are with the Chinese sui generis. No one will deny that they know how to die; were it possible to teach them how to live, such a revolution would be felt in the progress of the world as it has never yet witnessed. Of course, this does not touch the vast question as to whether such a resurrection of China is to be welcomed or dreaded.

But my intention in these pages is far from that of discussing the economic future of China. Such a task would be indefinitely beyond my powers, besides being utterly unnecessary and out of place here. Besides, I do not really feel sufficiently interested in the Chinese collectively. My story is about a single Chinaman who played a very important part in my own history, and who well deserved a far more powerful testimony than any I am able to bear to his virtues.

But, first, in order to launch my story properly, I must premise that in one of my vagrom voyages, while I was only a puny lad of thirteen, I was flung ashore in Liverpool, penniless, and, of course, friendless. For many days I lived—or, rather, I did not die—by picking up, bird-like, such unvalued trifles of food as chance threw in my way while I wandered about the docks; but as there were many more experienced urchins with sharper eyes than mine on the same keen quest, it may be well imagined that I did not wax overfat upon my findings. Unfortunately my seafaring instincts kept me near the docks at all times, where most of my associates were as hunger-bitten as myself; had I gone up town I should probably have fared better.

However, I had put a very keen edge indeed upon my appetite one bitter November afternoon, when, prowling along the Coburg Dock Quay, I was suddenly brought up “all standing” by a most maddening smell of soup. With dilated nostrils I drew in the fragrant breeze, and immediately located its source as the galley of a barque that lay near, loading. I must have looked hungry as I swiftly came alongside of her, for the broad-faced cook, who was standing at his galley-door swabbing his steaming face after his sultry sojourn within, presently caught sight of me and lifted a beckoning finger. I was by his side in two bounds, and before I had quite realized my good fortune I was loading up at a great rate from a comfortably-sized dish of plum soup. My benefactor said nothing as the eager spoonfuls passed, but lolled against the door placidly regarding me with much the same expression as one would a hungry dog with a just-discovered bone. When at last I was well distended, he asked me a few questions in a queer broken English that I immediately recognized as the German version. What was I? Where did I come from? Would I like to go to sea? And so on. Eagerly and hopefully I answered him, much to his amazement; for, like every other seaman I fell in with in those days, he found it hard to believe that I had already been nearly two years at sea, so small and weak did I appear. But the upshot of our interview was that he introduced me to the skipper, a burly North German, who, looking stolidly down upon me, between the regular puffs of smoke from his big pipe, said—

“Vell, poy; ju dinks ju like du komm in a Cherman scheep—hein?”

I faltered out a few words, not very coherently, I am afraid, for the prospect of getting any ship at all was just like a glimpse of heaven to me. Fortunately for my hopes, Captain Strauss was a man of action, so, cutting short my faltering reply, he resumed: “All righdt. Ve yoost loosd a leedle Engelsch boy lige ju. He pin mit me more as ein jeer, gabin-poy, und mein vife lige him fery vell. Ju do so goot as him, ju vas all righdt. Vat ju call jorselluf—hein?”

“Tom, sir,” I answered promptly.

“Ya; den ve call ju Dahn. Dat oder poy ve calls Dahn, und so ju gomes all der same for him—aind it?”

That seemed to settle the matter, for he turned away abruptly and was gone. I hastened to my friend the cook, and told him what the skipper had said, with the result that in another five minutes I was busy laying the cloth for dinner in the cabin as if I had been the original Dan just come back. A pretty, fair-haired little girl of about ten years of age watched me curiously from a state-room door with the frank, straightforward curiosity of a child; and I, boy-like, was on my mettle to show her how well I could do my work. Presently she came forward and spoke to me; but her remarks being in German, I could only smile feebly and look foolish; whereupon she indignantly snapped out, “Schaafskopf,” and ran away. She returned almost directly with her mother, a buxom, placid-looking dame of about thirty-five, who addressed me in a dignified tone. Again I was in a hole, for she spoke only German also; and if ever a poor urchin felt nonplussed, I did. This drawback made my berth an uncomfortable one at first; but, with such opportunities as I had and such a powerful inducement to spur me on, I soon picked up enough to understand what was said to me, and to make some suitable reply.

The vessel was a smart-looking, well-found barque of about six hundred tons, called the Blitzen, of Rostock, and carried a crew of fourteen all told. Each of the other thirteen was a master of mine, and seldom allowed an opportunity to slip of asserting his authority; while the skipper’s wife and daughter evidently believed that I ought to be perpetually in motion. Consequently my berth was no sinecure; and, whatever my qualifications may have been, I have no doubt I earned my food and the tiny triangular lair under the companion-ladder wherein I crept—I was going to say when my work was done—but a rather better term to use would be, in the short intervals between jobs.

Now, the story of the next nine months on board the Blitzen is by no means devoid of interest; but I have an uneasy feeling that I have already tried the reader’s patience enough with necessary preliminaries to the story of You Sing. After calling at several ports in South America, looking in at Algoa Bay, visiting Banjœwangie and Cheribon, we finally appeared to have settled down as a Chinese coaster, trading between all sorts of out-of-the-way ports for native consignees, and carrying a queer assortment of merchandise. Finally we found ourselves at Amoy, under charter for Ilo-Ilo with a full cargo of Chinese “notions.” Owing, I suppose, to the docility of the German crew, and the high state of discipline maintained on board, we still carried the same crew that we left England with; but I must say that, while I admired the good seamanship displayed by the skipper and his officers, I was heartily weary of my lot on board. I had never become a favourite, not even with the little girl, who seemed to take a delight in imitating her father and mother by calling me strange-sounding Teutonic names of opprobrium; and I was beaten regularly, not apparently from any innate brutality, but from sheer force of habit, as a London costermonger beats his faithful donkey. The only thing that made life at all tolerable was that I was fairly well fed and enjoyed robust health; while I never lost the hope that in some of our wanderings we should happen into an English port, where I might be able to run away. That blissful idea I kept steadily before me as a beacon-light to cheer me on. Happily, dread of losing my wages in such an event did not trouble me, because I had none to lose as far as I knew; I did not stipulate for any when I joined.

It was on a lovely night that we swung clear of Amoy harbour and, catching a light land-breeze, headed across the strait towards Formosa. Many fishing sampans were dotted about the sleeping sea, making little sepia-splashes on the wide white wake of the moon. Little care was taken to avoid running them down; nor did they seem to feel any great anxiety as to whether we did so or not, and as a consequence we occasionally grazed closely past one, and looked down curiously upon the passive figures sitting in their frail craft like roosting sea-birds upon a floating log. Without any actual damage to them, we gradually drew clear of their cruising-ground, and, hauling to the southward a little, stood gently onward for Cape South, the wind still very light and the weather perfect. But suddenly we ran into a strange heavy mist that obscured all the sea around us, and yet did not have that wetness that usually characterizes the clinging vapour of the sea-fog. Through this opaque veil we glided as if sailing in cloudland, a silence enwrapping us as if we had been mysteriously changed into a ghostly ship and crew. Then a quick, strong blast of wind burst out of the brume right ahead, throwing all the sails aback and driving the vessel stern foremost at a rate that seemed out of all proportion to its force.

For a few moments the watch on deck appeared to be stupid with surprise. Then the skipper, roused by the unusual motion, rushed on deck, and his deep, guttural voice broke the spell as he issued abrupt orders. All hands were soon busy getting the vessel under control, shortening sail, and trimming yards. But, to everybody’s speechless amazement, it was presently found that entangled alongside lay a small junk, a craft of some twenty to thirty tons, upon whose deck no sign of life was visible. All hands crowded to the rail, staring and muttering almost incoherent comment upon this weird visitor that had so suddenly arisen, as it were, out of the void. As usual, the skipper first recovered his working wits, and ordered a couple of the men to jump on board the junk and investigate. They obeyed unquestionably, as was their wont, and presently reported that she was unmanned, but apparently full to the hatches of assorted Chinese cargo in mats and boxes. The skipper’s voice took an exultant ring as he ordered the vessel to be well secured alongside, and her contents to be transferred on board of us with all possible despatch. Meanwhile the strange mist had vanished as suddenly as it had arisen, and the full bright moon shone down upon the toiling men, who with wonderful celerity were breaking out the junk’s cargo and hurling it on to our decks. Such was their expedition that in half an hour our decks were almost impassable for the queer-looking boxes and bales and bundles of all shapes disgorged from the junk’s hold. Then they invaded the evil-scented cabin, and ransacked its many hiding-places, finding numerous neatly-bound parcels wrapped in fine silky matting. And, last of all—they declared he must have suddenly been materialized, or words to that effect—they lighted upon a lad of probably sixteen years of age. He showed no surprise, after the fatalistic fashion of his countrymen, but stood gravely before them like some quaint Mongolian idol carved out of yellow jade, and ready for any fortune that might await him. With scant ceremony, he too was man-handled on deck, for the command was urgent to finish the work; the busy labourers followed him, and the junk was cast adrift.

The toiling men were breaking out the junk’s cargo.

Some sort of rough stowage was made of the treasure-trove thus peculiarly shipped; and, the excitement that had sustained their unusual exertions having subsided, the tired crew flung themselves down anywhere and slept—slept like dead men, all except the officer of the watch and the helmsman. They had at first little to do that might keep them from slumber, for the wind had dropped to a stark calm, which in those sheltered waters, remote from the disturbing influence of any great ocean swell, left the ship almost perfectly motionless, a huge silhouette against the glowing surface of a silver lake. But presently it dawned upon the mate who was in charge of the deck that, although the vessel had certainly not travelled more than a mile since the junk was cast adrift, that strange craft was nowhere to be seen; and, stern martinet though he was, the consciousness of something uncanny about the recent business stole through him, shrinking his skin and making his mouth dry, until for relief he sought the helmsman and entered into conversation with him on the subject. That worthy, a stolid, unemotional Dutchman named Pfeiffer, scanned the whole of the palpitating brightness around before he would assent to the mate’s theory of any sudden disappearance of our late companion; but, having done so, and failed to discover the smallest speck against that dazzling surface, he, too, was fain to admit that the thing was not comforting. Right glad were those two men when the interminably long watch was over, and the sharp, business-like notes of the bell seemed to dissipate in some measure the chilling atmosphere of mystery that hemmed them in. To the second mate the retiring officer said nothing of his fears, but hastened below, hurriedly scratched a perfunctory note or two on the log-slate, and bundled, “all standing”—that is, dressed as he was—into his bunk, pulling the upper feather-bed right over his head, as if to shut out the terror that was upon him. Slowly the remainder of the night passed away; but when at last the tiny suggestion of paleness along the eastern horizon gave the first indication of the day’s approach, no change, not even the slightest, had occurred to increase the mystery whose environment all felt more or less keenly. As the advancing glory of the new day displaced the deep purple of the night, the awakening crew recalled, as if it had been a lifetime ago, the strange happening of the past few hours. But it was not until the clear light was fully come that the significance of the whole affair was manifest. For there, seated upon a mat-bound case, stamped all over with red “chops,” was the Chinese youth, whose existence had up till now been unnoticed from the time he was first bundled on board. Impassive as a wooden image, he looked as if the position he had held throughout the night had left him unwearied, and, to all appearance, the strange and sudden change in his environment possessed for him no significance whatever. But now, when the surly-looking mate approached him and looked him over with evident distaste, he slid off his perch, and, kneeling at the officer’s feet, kissed the deck thrice in manifest token of his entire submission to whatever fate might be dealt out to him. The mate stood silently looking down upon him, as if hardly able to decide what to do with him. While this curious little episode was being enacted the skipper appeared, and, hastening to the mate’s side, addressed the grovelling Celestial in what he supposed to be the only possible medium of communication—“pidgin” English, which, coupled to a German accent, was the queerest jargon conceivable.

“Vell,” he said, “vot pelong ju pidgin—hay? Ju savvy vork, vun dime?”

Lifting his yellow mask of a face, but still remaining on his knees, the waif made answer—

“No shabbee. You Sing.”

CHAPTER II

“You Sing” conveyed no meaning to anybody; but, after various extraordinary attempts to extend the conversation had entirely failed, it was tacitly agreed that You Sing must be his name. Whether it was or not, the taciturn pagan answered to it immediately it was uttered, or rather he came instantly to whoever mentioned it. So, seeing that it was hopeless to think of getting any information from him as to the why and wherefore of the strange circumstances under which we had found him, the skipper decided promptly to put him to work as a steward, believing that he would make a good one. To that end he was handed over to me for tuition, much to my delight, for now I felt that I should have a companion who was certainly not more than my equal, and who would not be likely to ill-treat me in any way, as most of the crew did when opportunity arose. His coming was to me a perfect godsend. He was so willing, so docile, and withal so eminently teachable, that it was a pleasure to be with him. And the incongruity of being placed under such an urchin as myself did not appear to strike him at all, for he looked upon me from the first day of our acquaintance as the one creature that stood between him and the outer dark—although it must be said that, as far as could be judged by his attitude to all with whom he came in contact, he regarded every member of the ship’s company as in some sort his saviour. All could command him, and he would instantly obey; and although he understood no word of what was said to him, he watched so keenly, his desire to please was so intense, and his natural ability so great, that his efforts to do what was required of him were generally successful. Unfortunately, his willingness often got him into serious trouble, since he always obeyed the last order, not being able to discriminate between those who had the first claim upon him and those who had no right to his services whatever. But when he was beaten for neglecting tasks that he had been called away from, he never murmured or showed sign of pain or resentment; all treatment was borne with the same placid equanimity, as if he were a perfectly passionless automaton. With one exception—myself. When with me his usually expressionless eyes would shine, and his yellow face wear a peculiarly sweet smile that had quite a fascination for me. I found myself growing so much attached to him that my rage against his persecutors often drove me nearly frantic—such wrath as it had never occurred to me to feel on my own behalf.

Meanwhile the Blitzen, sorely hampered by calms and variable winds, crept slowly and painfully towards her destination. I was so much absorbed with the education and company of You Sing that I lost all my usual interest in the progress of the vessel, and did not even wonder when we were going to reach our next port—a speculation that had hitherto always had great charms for me. But one morning before breakfast I was dreadfully affrighted to hear a fierce altercation on deck. It had always been my ill-fortune hitherto to find myself the ultimate vicarious sacrifice in all cases of trouble, and even to this day the old feeling of dread still exists—a feeling that whatever row is going on I shall presently be made to suffer for it; and the well-remembered sensation of sinking at the pit of the stomach comes back, making me for the moment quite ill. So, trembling all over, I peered out of the pantry window on to the main deck, and saw the mate confronting three men of his watch, who, with inflamed faces and fierce gestures, were evidently threatening his life. Now, there had never before been the slightest sign of insubordination on board, the discipline seeming as near perfection as possible, and therefore this sudden outbreak was most alarming. A swift step passed the pantry door, and instantly I saw the skipper rushing forward. Without a word he plunged into the midst of the angry four, and seizing the foremost seaman by the throat and waist hurled him crashing against the bulwarks. At the same moment the mate sprang at another man, as if to serve him in the same manner; but, missing his grasp, he stumbled and fell on his knees. A stifled scream burst from my dry lips as I saw the glint of steel; the seaman attacked had drawn his knife, and as the mate fell the weapon descended with fearful force between his shoulders. I heard the ugly sound right aft, and it remains with me to-day. The skipper, however, with the agility of a porpoise, instantly flung himself on the two men, and fought as if he had the sinews of ten.

Compared with the noise of the preliminary quarrel, this life-and-death struggle was silence itself; but I could hear the laboured breathings of the combatants coming in hoarse gasps, and the cracking of the joints as the writhing bodies knotted and strained. There was a scream behind me, a rustle of skirts, and out of the cabin rushed the skipper’s wife, with flying hair and outstretched arms. But before she was halfway to the spot there was a swoop as of some huge bird past her, and the second mate, the youngest officer in the ship and the biggest man, alighted in the fray like a hungry tiger. I did not see the other watch of the crew arrive, but they were there, and fighting as fiercely as the rest.

Now, the first flush of fear having gone from me, I became interested—somewhat coldly critical, indeed, of the various points of the battle, finding myself, to the wonder of some other corner of my brain, siding with the officers, and hoping they would be victorious. The surprise of this backwater of thought was probably owing to the fact that all the officers had treated me with steady brutality, while the men, though not kind, seldom touched me, although that was probably only lack of opportunity. But with all my keen watching I could not yet forecast the upshot of this awful encounter. The mass of bodies seemed to me inextricably entangled, heaving and writhing like a basket of wounded eels; while all around them, frantically clutching at the labouring body of her husband, and shrieking pitifully, hovered the unhappy wife and mother.

Suddenly it dawned upon me that the little Elsie was alone, and probably frightened to death; and, though I was never a favourite with even her, it seemed good to go and comfort her if possible. So I turned away from the window, and there behind me was You Sing, calmly cleaning the knives, as unmoved by any external occurrence as a piece of machinery. As I unblocked the window he caught my eye, and the peculiarly winsome smile he always wore for me lit up his solemn face. His lips opened, and he murmured softly with an indescribable accent the only two English words I had succeeded in teaching him, “’Ullo, Tommy.” I could only smile back in return as I hurried off to the skipper’s state-room aft, feeling as if, with the shutting out of that savage sight, a load had been lifted off my brain. A quick revulsion of sympathy thrilled me as I found the pretty child fast asleep in placid unconsciousness of the terrible scene in progress outside. I stood for a minute looking at her with a tenderness I had never before felt towards her, all her childish dislike and funny little ways of showing it, borrowed from her parents, utterly forgotten. Then, softly closing the door, I hurried back to the pantry, finding You Sing still busily employed.

Scrambling to the window, I peered forrard again, seeing, to my horror, only a heap of bodies lying still. I stood there as if frozen, trying hard to think, endeavouring to realize the position, but unable to control my disorganized brain. How long I stood staring thus I have no idea; but I was recalled to usefulness again by You Sing’s gentle touch upon my back. Turning slowly round, I faced him, while he pointed out his finished work and intimated to me in the sign language we always employed that he awaited instructions what to go on with. Impatiently I made a great effort to show him that all ordinary work was now at an end, and, pulling him to the window, pointed out the awful heap on the main hatch. He looked, and I believe understood the situation, for he turned again to me and patted my face, pointed first to me and then to himself, as if to intimate that upon us two, me as master and he as servant, the conduct of affairs now rested.

Then, taking my courage in both hands, I softly stepped out on deck and approached the scene of conflict, though trembling so violently that I could scarcely go. But when I reached the entwined heap of bodies I did not know what to do, standing helplessly staring at the grim spectacle. A faint groan startled me, and I bent down over the nearest body, which happened to be the skipper’s, hearing him murmur faintly, “Wasser, lieber Gott! Wasser.” Hastily motioning to You Sing to fetch some water, I tried to drag the skipper into a sitting position; but it was too much for my strength. The effort, however, was apparently all that was needed to shake the last faint breath from his body, for, with wide dilated nostrils and open mouth, he gave his final gasp. Then all was still, for all were dead.

The whole waist was like the veriest shambles, and the fearful savagery of the fight was manifest in many hideous details that need not be reproduced. Suddenly a hope dawned upon me that one man might still be left—the helmsman; and, rushing aft, I bounded up on to the poop, only to find the wheel swinging idly to and fro: there was no one there. Then I ran forward, unheeding You Sing’s dog-like wistful look after me, and ransacked the forecastle and galley; but both were deserted. We were quite alone.

This tremendous fact broke in upon me with good effect after the strain to which I had recently been subjected, for it braced me up to action. Calling upon You Sing to help me, I tackled the ghastly heap, tugging and straining at the limp bodies, and getting all gory as they were. The sweat ran down blindingly; I felt my sinews crack with my desperate exertions; but at last all the bodies were separated and laid side by side, the captain’s wife last of that sad row. Not a sign of life was to be found in any one of them; and, having at last satisfied myself of this, I dropped upon the crimsoned tarpaulin exhausted, to rack my brains for some reason why this sudden tragedy should have been enacted. Gradually the conviction forced itself upon me that the whole horrible outbreak was due to some quarrel over the junk’s cargo; but as that had all been overhauled and stowed away without my knowing anything of its nature, it was only a blind guess. Something, however, of tremendous importance must have occurred to make a body of men fight with such fury among themselves that not one of them remained alive.

But urgent necessity was laid upon me to be up and doing, the first duty that demanded attention being the disposal of the dead. So I called upon You Sing—who, standing near, never seemed to take his eyes off me—and the pair of us triced up one of the bulwark ports and dragged the first of the corpses up to it. Then by a sudden impulse I flung off my cap, and, kneeling down on the red deck, said the Lord’s Prayer and the final Collect in the Church Service—all I could then remember; while my heathen helper stood gravely by making no sign but looking a very well-spring of sympathy. Strangely cheered and uplifted, I seized the poor piece of clay, and motioning my helpmate, launched it through the yawning port, listening shudderingly to the dull splash that followed. And so with the rest, until we two stood alone, panting and distressed with our heavy task. A few minutes’ rest, and then, with draw-bucket and broom, we laboured to cleanse away the blood that besmeared so wide a space of the decks. At this work we toiled for a long time, and when at last we gave over, because I was tired out, we had only partially succeeded in removing the fearful evidence of that great fight. By this time I was so far myself as to feel hungry. The feeling of nausea, that had been coming and going like waves over me ever since I first left the cabin, had left me, and I ordered You Sing to get breakfast. He set about the job immediately, leaving me seated on the damp hatch wondering what would become of us. Then suddenly it occurred to me for the first time that the ship was entirely left to herself. There was a faint breeze blowing steadily, all sail being set, and the yards canted a couple of points, for what wind existed was on the quarter. I rose and went aft to the wheel, finding that she came up and fell off about three points, so that she was practically steering herself, and making a fairly average course S.S.E. This was satisfactory so far, because it relieved me of any necessity for immediate action. I knew how to steer, and, as far as my strength went, could handle sails, besides understanding fairly well how a ship was worked; for I had been over two years at sea, and always a deck-boy until this voyage, so that, unless I had been a very idiot, I must know something about sailoring.

Everything being so quiet and favourable, I remembered little Elsie, and with a sinking heart went down below to break the dreadful news to her. How it was to be done I didn’t know, my stock of German being pitifully scanty, and she, poor child! not knowing one word of English. As I turned the handle of the state-room door I heard her calling, “Mutter, wie bist du?” and in spite of my efforts some big tears burst from my eyes. But I went in and stood by her cot, racking my brains for some way of making her understand what had happened. As soon as she saw me she began, as usual, to scold me for being there—where, indeed, I was never allowed to enter—and ordered me with much dignity to go and call her mother.

It would be useless for me to attempt any description of the scene that followed. I could not, do what I would, make her understand what an awful change had taken place since she went to sleep. She at last made up her mind that I must be crazy, and, thoroughly frightened, sprang out of her cot, and rushed into the cabin screaming frantically for “Mutter, Mutter! Vater, Vater!” I followed her carefully, puzzled beyond measure to know what to do; but she fled on deck, up the ladder and on to the poop, still calling with all her voice for those who were for ever deaf to her cries.

Of course, I dared not pursue her, for fear of adding to her terror; so I waited anxiously until she had explored every vacant corner of the ship, and at last, exhausted with her efforts, she returned slowly to the cabin. Then I quietly brought her some food, and begged her to eat a little; but, as I might have expected, that was impossible. However, she was so far quieted that she plied me with questions, which I answered as well as I was able, until I succeeded in making her understand the grim truth. She burst into such a passion of weeping when she comprehended the case that at first I feared for her life; but presently I saw that this outbreak was the best thing that could have happened, for it relieved her poor little brain; and soon, utterly worn out, she went off into a heavy sleep.

Then I searched the cabin thoroughly, with the dim idea in my mind of finding some cause for the mutiny in accordance with my suspicions. Sure enough, I had been right, for in various hiding-places I came upon such treasures as I had never even dreamed of before—coined gold in boxes, in bags, in bundles: sovereigns, eagles, onzas, and napoleons; jewellery of every variety of make, glittering with precious stones of which I had never heard the name. At last I came upon a crucifix nearly two feet in length, apparently of solid gold, and encrusted with large gems, a marvel of costliness and beauty. I showed it to You Sing, who, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, showed signs of horror, and tried hard to induce me to throw the magnificent thing overboard.

CHAPTER III

This discovery marked a new departure in our relations towards each other. Hitherto I had looked upon You Sing as I might have done upon a big faithful dog, but never dreamed of crediting him with any intelligent initiative. His behaviour so far had certainly justified me in this opinion; but now he became completely transformed. In the most energetic pantomime, and with strangely severe struggles to enunciate a few words of my language, he endeavoured to explain to me the origin of all these treasures. I did not find it hard to understand the general drift of his attempt to enlighten me, because I had already suspected something of what I was now gathering from him. Roughly, it was to the effect that the cargo we had relieved the junk of was the accumulated hoard of a nest of pirates who had long been preying upon such seafarers as they dared attack without fear of reprisals, and who were all deliberately slain after they had been plundered and their vessels scuttled. Then the wretches had turned their bloody hands against each other, and by so doing somewhat atoned for their innumerable crimes by ridding the world of two-thirds of the gang. The survivors then loaded up all the most valuable of the stored plunder into the most seaworthy junk they possessed, and, divesting her of all suspicious appearance, sailed for some port where they intended to dispose of their loot. Again Nemesis overtook them; they had befouled the seas too long. They stealthily murdered one another as opportunity served, until there were hardly enough of them left to handle the junk. You Sing was a slave who had done their cooking, having been spared for that purpose alone out of the entire crew of a large barque they had surprised one night. Doubtless his turn to perish had nearly arrived, when, going down into their store-room under the cabin for some rice, he found himself in a sort of trap from which he was unable to escape. There he would certainly have perished of starvation, instead of sharing the unknown fate of the remnant of his tyrants, but for our intervention. And in various quaint ways he gave me to understand that he considered his life to belong to this ship and her crew, of whom the child asleep and my small self were now the sole representatives.

I could not bring myself to the point of heaving all those pretty things overboard; but seeing what a dread he had of them, I stowed them all in the late skipper’s berth under his bed-place, in two large drawers, which I locked, and hung the key round my neck. Then, for the first time, I began to think about working the ship. Unfortunately, I had not the faintest idea of which was the best direction to steer in, for I did not know, within at least a thousand miles, our position. I imagined, of course, that we were somewhere south of Formosa, and between that great island and the Philippines; but that was vague in the extreme. And I was in hourly terror of being sighted by a wandering junk of whatever character, feeling certain of a barbarous death at the hands of any of You Sing’s countrymen who might happen to find such a prize as the Blitzen. How I longed for the sight of a smoke-wreath festooning the horizon! That vision would have nearly sent me crazy with joy. But I suppose we were far out of the track of steamers, for we saw no sign of one.

Aided most manfully and sensibly by You Sing, I clewed up the royals and topgallant sails with a view of making the vessel easier to handle, and with a great deal of labour managed to haul up the courses (mainsail and foresail) as well, taking the gear to the capstan where it was too heavy for our united efforts, until those great squares of canvas hung snug as they could be without being actually furled. Then, after long cogitation, I decided to make for the coast of China, which I knew must be west of us, and trust to a merciful God to bring us in sight of either some civilized port or ship before any of those calm, merciless pagans came across us. Now we each took a regular trick at the wheel (You Sing learned to do so in less than half an hour); and little Elsie, all her high spirits gone, and docile as You Sing himself, even took a spell at steering when we would let her. Heaven alone knows what our track would have looked like on the chart, but it’s my belief that we were getting to the westward at the rate of about twenty miles a day for the best part of a week (I lost all count of time); and, though it seems hard to believe, I was actually beginning to feel quite important as the commander of a big vessel on the high seas. We fed well and we slept well—at least Elsie and I did; as for You Sing, I don’t know whether he ever slept at all. He did all the cooking, kept everything clean and tidy, and was ever ready when called upon. Besides all this, he had won his way into the affections of Elsie; and I almost felt a pang of jealousy when I heard her clear laugh at some of the quaint antics he cut in order to amuse her. Had it not been for the one haunting dread of being overhauled by a junk, I believe we should have been quite happy; for the terror of the past tragedy had faded from our minds, and the sea was kind and gentle, the soft breeze blew sweetly, though it varied a great deal, making our task of trimming the yards in order to keep the vessel somewhere near her course—due west—an uncommonly heavy one.

Then it fell a flat calm. Now, I had, even at that early age, all a sailor’s horror of a calm, and this one troubled me more than any I had yet experienced. The silence was almost unbearable. I could not rest day or night—it lasted three days—for more than an hour or so at a time; and when I fell asleep from sheer weariness, I always woke with my heart thumping furiously and in an icy sweat of fear. The inaction got upon my nerves, so that I began to hear strange noises, and to imagine that the dead crew were among us, grieving because we were yet alive, and scheming to secure our company. This state of mind grew upon me to such an extent that at last I dared not leave You Sing, clinging to him as the one hope I had of ever again seeing the land of the living. He—grave, careful, and kind as ever—accepted this entire change in our relative positions with the same serene behaviour as before; and in my worst mental trouble I had only to look into his eyes to be completely comforted. Elsie, strange to say, seemed quite happy. She was carelessly kind to me; but she loved our Chinese friend. A word or two from him, in an unintelligible jargon, would set her dancing with delight, and it was only during his unavoidable absence from her for a short time that she ever seemed to feel the misery of our position.

On the tenth evening (I think) of our loneliness, and the third of the calm, I was lolling against the useless wheel watching, with eyes that observed naught, the fantastic efforts of You Sing to amuse Elsie, when an appalling feeling of dread suddenly came over me. It was as if I was going to be violently sea-sick, and affected my limbs to such an extent that I slid down from the wheel to the deck. This disabling sensation was happily only momentary in its effect, so that I was able to rise to my feet again almost immediately, though trembling violently. Whatever mysterious cause had thus affected me I could not tell, and it was evidently peculiar to myself, for my two shipmates were still merry at their play. But I was desperately uneasy, fearing that I was going to be very ill. I left the deck, and descended into the cabin, seeing, to my astonishment, several rats prowling uneasily about. They took scarcely any notice of me, and I was too upset to obey the momentary impulse to chase them. I sank down on a settee and tried to collect myself, but I was too uneasy to sit still, and soon wandered out on the main-deck again.

Aimlessly I slouched forrard and climbed up on the forecastle head. As soon as I reached it, on looking ahead, I saw a sight that thickened my blood. Right before the vessel rose a dense mass of inky cloud, extending over an arc of the horizon of about one-sixth of its circumference. It was dome-shaped, and upon its apex rested the descending sun, his glowing disc changed into a dull bronze-green ball that shed no light around. It looked as if the glorious orb was sick unto death. As I watched with growing anxiety, the painfully changed luminary sank slowly into that black mountain of gloom and disappeared. But above it the clear sky reflected its ghastliness, not by reason of its rays ascending, for it appeared to have none, but as if some unknown light from the bowels of the earth had broken through the sea, and was thus disfiguring the beautiful face of the heavens.

Tearing myself away from the disabling fascination of the sight, I returned to the poop, noticing with much satisfaction that my trembling had almost ceased. I found You Sing and Elsie sitting on a hen-coop, watching with solemn faces the rising gloom ahead in perfect silence, all their pleasant play at an end. Meeting You Sing’s eye, I read therein a reflection of my own concern, and in an instant we understood each other. Doubtless, it being his native country, he understood the ominous signs far better than I, although even the child could see and feel that something terrible was impending; and as I went up to her to coax her below he murmured in my ear two words of pure Chinese, which, because they have passed into the English language, I understood at once: “Ty foong!” They rang through my brain like a sentence of death; but I actually felt some relief at knowing the worst. For if we were about to encounter a typhoon in our utter helplessness either to prepare for it by furling sail, or to handle the vessel in any way, what hope could there be of our survival? But there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that, whatever happens, it is no fault of yours; that you can do nothing of any service, but just endure and hope. And that was exactly our position.

We got Elsie down below without alarming her, laid in a stock of fresh water in the cabin, and barricaded the doors opening on to the main-deck. Then we got some old sails up from the locker and covered the cabin skylight, lashing it down as securely as we knew how. The cabin being as secure as we could make it, we braced the yards sharp up on the starboard tack (although I don’t know why I chose that side, I’m sure), for I had a dim idea that we should stand a better chance so than with the yards square as they were, since I knew very well that in heavy gales of wind a vessel ought to be hove to, and that that was always effected by bracing the yards forrard. Then I let go the topsail-sheets and lowered the upper topsails down on the cap. We also hauled all the jibs and stay-sails down, making them as snug as we could. Last of all, I put the helm hard down, and lashed it there. My hope was that in the first burst of the tempest the big sails that were loose would blow away, and that the vessel would then heave herself to naturally, although I knew well enough that if caught by the lee she would probably capsize or drive under stern foremost.

While we had been thus busy the rising pall of clouds had imperceptibly grown until exactly half of the concave above was perfectly black—black as the adit of a coal-mine. The other half astern was of an ugly green tint, as unlike the deep violet of the night sky in those latitudes as could well be imagined. Its chief peculiarity, though, was its light. That segment of the sky was full of glare, diffused light that was even reflected on to the vessel, and yet could not be traced to any definite source. The contrast between this uncanny radiance and the crêpe-like darkness of the other half of the sky was tremendous, and of itself enough to inspire fear in the breast of any creature living.

Presently, as we watched in strained silence, came the beginning of what we were to know; a twining golden webwork of electric fires all over the swart roof of cloud, or whatever that gloom was built of, and in a hot puff of wind the destroying genie of the tropics uplifted the opening strains of his song. All cries of uttermost woe were blended in it as it faintly fell upon our ears, indistinctly, as if echoed and re-echoed from immeasurable distances, but growing louder and wilder with every burning breath. Then, in one furious blast, accompanied by a cracking blaze of lightning, the typhoon burst upon us. It was just sufficiently on the starboard bow to avoid catching us aback, and the vessel paid off, heeling over to its force until her lee rail was awash, and the gleaming foam toppled inboard in a smother of pale light. Lower and lower the sky descended, until it seemed as if we might have reached upward and touched it; and, unable to bear the sight any longer, I fled below, followed by You Sing, and securely fastened the scuttle behind us.

Elsie was asleep when I peeped into her room, for which I felt profoundly thankful; since how could we have comforted her? I sat down by You Sing’s side and looked up wonderingly into his impassive face which, as usual, was lighted by a tender smile as he met my troubled gaze. He took hold of my hand and patted it, murmuring his shibboleth, “’Ullo, Tommy;” and, in spite of my terrors, I smiled. Outside, the uproar was beyond description; but except that we lay over at a most dangerous angle we were fairly steady. The force of the wind did not permit the sea to rise, and so between sleeping and waking that awful night passed.

CHAPTER IV

Having no means of knowing the time—for the clock had never been wound, owing to my not being able to find the key—I cannot tell when the change came; but I think it must have been about eight next morning. The vessel suddenly righted, and then began to tumble about in so outrageous a fashion that I thought she must go all to pieces. Elsie awoke screaming with fright; and with all You Sing’s catlike capacity for holding on, it was some minutes before he could get to her to comfort her. He had not left my side more than ten minutes, when, with a tremendous lurch, the vessel was hurled over to starboard, and I knew that my greatest fear was realized—she had been caught aback! Over, over she went, until it was almost possible to stand upright upon the lee bulk-heads of the cabin. In sea-phrase, she was on her beam-ends.

I now gave all up for lost, and waited, hardly breathing, for the crash of the end. The water on deck burst in through every crevice, and rose upon the lee-side until I was obliged to climb up to the fast-clamped settees to windward to avoid being drowned. The uproar on deck was louder than ever, and I fancied that I could hear every now and then through the tumult the rending and crashing of spars, and feel the shattering blow of their great masses against the hull alongside. But still the vessel appeared staunch, although every inch of her framework visible in the cabin was all awork.

After what seemed like a whole day, but could only have been two or three hours, she began to right herself, and the din outside grew less deafening. Rapidly the howl of the wind moderated, although the vessel still tossed and tumbled about in frantic fashion, until my anxiety to see daylight again got the better of my fears, and I painfully made my way up the companion, opened it, and stepped on to the poop. The sight I beheld took away my breath. The Blitzen was a complete wreck. Not a stick was standing except the three jagged stumps of the lower masts; the bulwarks were stripped from her sides for their entire length, the house on deck had clean disappeared, and everything that could be torn from its fastenings about the decks had gone also. It was a clean sweep. A cold shiver went through me, such as one might feel upon awakening to find his house roofless and all his household goods exposed to the glare of day. But the sky was clear, the sea was going down, and we were still afloat. A great wave of thankfulness came over me, suddenly checked by the paralyzing thought that perhaps we had sprung a leak. I stood still for a moment while this latest fear soaked in; then, bracing myself up to learn the worst, I hurried forrard to try and find the rod to sound the well. But it had gone, among the rest of the carpenter’s gear, with the deck-house, and I was obliged to give up the idea. Returning aft, I uncovered the cabin skylight and went below, finding You Sing busy preparing some food. Then I suddenly remembered that I was ravenously hungry, and we all three sat down and ate our fill cheerfully and gladly. But while we were swallowing the last morsels of our meal, You Sing gravely lifted his hand and sat listening intently. There was a strange sound on deck, and it made me almost helpless with fear; for it sounded like the singing chatter of Chinese. We sat for a few moments as if suddenly frozen, listening with every faculty, and hardly breathing. Then, ghost-like, You Sing rose, and, taking the two of us by the arms, gently persuaded us into one of the state-rooms at hand, and signed to us to keep close while he went to investigate. Noiselessly he glided away from us and was gone, leaving us a prey to the most harrowing sensations in the belief that all our cruel forebodings were about to be proved true. For some time not a sound could be heard in our hiding-place except the soothing creak of the timbers or the wash of the caressing waves outside the hull. Yet I remember curiously how even in that agony of suspense I noticed that the motion of the ship was changed. She no longer seemed to swing buoyantly from wave to wave, but solemnly, stolidly, she rolled, as if the sea had taken possession of her, and bereft her of her own grace of mastery.

A confused thudding sound reached us from above, as if caused by the pattering of bare feet on deck; but there were no voices, nor, indeed, any other noises to give us a clue as to what was going on. Very soon even that slight sound ceased, and we were left again to the dumbness of our surroundings. The child went to sleep; and I, after perhaps half an hour of strained listening, felt that I could bear this condition of things no longer, for it had seemed like a whole day to my excited imaginings. So, as silently as had You Sing long ago, I stole from the little state-room and across the saloon. With all my terrors weighing me down, I crawled, worm-like, up the companion-ladder, and wriggled on to the deck on all-fours. The sea, and the sky, and the barren deck all lay in perfect silence, which pressed upon me like one of those nightmares in which you feel that unless you can scream you must die. After two or three attempts, I moistened my parched mouth and called, “You Sing!” There was no voice of any one that answered. But that I think the limit of my capacity for being terrified had been reached some time before, I believe this irresponsiveness, with its accompanying sensation of being utterly alone, would have made me an idiot. As it was, I only felt numbed and tired. Slowly I stood up upon my feet, and went forrard to the break of the poop, learning at once the reason of You Sing’s silence; for by the side of the after-hatch lay three Chinese, naked and dead, bearing on their bodies the grim evidences of the method of their ending. Close to the cabin door, as if he had dragged himself away from his late antagonists in the vain hope of reaching his friends again, lay You Sing. As I looked down upon him he moved slightly. In a moment, forgetting everything else, I was by his side, and lifted his head upon my knee. He opened his glazing eyes and looked up into my face with his old sweet smile, now with something of highest satisfaction in it. His dry lips opened, and he murmured, “’Ullo, Tommy; all litee.” Then the intelligence faded out of his eyes, and he left me.

It must have been hours afterwards when I again realized my surroundings. Elsie was sitting by the piece of yellow clay that had been You Sing, perfectly still, but with an occasional tearing sob. She must have been crying for a long time. Gradually the whole of the past came back to me, and I saw how our dead friend had indeed paid in full what he considered to be his debt to us; although how that mild and gentle creature, in whom I never saw even so much as a shade of vexation, much less anger, could have risen to such a height of fighting valour as to slay three men in our defence was utterly beyond my powers of comprehension. For, without attempting any eloquence of panegyric, that was precisely what he had done, and with his opponent’s own weapons, too. To say that I had not really felt lonely and helpless until now only faintly conveys the appalling sense of loss that had come upon me. As for the poor child, she crouched by the side of the corpse, scarcely more alive than it was, manifesting no fear or repugnance at the presence of death; indeed, she appeared unable to realize the great fact in its full terror.

How long we both sat in this dazed condition it is impossible to say with any definiteness. No doubt it was for several hours, for we both seemed only partially alive; and, for my part, the only impression left was that all besides ourselves were dead. That feeling carried with it a dim anticipation that we too might expect to find our turn to depart confronting us at any moment; but in this thought there was no fear, rather relief.

How often, I wonder, has it been noted that in times of deep mental distress, when the mind appears to have had a mortal blow, and all those higher faculties which are our peculiar possession are so numbed that they give no definite assistance to the organism, the animal needs of the body have instinctively asserted themselves, and thus saved the entire man or woman from madness or death? It must surely be one of the commonest of experiences, although seldom formulated in so many words. At any rate, this was now the case with me. Gradually the fact that I was parched with thirst became the one conscious thing; and, without thinking about it, without any definite idea even, I found myself on my feet, swaying and staggering as I crossed the bare deck to where the scuttle-butt used to be lashed. Finding it gone, I stood helplessly staring at the ends of the lashings that had secured it, with a dull, stupid anger of disappointment. Then I began to think; I had to, for my need was imperative. I remembered that You Sing had brought into the cabin before the typhoon a store of water sufficient for days. This mental effort was bracing, doing much to restore me again to some show of usefulness. I soon found the water, and hurried on deck once more, for the cabin was no place to stay in now. It was tenanted by shapes of dread, full of inaudible signs of woe; and right glad was I to regain the side of the little girl for living companionship. I offered her some water. She looked at it dully, as if unable to attach any idea to it; and it was only by repeatedly rousing her that I managed to awaken any reason in her injured mind at all. In the absence of any such compulsion, I think she would have just sat still and ceased to live, painlessly and unconsciously.

Now that the needs of another were laid upon me, I began to move about a little more briskly, and to notice our condition with returning interest. For some time the strange steadiness of the ship had puzzled me without arousing any definite inquiry in my mind as to the cause of it. But in crossing the deck to re-enter the cabin the true significance of that want of motion suddenly burst upon me, for I saw the calm face of the water only a few inches from the deck-line. The Blitzen was sinking. During the typhoon she must have received tremendous injuries from the wreckage of her top-hamper, that, floating alongside, entangled in the web of its rigging, was as dangerous as so many rocks would have been. There was urgent need now for thought and action also, for there was nothing of any kind on deck floatable. Boats, spars, hen-coops, all had gone. A thousand futile thoughts chased one another through my throbbing brain, but they ran in circles that led nowhere. There seemed to be no possible means of escape. Yet somehow I was not hopeless. I felt a curious reliance upon the fact that we two small people had come through so much unhurt in any way, and this baseless unreasoning faith in our good (?) fortune forbade me to despair. So that I cannot say I felt greatly surprised when I presently saw on the starboard side forrard a small sampan floating placidly, its grass painter made fast to the fore-chains. There was no mystery about its appearance. It had brought those awful visitors whose defeat caused You Sing his life, and was probably the only surviving relic of some junk that had foundered in the storm. The sight of it did me a world of good. Rushing to Elsie, I pointed out the fact of our immediate danger, and of the hope left us, and after some little difficulty succeeded in getting her into the sampan. The Blitzen was now so low in the water that my remaining time was countable by seconds. I flew into the cabin, snatched up a few biscuits and the large can of water that stood in the bathroom, and rushed for the boat. As I scrambled into her with my burden I noticed shudderingly that the ship was beginning to move, but with such a motion! It was like the death-throe of a man—a physical fact with which of late I had been well acquainted. Every plank of her groaned as if in agony; she gave a quivering sideway stagger. My fingers trembled so that I could hardly cast adrift the painter, which I was compelled to do, having no knife. I got the clumsy hitches adrift at last, and with one of the rough oars gave our frail craft a vigorous shove off, Elsie staring all the while at the huge hull with dilating eyes and drawn white face. Presently the Blitzen seemed to stumble; a wave upreared itself out of the smooth brightness of the placid sea and embraced her bows, drawing them gently down. So gently, like a tired woman sinking to rest, did the Blitzen leave the light, and only a few foam-flecked whorls and spirals on the surface marked for a minute or two the spot where she had been.

Happily for us who were left, our troubles were nearly at an end. One calm night of restless dozing under the warm sky, trying not to think of what a tiny bubble we made on the wide sea, we passed not uncomfortably. Just before dawn I felt rather than heard a throbbing, its regular pulsations beating steadily as if inside my head. But they had not lasted one minute before I knew them for the propeller-beat of a steamer, and strained my eyes around through the departing darkness for a sight of her. Straight for us she came, the watchful officer on the bridge having seen us more than a mile off. In the most matter-of-fact way we were taken on board, and Elsie was soon mothered by the skipper’s wife, while I was being made much of by the men. And that was all. Of all that mass of treasure that had caused the sacrifice of so many lives not one atom remained where it could ever again raise the demon of murder in human breasts. And although I could not realize all this, I really did not feel sorry that I had not succeeded in saving the slightest portion of it, my thankfulness at being spared alive being so great.

There were no passengers on board to make a fuss, so none was made. Three days afterwards we were at Hong Kong, and Elsie was handed over to the German Consul, who gravely took down my story, but I could see did not believe half of it. I bade good-bye to Elsie, having elected to remain by the steamer, where I was being well treated, and in due time reached England again, a step nearer to becoming a full-fledged seaman.

THE DEBT OF THE WHALE

Elisha Cushing, skipper of the Beluga, South Seaman, of Martha’s Vineyard, was a hard-bitten Yankee of the toughest of that tough race. Even in the sternest of mankind there is usually to be found some soft spot, some deeply-hidden well of feeling that at the touch of the right hand will bubble up in a kindly stream, even though it be hermetically sealed to all the world beside. But those who knew Captain Cushing best were wont to say that he must have been cradled on an iceberg, spent his childhood in a whaler’s fo’c’sle, hardened himself by the constant contemplation and practice of cruelty, until, having arrived at the supreme position of master of his own ship, he was less of a man than a pitiless automaton who regarded neither God nor devil, and only looked upon other men as an engineer might upon the cogs of a machine. Few, indeed, are the men who, throughout a voyage lasting from three to four years, shut up within the narrow bounds of a small ship, could entirely do without human companionship, could abstain from some friendly intercourse, however infrequent, with those around them. Yet Captain Cushing was even such a man. No one knew how he passed his abundant leisure. He was never seen reading, he did not smoke, no intoxicating drink was ever allowed on board his ship; in fact at all times, except when whale-fishing was being carried on, he was to all appearance a body without a mind, a figure of a man who moved and ate and slept mechanically, yet whom to offend was to court nothing less than torture. Those unspeculating eyes missed nothing; not a member of the crew but felt that in some not-to-be-explained fashion all his doings, almost his very thoughts, were known to the grim commander, and hard, indeed, was the lot of any unfortunate who in any way came athwart the stern code of rules that appeared to govern Captain Cushing’s command. Nevertheless he had one virtue—he did not interfere. So long as the business of the ship went on as goes a good clock, there was peace. The discipline was perfect; it reduced the human items that composed the Beluga’s crew to something very nearly resembling a piece of carefully constructed mechanism, for Captain Cushing’s genius lay that way. Out of the many crews that he had commanded during his thirty years’ exercise of absolute power he was wont to winnow officers that were a reflex of his own mind, and it mattered not how raw were the recruits bundled on board his ship at the last moment before leaving home, the Cushing system speedily reduced them to a condition of absolute mindlessness as far as any wish of their own was concerned. They became simply parts of the engine whereby Captain Cushing’s huge store of dollars was augmented.

It was an article of religion among the afterguard of the Beluga, handed on to each new-comer by some unspoken code of communication, that the “old man’s” being and doing might never be discussed. The subject was “tabu,” not to be approached upon any pretext, although nothing could be more certain than that it lay uppermost in every officer’s mind. Among the crew, in that stifling den forrard where thirty men of almost as many differing nationalities lived and sometimes died, the mystery of the grim skipper’s ways, coupled with queer yarns about his antecedents, was occasionally commented upon with bated breath in strange mixtures of language. But somehow it always happened that, closely following upon any conversation of the kind, the injudicious talkers ran butt up against serious trouble. No charges were made, no definite punishments were awarded; but loss of rest, dangerous and unnecessary tasks, kickings and stripes exhibited casually, were their portion for a season. These things had the effect of exciting an almost superstitious reverence for the captain’s powers of knowing what was going on, coupled with a profound distrust of each other among the foremast hands, that made for their subjection perhaps more potently than even the physical embarrassments which formed so liberal a part of their daily lot. And yet, such is the perversity of human nature, whenever the Beluga gammed another whaler, and the wretched crowd got a chance to talk to strangers, they actually indulged in tall talk, “gas” about their skipper’s smartness as a whaleman, his ability as a seaman, and, strangest of all, his eminence as a hard citizen who would “jes’ soon killer man’s look at ’im.” Every fresh device of his for screwing extra work out of his galley-slaves, every mean and low-down trick played upon them for the lessening of their scanty food or robbing them of their hard-earned pay, only seemed to increase their admiration for him, as if his diabolical personality had actually inverted all their ideas of right and wrong.

The man himself, the centre of this little cosmos of whose dreary round pleasure formed not the minutest part, was apparently about 55 years of age. He had been tall, above the average, but a persistent stoop had modified that particular considerably. The great peculiarity about his appearance was his head, which was shaped much like a fir-cone. From the apex of it fell a few straggling wisps of hay-coloured hair that did not look as if they belonged there, but had been blown against the scalp and stuck there accidentally. Wide, outstanding ears, pointed at the top like a bat’s, eyes that were just straight slits across the parchment face, from between whose bare edges two inscrutable pupils of different but unnameable colours looked out, a straight, perfectly shaped nose, so finely finished that it looked artificial, and another straight lipless slit for a mouth completes his facial portrait. His arms were abnormally long, and his legs short, while his gait, from long walking upon greasy decks, was a bear-like shuffle. It was whispered in the fo’c’sle that his strength was gigantic, and there was a tradition extant of his having wrung a recalcitrant harpooner’s neck with his bare hands as one would a fowl’s; but none of his present crew had seen him exert himself at all. What impressed them most, however, was his voice. Ordinarily he spoke in almost a faint whisper, such as a dying man might be supposed to utter, but it must have been very distinct in articulation, as he was never known to speak twice. Yet, if at any time it became necessary for him to hail a boat or a passing ship, that strange opening in his head would unclose, and forth from it would issue a strident sound that carried farther than the bellow of any angry bull.

His “luck” was proverbial. None of his officers ever knew, any more than did the meanest member of the ship’s company, whither he was bound, nor in what unfrequented areas of ocean he sought the valuable creatures from which he was amassing so much wealth. Of course, they knew, as all sailors do from close observation of courses made, land seen, weather, etc., within a few hundred miles or so, but their knowledge was never ample enough to have enabled them afterwards to take another ship along the same tracks that the Beluga had found so richly frequented by payable whales. But Elisha Cushing added to his so-called luck almost superhuman energy. If he did not spare his unhappy slaves, he was no more merciful to himself. Never a boat was lowered after whales, no matter what the weather or how few the prey, but he was foremost; as if he loved (if it be admissible to mention love in connection with this emotionless man) the chase for its own sake, or, knowing that he carried a charmed life, dared to take risks that no ordinary man would do except under compulsion. There was one marked feature of his whaling, however, that was noticed by all his crew, if, owing to the difficulties hinted at before, it was seldom discussed. Whenever the boats approached either a single whale or a whale school, Captain Cushing would surely be seen standing high on the two quarter-cleats in the stern-sheets of his boat, searching with sparkling, almost glaring eyes among them for something. It was believed that the boats never “went on a whale” until the skipper had first passed them (the whales) all in review, and fully satisfied himself that the object of his search, whatever it might be, was not there. His scrutiny over, the game commenced, and surely never, since the bold Biscayan fishermen first attacked the questing rorquals that visited their shores, with bone and flint pointed lances, was there ever seen such whale-hunting as that carried on by Elisha Cushing. Without changing colour, or raising his voice above its usual low murmur, he would haul his boat up alongside of the mountainous mammal, order her to be held there, and then, disregarding the writhings and wallowing of the great creature, he would calmly feel for the ribs or the shoulder-blades with the lance point. And having found an interspace, the long arms would straighten out, and four feet of the lance would glide like a slender bright snake into the mighty vitals, only to be withdrawn on the instant and plunged home again and again and again, each thrust taking a new turn within, and causing the black, hot blood to burst from the wound as from the nozzle of a fire-hose. Or, quietly seated on the gunwale, he would select his spot, and probe with the lance as a surgeon might seek for a bullet in the body of an insensible patient. Should the boat swerve away from the whale ever so slightly until he gave the signal, he would look round, and on the instant five men, albeit in the very shadow of death, would feel a creeping at the pit of their stomachs, and a frantic desire to avert his anger; for he had been known to reach across the boat and snatch a man from his thwart with one hand, flinging him, a limp, ragged bundle, far out of the boat, and not caring where. The only signs that he ever showed of anything unusual being toward, was a faint blue patch that appeared in the middle of his otherwise yellow cheek, and a reddish glint in his eyes. In spite of his peculiarities, his men were proud to be members of his boat’s crew, for his skill was of so high an order that his apparent recklessness never got him a boat stove or lost him a man; while his officers, though the pick and flower of whalemen, had their usual share of casualties.

About two years of the cruise had gone by, and the Beluga’s hold was already more than two-thirds full of oil, in spite of the fact that several shipments home had been made during the voyage. After a season on the Vasquez ground in the South Pacific, where she had averaged two whales a week, she was now steering an easterly course with a little south in it—not cruising, but making a passage apparently for the “off-shore grounds,” on the coast of Chili. One morning at daybreak the cry of “sail-ho” from the crow’s-nest reached Captain Cushing in his cabin, and before the officer on deck had time to answer, his deep breathed tones were heard welling up from below in reply, “Where away.” The stranger was a whaling barque also, lying hove-to right ahead, as if expecting and waiting for the Beluga. When the two vessels were within three miles of each other, Captain Cushing ordered his boat away, and with an order to the mate to “keep her jes ’s she is,” he departed. No sooner had his crew put him alongside than he climbed on board, and, contrary to the usual practice, ordered them away from the stranger, telling them to lie on their oars at a little distance until he should call them. The skipper of the stranger (still an unknown ship to the Beluga’s crew, as she had no name visible) met Captain Cushing at the gangway, presenting as complete a contrast to that inscrutable man as could well be imagined. A dumpy, apple-faced little fellow, with a lurking smile in every dimple, and a mat of bright red curls covering his round head. Snatching the languidly offered paw of his visitor, he burst forth, “Wall, ef this ent grate! I be tarnally ding-busted ef I wa’nt a talkin’ ’bout ye las’ night, talkin’ t’ meself that is,” he hastily interjected, upon seeing the look that Cushing turned upon him. “But kem along daown b’low n’hev—wall I wonder wut y’ will hev. Don’ seem sif y’ ever hev anythin’. Nev’ mine, less git b’low anyhaow.” And together they descended.

For a long time the little man did all the talking—after the manner of a trusted manager of a thriving business making his report to his principal. He told of whales caught, of boats stove, of gear carried away—quite the usual routine—while Cushing listened with his impenetrable mask, through which it was impossible to see whether he was interested or not. It was like talking to a graven image. But still, as the tale went on, and it appeared that the little talker had been fairly successful, there was a slight relaxing of the rigid pose, which to the eye of the initiate spelt satisfaction. For all unknown to any one except the ruddy skipper talking to him, Cushing was really the owner of this unnamed ship—a vessel that he had stolen from an anchorage in the Pelew Islands, while all her crew were ashore on a furious debauch which had lasted for several weeks, and had ever since been running her in this mysterious fashion by the aid of the one man in the wide world in whom he could be said to repose any confidence. That story is, however, too long to be told here.

The recital was apparently finished, when suddenly, as if he had just remembered an important part of his report, the narrator resumed, his jolly red face assuming an air of gravity that was strangely out of harmony with it. “An’ cap’,” said he, “I’d eenamost fergot—I met up with the spotted whale of the Bonins las’ cruise. I——”

But there was a sudden change, an unearthly brightening into copper colour of Cushing’s face, as he sprang to his feet, and, with his long fingers working convulsively, gurgled out, “’R ye sure? Don’t ye mislead me, Silas, ’r ye’d be better dead every time. Naow yew jest gi’ me th’ hull hang o’ this thing ’fore y’ say ’nother word ’bout anythin’!”

There was no mask of indifference now. The man was transformed into a living embodiment of eager desire, and bold indeed would any have been that would have dared to thwart him. No such idea was in his hearer’s thoughts, at any rate, for no sooner had he done speaking than Silas leaned forward and said—

“Yes, cap’, I am sure, not thet it’s hardly wuth while sayin’ so, fur yew couldn’t imagine me bein’ mistook over a critter like thet. ’Twas this way. Ev’ since thet affair I’ve scurcely ever fergot yew’re orders—t’ look eout fer Spotty an’ let ye’ know fust chance whar he uz usin’ roun’, but at this perticler lowerin’ we jest had all eour soup ladled eout fer us an’ no mistake. Ther’d ben a matter o’ a dozen ships ov us in compny, ’n I wuz bizzy figgerin’ haow t’ git rid’r some ov ’em befo’ we struck whale. I noo they wuz abaout; the air wuz jest thick up with whale smell, ’n every one ov my boys wuz all alive. Wall, we hove to thet night ’s ushal till midnight, ’n then I sez t’ myself, sez I, ef I don’t up-stick ’n run south I’m a horse. Fur, ye see, ’twuz born in ’pon me thet whales wuz comin’ up from the line away, ’n a big school too. I doan’ know why, ov course not, but thar twuz—y’ know how ’tis yerself.

“Sure ’nough by dayspring they wa’nt a ship in sight of us, but at seven bells we raised whale, ’n b’ gosh I reckon they was mos’ a thousan’ of ’em spread all out to looard of us more like a school o’ porps than hunderd bar’l whales—which they wuz every last one ov ’em, cep them thet wuz bigger. They wa’nt much wind, ’n we lowered five boats ’n put f’r them whales all we knew. Tell y’ wut, cap’, I’ve seen some tall spoutin’, but that mornin’s work jest laid raight over all I ever heer tell ov, much less see. We all got fas’ on the jump, ’n then we cut loose agen. Reason why, we couldn’t move fur ’em. They jest crowded in on us, quite quiet; they wa’nt a bit er fight in one ov ’em, and we handled the lances on the nearest. That patch o’ sea wuz jest a saladero now I’m tellin’ ye. We never chipped a splinter ner used ten fathom o’ tow line, ’n be my recknin we killed twenty whales. Gradjully the crowd drawed off, leavin’ us with all that plunder lyin’ roun’ loose, an I wuz beginnin’ t’ wish I hadn’t run so fur away from the fleet. Fur I knew we couldn’ handle sech a haul’s thet—more’n haef ov em’d be rotten ’fore we c’d cut in ef we’d worked f’r a week on eend ’thout a minnit’s rest.

“While we wuz jest drawin’ breth like after th’ war, and the shipkeepers ’uz a workin’ her daown t’ us, my harponeer sings out ’sif he’d a ben snake bit, ‘Blow-w-s ’n breaches! Ee’r sh’ white waterrs. Madre di Gloria, Capena, lookee what come.’ ’N thar shore nuff he uz comin’; Spotty fur true. I know, cap. I never see him afore. All I knoo ’bout him uz wut ye told me, an’ I doan mine ownin’ up naow at I thought y’ mout ha ben a bit loony on thet subjec, but I tek it all back, ’n ’umbly axes yer pardin.

“Yaas, sir, he come; like all hell let loose. He jes flung himself along the top er th’ sea like a dolphin, ’n I reckin we all felt kiender par’litic. Soon’s I got me breath I sings out t’ cut adrif’, fur we’d all got tow-lines fast to flukes ready to pass abroad, and handle bomb-guns quick. Then when he come within range t’ let him have ’em full butt’n put f’r th’ ship. Don’t say I felt very brash ’baout it, but twuz the best I c’d think ov. He kem, oh yes, sir, he kem, ’n the sight of his charge brung a verse of th’ Bible (haint looked inside one f’r twenty years) into my mind. Goes suthin like this ‘The mountings skipped like rams, th’ little hills like young sheep.’ We done all we knoo, we twisted and tarned an’ pulled an’ starned; but you know, cap, better ’n any of us, thet the boat never was built thet c’d git out of th’ way ov a spalmacitty whale when he’d made up his mine fur mischief. ’N we wa’nt no excepshin. We weakened at las’, ’n took th’ water, whar we knoo he wouldn’t tech us, ’n b’ gosh he didn’ leave a plank o’ one o’ them thar boats whole. I doan know why he didn’ foller it up or go fur th’ ship. Ef he hed thar’d a ben an eend of the story, sure. But no, he just disappeared quiet ’s death, ’n we all gut picked up in time. Yes, ’n we managed to rig up our spare boat ’n git five of them whales cut in too, though I’m free t’ confess the last of ’em wuz middlin’ gamey by th’ time they got t’ th’ try pots. The rest jest floated erroun ’n stunk up th’ North Persific Ocean till twuz like a graveyard struck be ’n erthquake. But we got six hunderd barl out of th’ catch, anyway.”

While the recital was proceeding, Cushing’s face was a study. He listened without moving a muscle, but rage, hope, and joy chased one another over that usually expressionless mask like waves raised by sudden squalls over the calm surface of a sheltered lake. And when it was over he rose wearily, saying—

“All right, Jacob; when ye’re through put fur the old rondyvoos an’ discharge. I’ll be long ’bout March an’ range fur next cruise. So long. I’m off t’ th’ Bonins full pelt.”

“But, Cap’n Cushing, is ut worth huntin’ up that gauldern spotty beast ’n gettin’ ’tarnally smashed up fur an’ idee? Why caint y’ leave ’im alone? Sure’s deeth he’ll do ye a hurt. Take a fool’s advice, cap’n, ’n let him die ov ole age or accident.”

“Jacob, my man, y’ fergit yerself. When I want yew’re advice, I’ll seek it. Till then don’t ye offer it. Tain’t t’ my likin’, fur I’m accustomed to take no man as my counsellor. So long once more, ’n don’t fergit y’r orders.”

In two strides he reached the top of the companion-ladder, and with that wide-breathed cry of his that we knew so well had summoned his boat. She sprang to the nameless barque’s side like a living thing, Captain Cushing stepped into her, and the queer gam was over. Back alongside he came, standing erect as a monolith in the stern-sheets, and, hardly allowing time for the boat to be hooked on, issued rapid orders for all sail to be made; the helm was put hard up, and away we went N.W. No one ventured an opinion upon this sudden change, but every one looked volumes of inquiry. And no one dared even hint to his fellow the wonder, the painful curiosity, he felt as, day after day, before a strong south-east trade, the Beluga did her steady seven knots an hour, nor stayed for anything. Again and again the cry of “blow” came ringing down from the crows’-nests, and as often as it was heard the old man mounted aloft with his glasses, and stayed until he had apparently satisfied himself of something. But never a halt did we make. No, and as if the very whales themselves knew of our pre-occupation, a school actually rose near and accompanied us for a whole watch, gambolling along massively within gun-shot on either side. They might as well have been a thousand miles away for all the notice the old man took of them. He just leaned upon the weather-rail, gazing with expressionless face at the unchanging ring of the horizon—a fathomless enigma to all of us. The proximity of those whales, however, troubled the officers more than anything else had done, and it took all their inbred terror of the old man to keep them from breaking into open mutiny. Even among us, who had little interest in the voyage from a monetary point of view, and to whom the capture of whales only meant a furious outburst of the hardest work, the feeling of indignation at the loss of so grand an opportunity was exceedingly hard to bear.

Onward we sped until we got among the islands, but no slackening of haste, except when the wind lulled, was indulged in. By day or by night we threaded those mazy archipelagoes as if the whole intricate navigation was as familiar to the skipper as the rooms of his cabin. Such ship-handling surely never was seen. Perched upon the fore-yard, the only light visible being the blazing foam spreading widely out on either bow and ahead where the staunch old ship plunged through those phosphorescent waters, the glowing patches cropping up hither and thither all around as the indolent Pacific swell broke irritably over some up-cropping coral patch, and the steely sparkles of the stars in the blue-black sky above, Captain Cushing conned the ship as easily and confidently as a pilot entering New York harbour on midsummer day, his quiet voice sounding down from where he crouched invisible as if we were being celestially directed. There was no feeling of apprehension among us, for our confidence in his genius was perfect, making us sure that whatever of skill in navigation was required he surely possessed it.

Nevertheless, the mystery of our haste across the whole vast breadth of the Pacific fretted every man, even the dullest. It was outside all our previous experience. Perhaps the only thing that made it bearable was the knowledge that not one of the officers was any better informed than we were. Foremast hands are always jealous of the information obtainable in the cuddy, and even though it may not be of the slightest use to them, any scrap they may obtain gives to the lucky eavesdropper a sort of brevet-rank for the time being. Here, however, all that was to be known as to our movements, the reason for them, and the ultimate object of our long passage, with its unprecedented haste, was locked up in one man’s mind, and that man a graven image for secretiveness.

Such was the expeditiousness of our passage that seven weeks after gamming the nameless whaler on the “off-shore” ground, we sighted one of the Volcano group of islands which lie near the Bonins in the great eddy of the Kuro Siwo or Japanese current, and form one of the landmarks of what was once the busiest sperm whaling-ground on the globe. The shape of the island, more like the comb of a cock than anything else, was familiar to many of us, and gave us for the first time for months a clear idea of our position. So we were on the Japan ground. It was a relief to know that much, certainly; but why—why had we, contrary to all whaling precedent, made a passage of several thousand miles in such haste? No answer. But having arrived, our usual whaling tactics were immediately resumed. With a difference. Instead of being kept hard at work during all the hours of daylight scrubbing, polishing, cleaning, until the old oil-barrel of a ship was as spick and span as a man-o’-war, the word was passed that the watch on deck were to keep a look-out for whale—every man of them except him at the wheel. And the watchers in the crows’-nest were provided each with a pair of binoculars—a thing unheard of before. So the ship became a veritable argus. It is safe to say that nothing, not even a frond of seaweed, or a wandering sea-bird, ever passed within range of sight without being seen and noted. After a few days of this most keen outlook came another surprise in the shape of a speech from the old man.

Calling all hands aft, he faced us for a minute in silence, while every heart beat a trifle quicker as if we were on the threshold of a mystery deeper than any that had yet worried us. He spoke quietly, dispassionately, yet with that blue patch in the middle of each yellow cheek that was to us the symbol of his most intense excitement. “I’ve kem up hyar aefter one whale, ’n ef I git him th’ v’yge is over. He’s big, bigger’n enny man here’s ever seen, I guess, an’ he’s spotted with white on brown like a pieball horse. Yew kaint mistake him. I’ll give five hundred dollars t’ th’ man that raises him first, ’n I’ll divide five thousand among ye ’cordin t’ grade ef I kill him. An’ when we’ve cut him in we’ll up-stick f’r Noo Bedford. Naow, ef this is enny indoocement t’ ye, keep y’r eyes skinned by day and night. Moreover, I warn ye thet this ship doan’t see civilization agen until I git wut I’m after, ’r I go under. Thet’ll do, all haends.”

In any other ship this harangue would have been succeeded by a buzz of chat as soon as the fellows got forward, but here not a word was spoken. Thenceforward, though it was evident that not a thought could be spared, not a look wasted from scanning the wide circle of blue around, by night and by day the watch never slackened, and men would hardly sleep for eagerness to be the first to claim the prize. Yet, as so often happens, it fell to one who had the least opportunity of obtaining it, the mulatto steward whose duties kept him below most of the time. About ten days after the skipper’s offer the steward crept on deck one evening about eight bells, his long day’s work just over, and slouching forward into the waist leaned over the side and began to fill his pipe. It was a heavenly evening, hardly a breath of air breaking the sleekiness of the sea-surface, the slightest perceptible swell giving us a gentle undulatory motion, and overhead the full moon hung in the cloudless dome like an immense globe glowing with electric light. The steward had finished filling his pipe, and was just feeling for a match when he stopped suddenly and said to his nearest neighbour, “Oliver, what in thunder’s thet right in the moon-glade?” The whisper ran round the ship as if on a telephone, and in less than a minute all the night-glasses were on the spot. The skipper’s voice broke the silence—hardly broke it—so quiet yet audible was it. “’Way boats. Th’ first man thet makes a noise, I’ll cripple him f’r life. Stoord, g’lang b’low ’n git y’r money; ye’ll find it on my bunk-shelf.”

Like a crew of ghosts, we sped to our stations, hanging over side and booming the boats off as they were lowered with the utmost caution lest there should be a rattle of a patent block or a splash as they took the water. In five minutes we were all away, five boats, the skipper leading and every man, except the officers steering, wielding an Indian paddle as if his life depended upon utter silence. As we sat facing forrard every eye was strained for a glimpse of the enemy, but at that low level and in the peculiar glare of a moonlit tropical night we could see nothing. Moreover, we were paddling along the glittering path cast upon the sea by the moon, and a few minutes’ steady gaze upon that stretch of molten silver made the eyes burn and throb, so that it was an intense relief to close them for a while. At every dip of the paddles there was an additional flash in the water, behind each boat and far beneath myriads of dancing gleams disported themselves, while in ever-accumulating numbers wide bands of pale fire radiating from opaque bodies keeping company with us told us of the shark hosts mustering for the fight wherein they, at any rate, were likely to fall heirs to goodly spoil.

Without a pause for rest, and in the same utter stillness, we toiled on for at least two hours. It was backbreaking work, and but for the splendid training we were in we could not possibly have held out. Then suddenly from ahead came a yell of wild laughter, the most blood-chilling sound surely ever heard. Immediately following it we saw a veritable hill of light upraise itself out of the sea ahead, and realized that at last our quarry was brought to bay. “In paddles, out oars!” yelled the officers, and as we obeyed we were aware that a terrific commotion was in progress ahead. The greenish-glaring spray ascended in long jets, and the dull boom of mighty blows reverberated over the hitherto quiet sea. Pulling till our sinews cracked, we reached the storm-centre, and, by what seemed a miracle, actually succeeded in getting fast to the whale—every boat did that, although it seemed to many of us a suicidal policy under the circumstances. Shouts and curses resounded until a voice was heard that enforced silence, the far-reaching tones of Captain Cushing, who was nearest to the foe, but for all his ability was unable to do more once he had got fast. For now the whale had settled down into a steady straightforward rush at the rate of about fourteen knots an hour, the five boats sweeping along in his wake like meteors glancing across the deep darkness of the night. The whale could not be seen. Only at long intervals did he slant upwards and, with a roar like the lifting of an overloaded safety-valve, disappear again.

So on we went through the warm quiet night without the slightest sign of slackening until the gladsome light of dawn quickened on the sea-rim, and showed us that we were alone—there was no sign of the ship. A gaunt and haggard crew we looked, anxiety scoring deep furrows in our wan faces. And as the sun sprang into the sky we suddenly came to a dead stop. The strain on the line compelled us to pay out, and thus we hovered in a circle, bows awash, and awaited the pleasure of our foe. There was a sudden upspringing of all boats, a hasty manœuvring to clear one another as far as might be, and, before any of us could have imagined it possible, high into our midst leaped the spotted whale, his awful jaws agape, and his whole body writhing in its evolution. Straight for the skipper’s boat he came, taking it diagonally, and, with a crash that set all our teeth on edge, she disappeared. A mist arose before our sight, the spray of the conflict filling the air, but, fired beyond fear by the wholesale tragedy we believed had taken place, we bent to our oars till they cracked, thirsting for that monster’s blood. As we came bounding to the spot he disappeared, and, to our unspeakable amazement (though we had no time to show it) all the destroyed boat’s crew reappeared. But if Captain Cushing had looked dangerous before, his appearance now was that of a demoniac. His cap was gone, so that the yellow dome of his head loomed strangely in the early morning light, his clothing hung from him in ribbons, and his right arm dangled as if only held by a few sinews. He had come right out of the whale’s jaws. All the others were scathless.

To all offers of help he turned a savage scowl, and seizing a bomb-gun in his uninjured hand he jammed himself in the boat’s bows, his voice, unaltered save for being a little higher in pitch, being heard and obeyed among the other boats on the instant. The whale returned. At the captain’s orders all cut their lines, and the real fight began. Truly Captain Cushing was fit to be a leader of men, for his eyes missed nothing. At his orders all four boats advanced, retreated, backed, circled, stopped dead. He seemed able to penetrate the misleading medium of the water, where a whale at twenty fathoms’ depth looks like a salmon, and whatever move the monster made, his counter-move baffled the savage intent. Yet all the time we were strictly on the defensive. Our long night’s tow, want of food and drink, and since daylight the tremendous strain upon our nerves, was surely telling against us, and our adversary was apparently tireless. Not only so, but his ingenuity never flagged. Ruse after ruse was tried by him, but no two were alike. And without a doubt our hopes of coming alive out of this battle were growing fainter and fainter every moment.

Things were in this gloomy stage when, with a most appalling roar, the whale suddenly broke water on his back, and launched himself at the captain’s boat. The wide sea boiled like a pot as he came, but, to our horror, the boat lay still, as if anchored to the spot. The crash came, and amidst its uproar we heard the sharp report of a gun. Like a great whirlpool the waters foamed and rose, nothing being distinguishable in the midst of the vortex until it gradually subsided, and we saw the fragments of the boat idly tossing upon the crimson foam. Hastening to the rescue, we found six men still alive, but all sadly hurt. The seventh was gone. At last Captain Cushing had paid in full the debt that had been owing. We were now completely overborne with fatigue as well as overloaded with helpless men—utterly unfit to compete any further with so fearful a foe. While we lay thus helplessly awaiting what all felt must be the end, the whale again broke water about twenty yards away. Up, up, up into the air he rose, effortless, majestically; and as he soared aloft every heart stood still to see the body of our late commander hanging limply at the angle of that yawning mouth. The yellow visage was towards us, the same savage grin frozen upon it, but the will against which everything had shivered was now but the will of the drift-weed round about; that clammy piece of clay was tenantless.

Down came the gigantic form, tearing up the sea into foam and disappeared from our sight, to be seen no more. Long and wearily we waited, hungry and thirsty, and some in agony from their injuries, until twenty-four hours later the Beluga found us, and all were safely taken on board. Strangely transformed the old ship appeared. At first we went about as we had been wont, not daring to exchange thoughts with one another. But gradually the blessed truth soaked in. We were freed from a tyranny more dire than any of us had realized—a tyranny over mind as well as body. Officers and men rejoiced together, for all had suffered. And it was at once decided to return home in leisurely fashion, calling at well-known ports on the way, and endeavouring to make up by a little joy of life for past miseries.

What the true inwardness of Captain Cushing’s desire of revenge on the spotted whale was we never rightly knew, but many rumours were current among ships that we gammed that he had, with his own hand many years before, killed the whale of a small pod, or company of whales, of which the spotted whale was the leader, and that they had met on several occasions afterwards, their meeting always being attended by some grave disaster to Cushing’s ship and crew. This had wrought upon his mind until it had become a mania, and he was willing to risk all for the chance of slaying his redoubtable foe. But we had no doubt that the whale was merely the instrument chosen by Providence for meting out to him a death he richly deserved for his many crimes.

THE SKIPPER’S WIFE

Stories of the Sea have in my humble opinion been quite unfairly dealt with by the majority of their narrators. Told for the benefit of non-seafaring folk by writers, who, however great their literary gifts, have had merely a nodding acquaintance with the everyday doings on board ship, they generally lack proportion, and fail to convey to shore folk an intimate sense of the sea-atmosphere. Especially has this been so with books for young people, as was no doubt to be expected. So much has this been the case that sailors generally despise sea-stories, finding them utterly unlike anything they have ever experienced themselves. Of late years there have been some notable exceptions among sea story writers, most of them happily still living and doing splendid service. One cunning hand is still, that of James Runciman, whose yarns are salt as the ocean, and have most truly held the mirror up to Nature in a manner unexcelled by any other marine writer living or dead. Freedom from exaggeration, clarity of expression, and sympathetic insight into sea-life were his main features, and no one hated more than he the utterly impossible beings and doings common to the bulk of sea-fiction.

Whether it be from lack of imaginative power or an unfertile inventiveness I cannot say, but it has always appeared to me as if one need never travel outside the actual facts of his experience, however humdrum it may appear to the casual observer, to find matters sufficiently interesting to hold any intelligent reader enthralled, always providing that matter be well presented. And in that belief I venture to tell a plain tale here, into which no fiction enters except proper names.

Drifting about the world, as the great fucus wanders from shore to shore, having once been dislodged from its parent rock, I one day found myself ashore at Quilimane, desperately anxious to get a berth in any capacity on board ship for the sole purpose of getting away. My prospects were not very rosy, for the only vessels in the hateful place were two or three crazy country craft with Arab crews, that looked exceedingly like slavers to me. At last, to my intense relief, a smart looking barquentine entered the port and anchored. I was, as usual, lounging about the beach (it seemed the healthiest place I could find) and my longing eyes followed every move of the crew as they busied themselves in getting the boat out. When the captain stepped ashore I was waiting to meet him, and the first words he heard were—

“Do you want a hand, cap’n?”

Taking keen stock of me, he said, “What sort of a berth do you want?”

“Well, sir,” I replied, “I’ve got a second-mate’s ticket, but I’ll go as boy for the chance of getting away from here, if necessary.”

“I want a cook-and-steward,” he murmured dubiously, “and as I’ve got my wife aboard the cooking’s rather important.”

“I’m your man, sir,” I cried, “if I can’t cook you can dump me overboard. I never shipped as cook yet, but I’ve had to teach a good few cooks how to boil salt water without burning it.”

He smiled pleasantly at this, and said, “I must say I like your looks and—well there, jump into the boat. I’ll be back directly.”

Sure enough, in a couple of hours I was busy in her cosy galley, while the chaps were rattling the windlass round with a will, anxious enough to get clear of that sweltering coast. From the first my relations with all hands were of the pleasantest kind. They had suffered many things at the hands of several so-called cooks during the eighteen months they had been away from home, each dirty destroyer of provisions being worse than his predecessor. But especially were my efforts appreciated in the cabin. The skipper had with him his wife and two little girls, aged four and five respectively, who made that little corner of the ship seem to a homeless, friendless wanderer like myself a small heaven. Mrs. Brunton was a sweet-faced grey-eyed woman of about thirty, with a quiet tenderness of manner and speech that made a peaceful atmosphere about her like that of a summer Sunday evening in some tiny English village. Her husband was a grand specimen of a British seaman, stalwart and fair-haired, with a great sweeping beard and bright blue eyes that always had a lurking smile in their depths. The pair appeared to have but one mind. Their chief joy seemed to be in the silent watching of their children’s gambols, as, like two young lambs, they galloped round the decks or wriggled about the cramped fittings of the small saloon. The charm of that happy home-circle was over all hands. You might say that the ship worked herself, there was so little sign of the usual machinery of sea-life.

So the days slipped away as we crept down towards the Cape, bound round to Barbadoes, of all places in the world. Then in the ordinary course of events the weather got gradually worse, until one night it culminated in a following gale of hurricane fierceness, thundering down out of an ebony sky that almost rested on the mastheads. By-and-by the swart dungeon about us became shot with glowing filaments that quivered on the sight like pain-racked nerves, and the bass of the storm fell two octaves. Sail had been reduced to the fore lower topsail and the fore-topmast staysail, which had the sheet hauled flat aft in case of her broaching-to. Even under those tiny rags she flew before the hungering blast like a hare when the hounds are only her own length behind. The black masses of water gradually rose higher alongside as they bellowed past until their terrible heads peered inboard as if seeking the weakest spot. They began to break over all, easily at first, but presently with a sickening crash that made itself felt in one’s very bowels. At last two menacing giants rose at once on either side, curving their huge heads until they overhung the waist. Thus, for an appreciable fraction of time, they stood, then fell—on the main-hatch. It cracked—sagged downward—and every man on deck knew that the foot-thick greenheart fore-and-after was broken, and that another sea like that would sink us like a saucer. Hitherto the skipper had been standing near the cuddy scuttle, in which his wife crouched, her eyes dim with watching her husband. Now he stooped and whispered three words in her ear. With one more glance up into his face she crept down into their berth, and over to where the two little ones were sleeping soundly. Gently, but with an untrembling hand, she covered their ruddy faces with a folded mosquito net and turned out the light. Then she swiftly returned to her self-chosen post in the scuttle, just reaching up a hand to touch her husband’s arm, and let him know that she was near. The quiver that responded was answer enough. He was looking astern, and all his soul was in his eyes. For there was a streak of kindly light, a line of hope on the murky heaven. It broadened to a rift, the blue shone through, and stooping he lifted his wife’s head above the hatch, turning her face so that she too might see and rejoice. She lifted her face, with streaming eyes, to his for a kiss, then fled below, turned up the light again, and uncovered the children’s faces. Five minutes later she heard his step coming down, and devoured him with her eyes as he walked to the barometer, peered into it and muttered “thank God.”

Gently she covered their ruddy faces.

A fortnight later I was prowling up and down the cabin outside their closed state-room door, my fingers twitching with nervousness, and a lump continually rising in my throat that threatened to choke me; for within that tiny space, the captain, all unaided except by his great love and quiet common sense, was elbowing a grim shadow that seemed to envy him his treasure. Now and then a faint moan curdled round my heart, making it ache as if with cold. Beyond that there was no sign from within, and the suspense fretted me till I felt like a bundle of bare nerves. Overhead I could hear the barefooted step of the mate, as he wandered with uncertain gait about the lee side of the poop under the full glow of the passionless moon. At last, when I felt as worn as if I had been swimming for hours, there came a thin, gurgling little wail—a new voice that sent a thrill through the curves of my brain with a sharp pang. And then I felt the hot tears running down my face—why, I did not know. A minute later the door swung open, and the skipper said, in a thick, strange tone, “It’s all right, Peter; I’ve a son. And she’s grand, my boy, she’s grand.” I mumbled out something; I meant well, I’m sure, but no one could have understood me. He knew, and shook hands with me heartily. And presently I was nursing the bonny mite as if I had never done aught else—me that never had held a baby before. It was good, too; it lay in my arms on a pillow, and looked up at me with bright, unwinking eyes.

Then came three weeks of unalloyed delight. Overhead the skies were serene—that deep, fathomless blue, that belongs of right to the wide, shoreless seas of the tropics, where the constant winds blow unfalteringly to a mellow harmony of love. On board, every thought was drawn magnet-wise to the tiny babe who had come among us like a messenger from another sphere, and the glances cast at the tender mother as she sat under the little awning, like a queen holding her court, were almost reverential. Never a man of us will forget that peaceful time. Few words were spoken, but none of them were angry, for every one felt an influence at work on him that, while it almost bewildered him, made him feel gentle and kind. But into the midst of this peaceful time came that envious shadow again. How it happened no man could tell; what malign seed had suddenly germinated, after so long lying dormant, was past all speculation of ours. The skipper himself fell sick. For a few days he fought man-fashion against a strange lassitude that sapped all his great strength and overcame even his bright cheery temper until he became fretful as a sickly babe. At last there came a day when he could not rise from his cot. With a beseeching look in his eyes he lay, his fine voice sunk to a whisper and his sunny smile gone. His wife hovered about him continually, unsparing of herself, and almost forgetting the first claim of the babe. The children, with the happy thoughtlessness of their age, could not be kept quiet, so, for the most part, they played forward with the crew, where they were as happy as the day was long. Every man did his best to entertain them; and when sailors make pets of children, those children are favoured by fortune. Meanwhile, in the cabin, we fought inch by inch with death for our friend. But our hands were tied by ignorance, for the rough directions of the book in the medicine chest gave us no help in dealing with this strange disease. Gradually the fine frame of the skipper dwindled and shrank, larger and more wistful grew his eyes, but after the first appalling discovery of his weakness he never uttered a complaining word. He lay motionless, unnoticing, except that into the deep wells of his eyes there came an expression of great content and peace whenever his wife bent over him. She scarcely ever spoke, for he had apparently lost all power of comprehension as well as speech, except that which entered his mind by sight. Thus he sank, as lulls the sea-breeze on a tropical shore when twilight comes. And one morning at four, as I lay coiled in a fantastic heap upon one of the settees near his door, sleeping lightly as a watch-dog, a long, low moan tugged at my heart-strings, and I sat up shivering like one in an ague-fit, although we were on the Line. Swiftly I stepped into his room, where I saw his wife with one arm across his breast and her face beside his on the pillow. She had fainted, and so was mercifully spared for a little while the agony of that parting—for he was dead.

Up till that time every device that seamanship could suggest had been put into practice to hurry the ship on, so that she was a perfect pyramid of canvas rigged wherever it would catch a wasting air. But all was of little use, for the wind had fallen lighter and lighter each day until, at the time of the skipper’s passing, it was a stark calm. Then, as if some invisible restraint had been suddenly removed, up sprang the wind, strong and steady, necessitating the instant removal of all those fragile adjuncts to her speed that had been rigged everywhere possible aloft. So that no one had at first any leisure to brood over our great loss but myself, and I could only watch with almost breathless anxiety for the return of that sorely-tried, heroic woman to a life from which her chief joy had been taken away. She remained so long in that death-like trance that again and again I was compelled to reassure myself, by touching her arms and face, that she was still alive, and yet I dreaded her re-awakening. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, she lifted her head, looked steadfastly for a while at the calm face of her dead husband, then stooped and kissed him once. Then she turned to me as I stood at the door, with the silent tears streaming down my face, and said, in a perfectly steady voice (I can hear it now), “Are my children well?” “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, “they are all asleep.” “Thank you,” she murmured; “I will go and lie down with them a little while. I feel so tired. No” (seeing I was about to offer), “I want nothing just now but rest.” So she turned into their little cabin and shut the door. I went on deck and waited until the mate (now skipper) was free, and then told him how she was. He immediately made preparations for the burial, for we were still a week’s sail from port. In an hour all was ready, and silently we awaited the re-appearance of the chief mourner. She came out at breakfast-time, looking like a woman of marble. Quietly thanking the new skipper for what he had done, she resumed her motherly duties, saying no word and showing no sign of the ordeal she was enduring.

All through the last solemn scene, except for a convulsive shudder as the sullen plunge alongside closed the service, she preserved the same tearless calm, and afterwards, while she remained on board—which was only until we arrived at Barbadoes—she preserved the same automaton-like demeanour. The mail steamer arrived the day after we anchored, and we took her on board for the passage to England; her bitter tragedy moving most of the passengers to tears as the history of it spread like wildfire among them. And as the Medway steamed out of the harbour, we all stood on the poop of our own vessel, with bared heads, in respectful farewell to, and deepest sympathy for, our late captain’s wife.

A SCIENTIFIC CRUISE

Five and twenty minutes, I believe, was the extreme limit of time it took me to discover that my new ship was likely to provide me some of the queerest experiences I had yet met with in all my fishing. But after a month’s weary munching the bread of the outward-bounder, and in Calcutta too, I was so hungry for a berth that I would have shipped as mess-room steward in a Geordie weekly boat, and undertaken to live on the yield of the dog-basket from the engineers’ table, if nothing better had offered. So when Romin Dass, a sircar that I was very chummy with, hailed me one morning at the corner of the Radha Bazaar, with a quotation from Shakespeare to point his information that he had heard of a second-mate’s berth for me on board the Ranee, a fine iron ship moored off Prinseps Ghât, I was so glad that I promised him the first five dibs I could lay hands on. Trembling with eagerness, I hurried down to the ghât and wheedled a dinghy-wallah into putting me on board. The mate, a weary looking man, about my own age, met me at the foot of the gangway ladder with that suspicious air common to all mates of ships abroad, especially when they see an eager looking stranger with a nautical appearance come aboard uninvited. In a diffident uncertain way, born of a futile attempt, to conceal my anxiety and look dignified, I inquired for Captain Leverrier.

“He isn’t aboard,” snarled the mate, “an’ not likely to be to-night. What might your business be?”

“Well, you see—the fact is—I thought—that is,” I blundered, getting red in the face as I saw a sarcastic grin curdling the mate’s face. “I—I thought you wanted a second mate, an’ I——”

“Oh, why the devil didn’t you say so,’thout gay-huppin’ about it like that. I begun ter think you was some beach-comber tryin’ on a new bluff. Come an’ have a drink.”

Greatly relieved I followed him into the saloon, which was almost as gorgeous as a yacht’s, carpets, and mirrors, and velvet settees, piano and silver-plated metal work till you couldn’t rest. A gliding Hindoo came salaaming along with a bottle and glasses and some ice in a bowl at a word from the mate, and solemnly, as if pouring a libation, we partook of refreshment. Then, offering me a Trichie, the mate began to cross-examine me. But by this time I had got back my self-possession, and I soon satisfied him that I shouldn’t make half a bad shipmate. I happened to have sailed with an old skipper of his, I knew two or three fellows that he did, or at least I thought I knew them, and before half an hour had passed we were on quite confidential terms. No, not quite; for two or three times I noticed that he checked himself, just when he was on the point of telling me something, although he let drop a few hints that were totally unintelligible to me. At last he said—

“You might as well stay to supper an’ keep me company, unless you’ve got to get back anywhere.”

“Anywhere’s just the right word, Mr. Martin,” I broke in; “anywhere but ashore again in this God-forsaken place. If you’d been ashore here for six weeks, looking for a pierhead jump as I have, you’d think it was heaven to get aboard a ship again. It’d be a mighty important engagement that ’ud take you up town again.”

“All right, my boy. Hullo, what do you want?” to the suppliant steward, who stood in a devotional attitude awaiting permission to speak.

“Dinghy-wallah, sab, waitin’ for speaky gentyman, sab.”

I went cold all over. That infernal coolie was after me for his fare, and I hadn’t a pice. I’d forgotten all about him. I did the only thing possible, owned up to the mate that I had a southerly wind in my pockets, and he came to the rescue at once, paying the dinghy-wallah a quarter of what he asked (two rupees), and starting him off. Then we sat down to a sumptuous supper, such as I had not tasted for many months, for I came out before the mast, and the grub in the Sailors Home (where I had been staying) was pretty bad. Over the pleasant meal Mr. Martin thawed out completely, and at last, in a burst of confidence, he said—

“Our ole man’s scientific, Mr. Roper.”

As he looked at me like a man who has just divulged some tremendous secret, I was more than a little puzzled what to say in reply, so I looked deeply interested, and murmured, “Indeed.”

“Indeed, yes,” growled the mate; “but I’ll bet you a month’s wages you won’t say ‘indeed’ like that when we’ve ben to sea a few days. I’ll tell you what it is, I’ve been with some rum pups of skippers in my time, but this one scoops the pot. He’s a good enough sailor man, too. But as fer his condemn science—well, he thinks he’s the whole Royle Serciety an’ Trinity House biled down into one, an’ I’m damfee knows enough to come in when it rains. He’s just worryin me bald-headed, that’s what he is. Why, if it wasn’t fer the good hash and bein’ able to do pretty much as I mind to with the ship, I’d a ben a jibbin mainyac ’fore now, I’m dead shore o’ that. Looky here,” and he sprang up and flung a state-room door wide open, “djever see anythin’ like that outen a mewseeum?”

I stared in utter amazement at a most extraordinary collection of queer looking instruments, models, retorts, crucibles, and specimen glasses, turning round after completing my scrutiny, and gazing into the mate’s face without speaking.

He was peering at me curiously, and presently said, interrogatively, “Well?”

Seeing that I was expected to make some sort of a reply, I said, with a cheerful air—

“’Looks as if the skipper was no end of a scientific pot, I must confess; but, after all, Mr. Martin, it’s a harmless fad enough, isn’t it?”

“Harmless! Well, of all the—— Good heavens, man, you hain’t the least idea—but, there, what’s the use er talkin’. Better letcher wait ’n see fer yerself. Come on up onter the poop ’n git a whiff er fresh Calcutta mixtcher, dreadful refreshin’, ain’t it?”

A long confab succeeded to the accompaniment of many cigars and sundry pegs, but not another word about the skipper and his hobbies did the mate let slip. No; we discussed, as housewives are said to do when they meet, the shortcomings of those over whom we were put in authority, compared notes as to the merits and demerits of skippers we had served under, and generally sampled the gamut of seafaring causeries, until, with my head buzzing like a mosquito in a bottle, I gave the mate good-night, and retired to my bunk in an enviable state of satisfaction at my good fortune. Next morning I was up at coffee-time, and while sitting on the after-hatch coamings enjoying the enlivening drink and chatting with the mate, a most unearthly howl fairly made my whiskers bristle. I looked at Mr. Martin, whose face wore a sarcastic grin, but never a word spake he. Another nerve-tearing yell resounded, starting me to my feet, while I exclaimed—

“Whatever is it, Mr. Martin? I’ve never heard such a devilish noise in my life.”

“Oh, it’s only some o’ the ole man’s harmless fads he’s a exercisin’. You’ll git used ter them chunes presently.”

He was going to say something else, but just then the steward emerged from the saloon—that is to say, he shot out as if he had been fired from a balista. When I saw him a few minutes before he was a suave olive-complexioned Hindoo, cat-like in his neatness, and snowy in his muslin rig. Now he was a ghastly apparition, with streaming scalp-lock and glaring eyeballs, his face a cabbage-water green, and his lank body as bare as a newly-scalded pig. Apparently incapable of flight, he crouched where he fell, salaaming with trembling hands, and chattering almost monkey-like. While the mate and I stood silently regarding him, and indignation at the poor wretch’s plight was rapidly ousting my alarm at the manner of his appearance, a mild and benevolent looking man of middle-age dressed in pyjamas appeared at the saloon door.

“Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said the skipper, for it was himself, “did you see where that heathen landed?”

“Oh yes, sir,” drawled the mate, “’eer ’e is, what’s left ov ’im.”

“Ah,” replied the skipper, with a placid smile, “he’s a bit startled I see. He trod on the plate of my new battery, and got a slight shock, I think. But where’s his close?”

“The Lord only knows,” piously ejaculated the mate. “Looks ter me ’sif he’d ben shot clean out ov ’em, puggree an’ all.”

By this time the luckless steward, finding, I suppose, that he had not reached Jehannum yet, began to pull himself together, and, doubtless ashamed of his being all face in the presence of the all-powerful sahibs, writhed his way worm-like towards the other door of the saloon, and disappeared within, the skipper regarding him meanwhile with gentle interest as if he were a crawling babe. Then turning his attention to me, the old man courteously inquired my business, and finding that I suited him, engaged me there and then as second mate.

During the short stay we made in port after my joining, nothing further occurred to change the opinion I had already formed that I was in a very comfortable ship. The fellows forward seemed fairly well contented and willing. The food both fore and aft was wonderfully good, and so was the cooking, for a marvel. But that was because we had a Madrassee cook who had served an arduous apprenticeship in P. and O. boats, from which excellent service he had been driven by some amiable inability to comprehend the laws of meum and tuum. Here there was no chance for him to steal, and every inducement for him to earn a good name by pleasing his many masters. The result was singularly happy for all of us. The foremast hands were fairly divided into Britons and Scandinavians, all good seamen and quiet, well-behaved men. One thing, however, was noticeable, they all seemed nervously anxious to avoid the after part of the ship as much as possible. All seamen before the mast have an inbred sense of reverence for the quarter-deck, walking delicately thereon, and studiously keeping to the lee-side, unless compelled by duty to go to windward. But in the Ranee, whenever a man came aft for any purpose whatever, his movements were much like those of a man visiting a menagerie for the first time alone, and morbidly suspicious that some of the cage doors were unfastened. This behaviour was highly amusing to me, for I had never seen anything like it before, and I couldn’t help wondering how the helmsman would hang out a trick at the wheel when we got to sea.

All preparations complete, we unmoored, and in tow of the Court Hey proceeded majestically down the Hooghly, waking all the echoes and scaring the numberless pigeons of the King of Oude’s palace with the exultant strains of “Sally Brown.” One of those majestic creatures, the Calcutta pilots, paced the poop in awful state, alone, the skipper being nowhere visible. Presently, my lord the pilot, feeling slightly fatigued, I suppose, threw himself into the old man’s favourite chair, an elaborately cushioned affair of peculiar shape and almost as long as a sofa. No sooner had he done so than, with a most amazing movement, the whole fabric changed its shape, and became one of the most bewildering entanglements conceivable, gripping the astounded pilot in so many places at once that he was in imminent danger of being throttled. I rushed to his assistance, and exerted all my strength to set him free, but my energetic efforts only seemed to hamper him more, and fearing lest I should break him all to pieces, I rushed below for the skipper. That gentleman was busy in his laboratory, making carburetted hydrogen, I should judge, from the “feel of the smell,” as the Scotch say, but in answer to my agitated call he emerged, serene and bland, to inquire my business. Faith, I could hardly tell him, what with the reek, my haste, and the anxiety I felt. Somehow I managed to convey to him that the pilot was being done to death in his chair, and as I did so I noticed (or thought I did) a momentary gleam of satisfaction in his starboard eye. But he mounted the companion, and gliding to the spot where the unhappy man, voiceless and black in the face, was struggling, he stooped, touched a spring, and that infernal chair fell out flat like a board. I stooped to assist the victim, but, unluckily for me, he sprang to his feet at the same moment, and his head catching me under the chin, I had urgent business of my own to attend to for some little time. When I got quite well again, I heard conversation. In fact I might almost say the coolies in the jungle heard it. The pilot was expressing his opinion upon his recent experience, and from his manner I concluded that he was annoyed. When at last he had finished, and the lingering echoes had died away, the old man, looking as happy as a lamb, offered to show him the beauty and ingenuity of the mechanism. But the pilot merely suggested that the only sight that could interest him just then would be the old man dangling by the neck at the cro’jack yard-arm, with that something (I didn’t quite catch the adjective) chair jammed on to his legs. And then the unreasonable man walked forward, leaving the skipper looking after him with a puzzled, yearning expression upon his pleasant face. Perhaps it is hardly necessary to say that thenceforward relations between the pilot and the captain were somewhat strained. At any rate, the former potentate refused to come below, taking his meals on deck with an air as of a man whose life was at the mercy of irresponsible beings, and when at last we hauled up at the mouth of the river for the pilot brig to send a boat for our pilot, he left the ship looking supremely relieved. To the skipper’s outstretched hand he was blind, and to that gentleman’s kindly good-bye he said naught but “thank God, I’m safe out of your ship.” Away he went, never once looking back to where we were busily setting sail for the long homeward passage.

For some days everything went on greased wheels. Except for an air of mystery that overhung the ship, and which puzzled me not a little, she was the most comfortable craft I ever sailed in. The skipper scarcely ever appeared, although sundry strange noises and unpleasant odours proceeding from his laboratory were evidence all-sufficient that he was on the alert. I was somewhat aggrieved though by the mate’s sardonic grin every time he relieved me, and made the usual remark, “still alive, eh?” Still, as each quiet day succeeded a quieter night my wonderment became dulled, and I thought that either the mate was mistaken or that he had been trying to fool me.

One evening, however, when we were drawing near the line, I came on deck at four bells to find the mate’s watch busy rigging up a sort of theatre aft. An awning had been stretched over the front of the poop, weather cloths were hung along each side, and seats arranged. As soon as I appeared, looking round me in astonishment, the mate approached me and said, “th’ entertainment’s goin’ ter begin.” Before I had time to question him as to his meaning, the old man emerged from the cabin loaded with sundry strange-looking machines, and followed by the steward bearing more. For a few minutes he was mighty busy placing his menagerie in order, and then he turned to me and said briskly, “Now, Mr. Roper, I’m all ready, go forrard and invite the hands aft to the lecture.” “Aye, aye, sir,” I answered mechanically, and departed. I found all hands outside the forecastle, evidently waiting for the summons, but looking as unlike men expecting a treat as one could possibly picture. But they all shambled aft in silence, and took their seats with eyes fixed upon the strange-looking assemblage of machinery in the centre.

It was a lovely evening, the sails just drawing to a steady air, while the sea was so smooth that the vessel was almost as motionless as if in dock. As it was my watch on deck, I mounted the poop, glanced at the standard compass, cast my eye aloft to see that all was as it should be, and then turned my gaze with intense interest upon the scene below. And what a scene it was to be sure. All hands were glaring upon the high priest of the mysteries as if mesmerised, every expression gone from their faces but that of painful anxiety to know what was going to happen. The skipper was as busy as two people about his wheels and things, and the unhappy steward like an image of fear obeyed mechanically the various commands of his dread master. At last a whirring sound was heard like the humming of some huge imprisoned bee, and to this accompaniment the skipper took up his parable and proceeded to talk. I frankly confess that I know no more what he said than I should have done had he been speaking in Sanskrit, and I am perfectly sure that none of his audience were in any better case. Indeed, from what I could see of their faces, I believe every other sense was merged in the full expectation of an explosion, and they couldn’t have taken their strained eyes off the buzzing gadget in their midst for any consideration whatever. Suddenly a dark shadow glided across the patch of deck behind the skipper, which I recognized as a monkey belonging to one of the crew. It reached the machine, and then——What really happened nobody is ever likely to know, for in a moment there was a shriek, a perfect shower of blue sparks and a writhing, kicking, biting heap of skipper, monkey, and steward. Some of the fellows, acting upon impulse, forgot their fears and rushed to the rescue, but only succeeded in adding to the infernal riot, as they too became involved in the mysterious calamity. Others, wiser in their generation, fled forward to the fo’c’sle, from whence they gradually crept aft again near enough to watch in safety the devil’s dance that was going on. I looked on in a sort of coma of all the faculties, until the mate touched me on the shoulder, and said in a sepulchral voice—

“Now, Mr. Roper, djever strike anythin’ o’ this kind before. Ain’t it scientific? Ain’t he a holy terror at science? What I’d like ter know is, where do I come on in this Gypshun Hall business? Damfime goin’ ter be blame well paralyzed, or whatever it is, for all the skippers erflote, n’ yet—n’ yet; I don’t like ter see sech ungodly carryins on aboard of any ship I’m mate of.”

I hadn’t time to answer him—besides I couldn’t, I was all shook up like; but while I was trying to get my thinking-gear in order, there was a bang, all the sufferers yelled at once, and then all was quiet. Both the mate and myself sprang into the arena, fully expecting to find all the actors dead, but, bless you, they were all laying round looking as if they’d been having no end of a spree. All except the monkey, that is. He was a very unhandsome little corpse, and I picked him up by the tail to throw him overboard, getting a shock through my right arm that took all the use out of it for quite a while. Presently the fellows began to get up one by one and slink away forrard, still with that half-drunk smile on their heads, but when we came to the skipper, although he wore a wide smile too, he hadn’t any get up about him. Not he. He lay there as comfy as you please, taking no notice of anything we said, or any heed of the deliberate way in which the mate was pushing the remains of his machinery out through the gaping port with a broom. We couldn’t move him. He was just charged jam full of electricity, and one of the men who did touch him let a yell out of him fit to call D. Jones, Esq., up from below, but it didn’t change the skipper’s happy look one fragment. Well, he laid there all night alongside of the steward, and in the morning he gets up just before wash-deck time, and, says he, “Mr. Roper, I shan’t give any more scientific exhibitions this trip; I think they’re immoral.” With that he hobbled into his cabin, and we saw no more of him for a week. When we did, you couldn’t have got a grain of science out of him with a small-tooth comb, and the mate looked as glad as if he’d been appointed Lord High Admiral. And from thenceforward she was, as I had at first imagined she would be, the most comfortable vessel I ever sailed in.

A GENIAL SKIPPER

Captain Scott was as commonplace a little man as ever commanded an old wooden tub of a barque lumbering her way forlornly from port to port seeking freight as a beggar seeks pence. His command, the Sarah Jane, belonged to a decayed firm of shipowners that, like many other old-fashioned tradesmen, had not kept pace with the times, and were now reduced to the possession of this ancient pauper and a still older brig, all the rest of their once stately fleet having been sold or lost or seized to satisfy mortgages. Yet they still retained a keen sense of respectability, and when Captain Scott applied for the command of the Sarah Jane they were exceedingly careful to ascertain that he was strictly sober and trustworthy. He not only succeeded in satisfying them on these points, but in some mysterious manner persuaded them also that he was exceedingly pious, and would certainly hold service on board every Sunday, weather permitting. That settled his appointment, for the senior member of the firm was a good, honest Dissenter, who, if a trifle narrow and bigoted in his religious views, was sincerely anxious to live up to the light he had. Beyond all question the Sarah Jane was the best-found vessel of her class in the food line that we chaps forrard had ever sailed in. It would have been hard to find a more agreeably surprised little crowd than we were when the first meal appeared in the fo’c’sle, for our preliminary view of the ship certainly gave us the idea that we were in for “plenty pump and velly flat belly,” as a quaint little Italian A. B. said while we were selecting bunks.

But no, she was a comfortable ship. There was certainly “plenty pump,” but the grub was so good that there was never a growl heard among us, and a pleasanter passage out to Algoa Bay than we enjoyed could hardly be imagined. The Sunday services were held, too—that is to say, twice; after that they were quietly dropped without any reason assigned. No one felt sorry, for there was an air of unreality and constraint about the whole thing that was puzzling and unsatisfactory; and on several occasions there was wafted across the poop, as the skipper emerged from the companion, a tantalizing odour which none of us could mistake—the rich bouquet of old Jamaica rum. This gave rise to many discussions in the fo’c’sle. The port watch took sides against the starboard, insisting that the old man had fallen from grace, if, which was problematical, he had ever possessed any of that mysterious quality. We of the starboard, or skipper’s watch, as in duty bound, stood up for him, accounting for the thirst-provoking smell that came wafting upwards from the cabin periodically by the theory of the Sarah Jane having been an old sugar drogher for many years, until her timbers were saturated with the flavour of rum, and, according as the wind tended to diffuse it, we were favoured with it on deck.

Never was a skipper watched more closely by his crew than Captain Scott was by us, for the steward and the officers were unapproachable upon the subject, and it was only by catching him really drunk that our continual dispute could be settled. After we had crossed the Line, and were getting rapidly to the suth’ard, I began to lose faith, for, although I could not determine whether the skipper’s peculiar gait was or was not the regular nautical roll accentuated by some physical peculiarity, there was no mistaking the ever-deepening hue of his face. When we left home it was fresh-coloured, but as the weeks went by it took on the glow of burnished copper—especially after dinner—and sometimes his nose looked warm enough to light one’s pipe at it. However, we reached Algoa Bay without settling our argument—openly, that is. In truth, we of the starboard watch were looking eagerly for some way of retreat from what we all felt was getting to be an untenable position. Still, no agreement was arrived at until we had been at anchor off Port Elizabeth for a week, during which time we had never seen our respected skipper once.

Then there arrived alongside, on a Saturday afternoon, after we had washed decks and were dabbing out our own few bits of duds for Sunday, a surf-boat, in the stern of which sat precariously a very drunken man. He was truculently drunk, and the big cigar, which was stuck in one angle of his protruding lips, pointed upwards like an old collier’s jibboom. Both his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and his top-hat was jammed hard down on the back of his head. As the boat bumped alongside, his insecure seat failed him, and he lurched massively forward upon the crown of his hat, which caved in after its brim had passed his ears, adding to the picturesqueness of his outfit. The boatmen seized and reinstated him upon a thwart, receiving for their pains an address that reeked of the pit. For variety of profanity we all admitted it to be far beyond anything of the kind that we had ever heard, and one of our number suggested that he had been founding a new church during his absence, his outbreak of peculiar language being part of the liturgy thereof. We only had an ordinary side ladder of the usual type carried in those ships—two ropes with wooden rungs seized between them—which was suspended perpendicularly from the rail. This kind of approach is not easy of negotiation by anybody but a sober sailor; it was impossible now to Captain Scott. He gazed upwards fiercely at the anxious face of the mate, and, with many flowers of speech, insisted that a whip should be rigged on the mainyard for him—blasphemously sharp, too, or he would, yes, he would, when he did get aboard.

So we rigged a single whip at the mate’s order, not without many audible comments upon this new development and recriminations between the members of the two disputing watches. With many a bump, as the vessel rolled to the incoming swell, we hoisted our commander on board, letting him come down on deck with a jolt that must have well-nigh started all his teeth. Released from his bonds, he rose swaying to his feet, and, glaring round upon the assembled crew, roared thickly, “All han’s short’n sail!” There was a shout of laughter at this maniacal command, which infuriated him so much that he seemed transformed into a veritable demon. His face went purple, he ground his teeth like a fighting boar, and would no doubt have had some sort of fit but for a diversion made by the boatmen who had brought him off. One of them approached him, saying abruptly but quite civilly—

“If you don’t want us any more, sir, we sh’d like our fare, so’s we can get ashore again.”

Peculiarly, this interruption changed his mood into the coldly sarcastic. With an air of exquisite politeness he turned to the boatman, and, with a bear-like bow, said—

“Ho, indeed; Hi ’ave much pleasure in ’earin’ ov it. An’ may we take th’ hopportunity hof harskin’ oo th’ ’ells a-preventin’ hof yer frum goin’ t’ the devil hif ye likes.” (Be it noted that when sober he spoke fairly correct English.) “Has ter a-wantin’ hof ye hany more, Hi wouldn’t ’ave a barge-load hof yer fur a gift; Hi wouldn’t carry yer fur ballast, there! Might come in ’andy for dunnagin’ carsks—but there, I don’ know. Anyway, get t’ ’ell houter this.”