It was gloriously true. They had kept us both. But, though I have no doubt the captain would have got rid of us if we had proved feckless, I think our being allowed to remain was largely due to the fact that the vessel had left Liverpool short of her full complement of hands. Trade was good at the time, and one man who had joined had afterwards deserted, and another youngster had been taken to hospital only the day before we sailed. He had epileptic fits, and though the second mate (whose chief quality seemed to be an impartial distrust of everybody but himself, and a burning desire to trip up his fellow-creatures at their weak points and jump upon them accordingly) expressed in very strong language his wish that the captain had not sent the lad off, but had kept him for him (the second mate) to cure, the crew seemed all of opinion that there was no “shamming” about it, and that the epileptic sailor-boy would only have fallen from one of the yards in a fit, and given more trouble than his services were worth over picking him up.
The afternoon was far from being as fine as the morning had been. Each time I turned my eyes that way it seemed to me that the grey sea was looking drearier and more restless, but I stuck steadily to some miscellaneous and very dirty work that I had been put to down below; and, as the ship rolled more and more under me, as I ran unsteadily about with buckets and the like, I began to wonder if this was the way storms came, gradually on, and whether, if the ship went down to-night “with all on board,” I should find courage to fit my fate.
I was meditating gloomily on this subject, when I heard a shrill whistle, and then a series of awful noises, at the sound of which every man below left whatever he was at, and rushed on deck. I had read too many accounts of shipwrecks not to know that the deck is the place to make for, so I bolted with the rest, and caught sight of Alister flying in the same direction as we were. When we got up I looked about me as well as I could, but I saw no rocks or vessels in collision with us. The waves were not breaking over us, but four or five men standing on the bulwarks were pulling things like monstrous grubs out of a sort of trough, and chucking them with more or less accuracy at the heads of the sailors who gathered round.
“What is it, Alister?” I asked.
“It’s just the serving out of the hammocks that they sleep in,” Alister replied. “I’m thinking we’ll not be entitled to them.”
“What’s that fellow yelling about?”
“He’s crying to them to respond to their names and numbers. Whisht, man! till I hear his unchristian lingo and see if he cries on us.”
But in a few minutes the crowd had dispersed, and the hammock-servers with them, and Alister and I were left alone. I felt foolish, and I suppose looked so, for Alister burst out laughing and said—“Hech, laddie! it’s a small matter. We’ll find a corner to sleep in. And let me tell ye I’ve tried getting into a hammock myself, and ——”
“Hi! you lads!”
In no small confusion at having been found idle and together, we started to salute the third mate, who pointed to a sailor behind him, and said—“Follow Francis, and he’ll give you hammocks and blankets, and show you how to swing and stow them.”
We both exclaimed—“Thank you, sir!” with such warmth that as he returned our renewed salutations he added—“I hear good accounts of both of you. Keep it up, and you’ll do.”
Alister’s sentence had been left unfinished, but I learnt the rest of it by experience. We scrambled down after Francis till we seemed to be about the level where we had stowed away. I did not feel any the better for the stuffiness of the air and an abominable smell of black beetles, but I stumbled along till we arrived in a very tiny little office where the purser sat surrounded by bags of ships’ biscuits (which they pleasantly call “bread” at sea) and with bins of sugar, coffee, &c., &c. I dare say the stuffiness made him cross (as the nasty smells used to make us in Uncle Henry’s office), for he used a good deal of bad language, and seemed very unwilling to let us have the hammocks and blankets. However, Francis got them and banged us well with them before giving them to us to carry. They were just like the others—canvas-coloured sausages wound about with tarred rope; and warning us to observe how they were fastened up, as we should have to put them away “ship-shape” the following morning, Francis helped us to unfasten and “swing” them in the forecastle. There were hooks in the beams, so that part of the business was easy enough, but, when bedtime came, I found that getting into my hammock was not as easy as getting it ready to get into.
The sail-maker helped Alister out of his difficulties at once, by showing him how to put his two hands in the middle of his hammock and wriggle himself into it and roll his blankets round him in seaman-like fashion. But my neighbours only watched with delight when I first sent my hammock flying by trying to get in at the side as if it were a bed, and then sent myself flying out on the other side after getting in. As I picked myself up I caught sight of an end of thick rope hanging from a beam close above my hammock, and being a good deal nettled by my own stupidity and the jeers of the sailors, I sprang at the rope, caught it, and swinging myself up, I dropped quietly and successfully into my new resting-place. Once fairly in and rolled in my blanket, I felt as snug as a chrysalis in his cocoon, and (besides the fact that lying down is a great comfort to people who are not born with sea-legs) I found the gentle swaying of my hammock a delightful relief from the bumping, jumping, and jarring of the ship. I said my prayers, which made me think of my mother, and cost me some tears in the privacy of darkness; but, as I wept, there came back the familiar thought that I had “much to be thankful for,” and I added the General Thanksgiving with an “especially” in the middle of it (as we always used to have when my father read prayers at home, after anything like Jem and me getting well of scarlet fever, or a good harvest being all carried).
I got all through my “especially,” and what with thinking of the workman, and dear old Biddy, and Alister, and Mr. Johnson, and the pilot, it was a very long one; and I think I finished the Thanksgiving and said the Grace of our Lord after it. But I cannot be quite sure, for it was such a comfort to be at peace, and the hammock swung and rocked till it cradled me to sleep.
A light sleep, I suppose, for I dreamed very vividly of being at home again, and that I had missed getting off to sea after all; and that the ship had only been a dream. I thought I was rather sorry it was not real, because I wanted to see the world, but I was very glad to be with Jem, and I thought he and I went down to the farm to look for Charlie, and they told us he was sitting up in the ash-tree at the end of the field. In my dream I did not feel at all surprised that Cripple Charlie should have got into the ash-tree, or at finding him there high up among the branches looking at a spider’s web with a magnifying-glass. But I thought that the wind was so high I could not make him hear, and the leaves and boughs tossed so that I could barely see him; and when I climbed up to him, the branch on which I sat swayed so deliciously that I was quite content to rock myself and watch Charlie in silence, when suddenly it cracked, and down I came with a hard bang on my back.
I woke and sat up, and found that the latter part of my dream had come true, as a lump on the back of my head bore witness for some days. Francis had playfully let me down “with a run by the head,” as it is called; that is, he had undone my hammock-cord and landed me on the floor. He left Alister in peace, and I can only think of two reasons for his selecting me for the joke. First that the common sailors took much more readily to Alister from his being more of their own rank in birth and upbringing, though so vastly superior by education. And secondly, that I was the weaker of the two; for what I have seen of the world has taught me that there are plenty of strong people who will not only let the weaker go to the wall, but who find an odd satisfaction in shoving and squeezing them there.
However, if I was young and sea-sick, I was not quite helpless, happily; I refastened my hammock, and got into it again, and being pretty well tired out by the day’s work, I slept that sleep of the weary which knows no dream.
CHAPTER V.
“Yet more! The billows and the depths have more:
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
* * * * * * * *
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!”—Felicia Hemans.
“To them their duty was clear, and they did it successfully; and the history of the island is written briefly in that little formula!”—Daily Telegraph, Dec. 5, 1878.
I did not feel as if I had been asleep five minutes, when I was rudely awakened, of course by noise, whistling, and inarticulate roaring, and I found that it was morning, and that the boatswain’s mate was “turning the hands up” to wash decks. Alister was ready, and I found that my toilet was, if possible, shorter than at Snuffy’s in winter.
“We puts hon our togs fust, and takes our shower-baths harterwards,” the boatswain humorously explained, as he saw me trying to get the very awkward collar of my “slops” tidy as I followed with the crowd.
The boatswain was a curious old fellow. He was born in London, “within sound of Bow bells,” as he told me; but though a Cockney by birth, he could hardly be called a native of anywhere but the world at large. He had sailed in all seas, and seemed to have tried his hand at most trades. He had at one time been a sort of man-of-all-work in a boys’ school, and I think it was partly from this, and partly out of opposition to the sail-maker, that he never seemed to grudge my not having been born a poor person, or to fancy I gave myself airs (which I never did), or to take a pleasure in making me feel the roughest edge of the menial work I had to do, like so many of the men. But he knew very well just where things did feel strangest and hardest to me, and showed that he knew it by many a bit of not unkindly chaff.
His joke about the shower-bath came very strictly true to me. We were all on the main deck, bare-armed and bare-legged, mopping and slopping and swabbing about in the cold sea-water, which was liberally supplied to us by the steam-pump and hose. I had been furnished with a squeegee (a sort of scraper made of india-rubber at the end of broom-stick), and was putting as much “elbow-grease” into my work as renewed sea-sickness left me strength for, when the boatswain’s mate turned the hose upon me once more. I happened to be standing rather loosely, and my thoughts had flown home on the wings of a wonder what Martha would think of this way of scrubbing a floor—all wedded as the domestic mind is to hairy flannel and sticky soap and swollen knees,—when the stream of sea-water came in full force against my neck, and I and my squeegee went head-over-heels into the lee scuppers. It was the boatswain himself who picked me out, and who avenged me on his subordinate by a round of abuse which it was barely possible to follow, so mixed were the metaphors, and so cosmopolitan the slang.
On the whole I got on pretty well that day, and began to get accustomed to the motion of the ship, in spite of the fact that she rolled more than on the day before. The sky and sea were grey enough when we were swabbing the decks in the early morning; as the day wore on, they only took the deeper tints of gathering clouds which hid the sun.
If the weather was dull, our course was not less so. We only saw one ship from the deck, a mail-steamer, as neat and trim as a yacht, which passed us at a tremendous pace, with a knot of officers on the bridge. Some black objects bobbing up and down in the distance were pointed out to me as porpoises, and a good many sea-gulls went by, flying landwards. Not only was the sky overcast, but the crew seemed to share the depression of the barometer, which, as everybody told everybody else, was falling rapidly. The captain’s voice rang out in brief but frequent orders, and the officers clustered in knots on the bridge, their gold cap-bands gleaming against the stormy sky.
I worked hard through the day, and was sick off and on as the ship rolled, and the great green waves hit her on the bows, and ran away along her side, and the wind blew and blew, and most of the sails were hauled in and made fast, and one or two were reefed up close, and the big chimney swayed, and the threatening clouds drifted forwards at a different pace from our own, till my very fingers felt giddy with unrest; but not another practical joke did I suffer from that day, for every man’s hand was needed for the ship.
In the afternoon she had rolled so heavily in the trough of the large waves, that no one made any pretence of finding his sea-legs strong enough to keep him steady without clutching here and there for help, and I had been thankful, in a brief interval when nobody had ordered me to do anything, to scramble into a quiet corner of the forecastle and lie on the boards, rolling as the ship rolled, and very much resigned to going down with her if she chose to go.
Towards evening it was thick and foggy, but as the sun set it began to clear, and I heard the men saying that the moon (which was nearly at the full) would make a clear night of it. It was unquestionably clearer overhead, and the waves ran smoother, as if the sea were recovering its temper, and Alister and I went below at 9 P.M. and turned into our hammocks for a few hours’ sleep, before taking our part in the night-watch that lasts from 12 midnight till 4 A.M.
It is astonishing what a prompt narcotic the knowledge that you’ll have to be up again in an hour or two is. Alister and I wasted no time in conversation. He told me the fall in the barometer was “by-ordinar” (which I knew as well as he); and I told him the wind was undoubtedly falling (which he knew as well as I): and after this inevitable interchange of the uppermost news and anxieties of the occasion, we bade God bless each other, and I said the prayers of my babyhood because they were shortest, and fell fast asleep.
The noises that woke us were new noises, but they made up the whole of that peculiar sound which is the sum of human excitement. “We are going down this time,” was my thought, and I found myself less philosophical about it than I had imagined. Neither Alister nor I were long in putting on our clothes, and we rushed up on deck without exchanging a word. By the time we got there, where the whole ship’s crew had gone before us, we were as wildly excited as any one of them, though we had not a notion what it was all about. I knew enough now for the first glance to tell me that the ship was in no special danger. Even I could tell that the gale had gone down, the night was clear, and between the scudding of black clouds with silver linings, the moon and stars shone very beautifully, though it made one giddy to look at them from the weird way in which the masts and yards seemed to whip across the sky.
We still rolled, and when the side of the ship went up, it felt almost overhead, and I could see absolutely nothing of the sea, which was vexatious, as that was obviously the point of interest. The rigging on that side was as full of men as a bare garden-tree might be of sparrows, and all along the lee bulwarks they sat and crouched like sea-birds on a line of rock. Suddenly we rolled, down went the leeside, and I with it, but I caught hold of the lowest step of the forecastle ladder and sat fast. Then as we dipped I saw all that they were seeing from the masts and rigging—the yet restless sea with fast-running waves, alternately inky black, and of a strange bright metallic lead-colour, on which the scud as it drove across the moon made queer racing shadows. And it was on this stormy sea that every eye from the captain’s to the cook’s was strained.
Roll! down we went again to starboard, and up went the bulwarks and I could see nothing but the sky and the stars, and the masts and yards whipping across them as before, though the excitement grew till I could bear it no longer, and scrambled up the ladder on to the forecastle, and pushed my way to the edge and lay face downwards, holding on for my life that I might not be blown away, whilst I was trying to see what was to be seen.
I found myself by Alister once more, and he helped me to hold on, and pointed where every one else was pointing. There was a lull in the eager talking of the men, and the knot of captain and the officers on the bridge stood still, and Alister roared through the wind into my ear—“Bide a wee, the moon ’ll be out again.”
I waited, and the cloud passed from her face or she sailed from beneath it, and at the same instant I saw a streak of light upon the water in which a black object bobbed up and down as the porpoises had bobbed, and all the men burst out again, and a crowd rushed up on to the forecastle.
“It’s half-a-mile aft.”—“A bit of wreck.”—“An old sugar hogshead.”—“The emperor of the porpoises.”—“Is it the sea sarpint ye’re maning?”—“Will hany gentleman lend me ’is hopera-glass?”—“I’m blessed if I don’t think we’re going to go half speed. I sailed seven years in the Amiable with old Savage, and I’m blessed if he ever put her a point out of her course for anything. ‘Every boat for herself, and the sea for us all,’ he used to say, and allus kept his eyes forwards in foul weather.”—“Aisy, Tom, aisy, ye’re out of it entirely. It’s the Humane Society’s gold medal we’ll all be getting for saving firewood.”—“Stow your jaw, Pat, that’s not wreck, it’s—”
At this moment the third mate’s voice rang through the ship—
“A boat bottom up!”
The men passed from chaff to a silence whose eagerness could be felt, through which another voice came through the wind from the poop—“there’s something on her!” and I turned that way, and saw the captain put down his glass, and put his hand to his mouth; and when he sang out “A MAN!” we all sprang to our feet, and opened our lips, but the boatswain put up his hand, and cried, “Silence, fore and aft! Steady, lads! Look to the captain!”
The gold cap-bands glittered close together, and then, clear to be seen in a sudden gleam of moonlight, the captain leaned forward and shouted to the crew, “Fo’cs’le there!” And they sang out, “Aye, aye, sir!”
“Volunteers for the whaleboat!”
My heart was beating fast enough, but I do not think I could have counted a dozen throbs, before, with a wild hurrah, every man had leaped from the forecastle, Alister among them, and I was left alone.
I was just wondering if I could possibly be of use, when I heard the captain’s voice again. (He had come down, and was where the whaleboat was hanging, which, I learned, was fitted like a lifeboat, and the crew were crowding round him.)
“Steady, lads! Stand back. Come as you’re called. Thunder and lightning, we want to man the boat, not sink her. Mr. Johnson!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“A! B! C! D!” &c.
“Here, sir!” “Here, sir!” “Here, sir!”
“Fall back there! Thank you all, my lads, but she’s manned.”
A loud cheer drowned every other sound, and I saw men busy with the boat, and Alister coming back with a dejected air, and the captain jumping up and down, and roaring louder than the wind: “Steward! rum, and a couple of blankets. Look sharp. Stand back; in you go; steady! Now, mind what I say; I shall bear up towards the boat. Hi, there! Stand by the lowering-tackle, and when I say ‘Now!’ lower away handsomely and steadily. Are you ready, Mr. Johnson? Keep steady, all, and fend her off well when you touch the water. Mr. Waters! let her go off a point or two to the north’ard. Half speed; port a little—steady! All ready in the boat?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“God bless you. Steady—ready—Now!”
I hardly know which more roused my amazement and admiration—the behaviour of the men or the behaviour of the whaleboat. Were these alert and silent seamen, sitting side by side, each with his oar held upright in his hand, and his eyes upon his captain, the rowdy roughs of the forecastle? And were those their like companions who crowded the bulwarks, and bent over to cheer, and bless, and envy them?
As to boats—the only one I had been accustomed to used to be launched on the canal with scraping and shoving, and struggling and balancing, and we did occasionally upset her—but when the captain gave the word, the ship’s whaleboat and its crew were smoothly lowered by a patent apparatus till it all but touched the big black waves that ran and roared at it. Then came a few moments of intense anxiety till the boat was fairly clear of the ship; but even when it was quite free, and the men bending to their oars, I thought more than once that it had gone down for ever on the other side of the hills and dales of water which kept hiding it completely from all except those who were high up upon the masts. It was a relief when we could see it, miserable speck as it looked, and we all strained our eyes after it, through many difficulties from the spiteful ways of the winds and waves and clouds, which blinded and buffeted and drenched us when we tried to look, and sent black veils of shadow to hide our comrades from our eyes. In the teeth of the elements, however, the captain was bearing up towards the other boat, and it was now and then quite possible to see with the naked eye that she was upside down, and that a man was clinging to her keel. At such glimpses an inarticulate murmur ran through our midst, but for the most part we, who were only watching, were silent till the whaleboat was fairly alongside of the object of her gallant expedition. Then by good luck the moon sailed forth and gave us a fair view, but it was rather a disappointing one, for the two boats seemed to do nothing but bob about like two burnt corks in the moonlight, and we began to talk again.
“What’s she doing?”—“The Lord knows!”—“Something’s gone wrong.”—“Why doesn’t she go nearer?”—“’Cos she’d be stove in, ye fool!”—“Gude save us! they’re both gone.”—“Not they, they’re to the left; but what the winds and waves they’re after ——”—“They’re trying to make him hear, likely enough, and they might as well call on my grandmother. He’s as dead as a herring.”—“Whisht! whisht! He’s a living soul! Hech, sirs! there’s nought but the grip o’ despair would haud a man on the keel of ’s boat in waves like yon,”—“Silence, all!”
We turned our heads, for a voice rang from the look-out—
“Man overboard from the whaleboat!”
The men were so excited, and crowded so together, that I could hardly find a peeping-place.
“He’s got him.”—“Nay, they’re both gone.”—“Man! I’m just thinking that it’s ill interfering with the designs of Providence. We may lose Peter and not save Paul.”—“Stow your discourses, Sandy!”—“They’re hauling in our man, and time they did.”
The captain’s voice now called to the first mate—
“Do you make it one or both, Mr. Waters?”
“Both, sir!”
“Thank God!”
We hurrahed again, and the whaleboat-men replied—but their cheer only came faintly to us, like a wail upon the wind.
Several men of our group were now called to work, and I was ordered below to bring up a hammock, and swing it in the steerage. I was vexed, as I would have given anything to have helped to welcome the whaleboat back.
When the odd jobs I had been called to were done with, and I returned to the deck, it was just too late to see her hauled up. I could not see over the thick standing group of men, and I did not, of course, dare to push through them to catch sight of our heroes and the man they had saved. But a little apart from the rest, two Irish sailors were standing and bandying the harshest of brogues with such vehemence that I drew near, hoping at least to hear something of what I could not see. It was a spirited, and one would have guessed an angry dialogue, so like did it sound to the yapping and snapping of two peppery-tempered terriers. But it was only vehement, and this was the sum of it.
“Bedad! but it’s quare ye must have felt at the time.”
“I did not, unless it would be when Tom stepped out into the water, God bless him! with the rope aisy round his waist, and the waves drowning him intirely, and the corpse holding on to the boat’s bottom for the dear life.”
“Pat!” said the other in mysterious tones, “would that that’s hanging round his neck be the presarving of him, what?”
“And why wouldn’t it? But isn’t he the big fool to be having it dangling where the wash of a wave, or a pickpocket, or a worse timptation than either might be staling it away from him?”
“And where else would he put it?”
“Did ye ever git the sight of mine?”
“I did not.”
“On the back of me?”
“What?”
“Look here, now!” cried Pat, in the tones of one whose patience was entirely exhausted. His friend drew nearer, and I also ventured to accept an invitation not intended for me, so greatly was my curiosity roused by what the men said.
Pat turned his back to us as rapidly as he had spoken, and stooping at about half-leap-frog-angle, whipped his wet shirt upwards out of his loosely-strapped trousers, baring his back from his waist to his shoulder-blades. The moon was somewhat overcast, but there was light enough for us to see a grotesque semblance of the Crucifixion tattooed upon his flesh in more than one colour, and some accompanying symbols and initials which we could hardly distinguish.
“Now am I safe for Christian burial or not, in the case I’d be misfortunate enough to be washed up on the shores of a haythen counthry?”
“Ye are so!”
I never saw a funnier sight than Pat craning and twisting his head in futile efforts to look at it under his own arm.
“It’s a foin piece of work, I’m told,” said he.
“They tould ye no less than the truth that said that, Pat. It’s a mighty foin piece of work.”
“They all say so that see it,” sighed Pat, tucking his shirt in again, “and that’ll be ivry soul but meself, worse luck!”
“Shaughnessey!”
“Sir!”
Pat ran off, and as I turned I saw that the crew of the whaleboat were going below with a crowd of satellites, and that a space was cleared through which I could see the man they had saved still lying on the deck, with the captain kneeling at his head, and looking back as if he were waiting for something. And at that moment the moon shone out once more, and showed me a sight that I’ll forget when I forget you—Dennis O’Moore!
It was a lad that they had saved, not a full-grown man, except in the sense of his height, which was nearly an inch beyond Alister’s. He was insensible, and I thought he was dead, so death-like was the pallor of his face in contrast with the dark curls of his head and the lashes of his closed eyes. We were dipping to leeward, his head rolled a little on the rough pillow that had been heaped to raise him, and his white face against the inky waves reminded me of the face of the young lord in Charlie’s father’s church, who died abroad, and a marble figure of him was sent home from Italy, with his dog lying at his feet. His shoulders were raised as well as his head, and his jacket and shirt had both been washed open by the waves.
And that was how I got the key to the Irishmen’s dialogue. For round the lad’s throat was a black ribbon, pendant from which a small cross of ebony was clear to be seen upon his naked breast; and on this there glittered in the moonlight a silver image of the Redeemer of the World.
CHAPTER VI.
“Why, what’s that to you, if my eyes I’m a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d’ye see, in its way;
‘Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping,
But they that ha’n’t pity, why I pities they.
* * * * * * * *
The heart and the eyes, you see feel the same motion,
And if both shed their drops, ’tis all the same end;
And thus ’tis that every tight lad of the ocean
Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.”
Charles Dibdin.
If one wants to find the value of all he has learned in the way of righteousness, common-sense, and real skill of any sort; or to reap most quickly what he has sown to obedience, industry, and endurance, let him go out and rough it in the world.
There he shall find that a conscience early trained to resist temptation and to feel shame will be to him the instinctive clutch that may now and again—in an ungraceful, anyhow fashion—keep him from slipping down to perdition, and save his soul alive. There he shall find that whatever he has really learned by labour or grasped with inborn talent, will sooner or later come to the surface to his credit and for his good; but that what he swaggers will not even find fair play. There, in brief, he shall find his level—a great matter for most men. There, in fine, he will discover that there being a great deal of human nature in all men, and a great deal that is common to all lives—if he has learned to learn and is good-natured withal, he may live pretty comfortably anywhere—
“As a rough rule,
The rough world’s a good school,”—
and if there are a few parlour-boarders it is very little advantage to them.
For my own part I was almost startled to find how quickly I was beginning to learn something of the ways of the ship and her crew; and though, when I asked for information about all the various appliances which come under the comprehensive sea-name of “tackle,” I was again and again made the victim of a hoax, I soon learned to correct one piece of information by another, and to feel less of an April fool and more of a sailor. Reading sea-novels had not really taught me much, for there was not one in all that the Jew-clerk lent or sold me which explained ship’s language and customs. But the school-master had given me many useful hints, and experience soon taught me how to apply them.
The watch in which Alister and I shared just after we picked up Dennis O’Moore, was naturally very much enlivened by news and surmises regarding our new “hand.” Word soon came up from below that he was alive and likely to recover, and for a brief period I found my society in great request, because I had been employed in some fetching and carrying between the galley and the steerage, and had “heard the drowned man groan.” We should have gossiped more than we did if the vessel had not exacted unusual attention, for the winds and the waves had “plenty of mischief in ‘em” yet, as I was well able to testify when I was sent aft to help the man at the wheel.
“That’ll take the starch out o’ yer Sunday stick-ups!” said the boatswain’s mate, on hearing where I was bound for, when he met me clinging to the wet deck with my stocking-feet, and catching with my hands at every bit of tackle capable of giving support. And as I put out all my strength to help the steersman to force his wheel in the direction he meant it to go, and the salt spray smacked my face and soaked my slops, and every wind of heaven seemed to blow down my neck and up my sleeves and trousers—I heartily agreed with him.
The man I was helping never spoke, except to shout some brief order into my ear or an occasional reply to the words of command which rang over our heads from the captain on the bridge. Of course I did not speak, I had quite enough to do to keep my footing and take my small part in this fierce bitting and bridling of the elements; but uncomfortable as it was, I “took a pride and pleasure in it,” as we used to say at home, and I already felt that strenuous something which blows in sea-breezes and gives vigour to mind and body even when it chills you to the bone.
That is, to some people; there are plenty of men, as I have since discovered, who spend their lives at sea and hate it to the end. Boy and man, they do their hard duty and live by its pitiful recompense. They know the sea as well as other mariners, are used to her uncertain ways, bear her rough usage, control her stormy humours, learn all her moods, and never feel her charm.
I have seen two such cases, and I have heard of more, yarned with all their melancholy details during those night watches in which men will tell you the ins and outs of many a queer story that they “never talk about.” And it has convinced me that there is no more cruel blunder than to send a boy to sea, if there is good reason to believe that he will never like it; unless it be that of withholding from its noble service those sailor lads born, in whose ears the sea-shell will murmur till they die.
It had murmured in mine, and enticed me to my fate. I thought so now that I knew the roughest of the other side of the question, just as much as when I sat comfortably on the frilled cushion of the round-backed arm-chair and read the Penny Numbers to the bee-master. Barefoot, bareheaded, cold, wet, seasick, hard worked and half-rested, would I even now exchange the life I had chosen for the life I had left?—for the desk next to the Jew-clerk, for the partnership, to be my uncle’s heir, to be mayor, to be member? I asked myself the question as I stood by the steersman, and with every drive of the wheel I answered it—“No, Moses! No! No!”
It is not wise to think hard when you are working hard at mechanical work, in a blustering wind and a night watch. Fatigue and open air make you sleepy, and thinking makes you forget where you are, and if your work is mechanical you do it unconsciously, and may fall asleep over it. I dozed more than once, and woke with the horrible idea that I had lost my hold, and was not doing my work. That woke me effectually, but even then I had to look at my hands to see that they were there. I pushed, but I could not feel, my fingers were so numb with cold.
The second time I dozed and started again, I heard the captain’s voice close beside us. He was bawling upwards now, to Mr. Waters on the bridge. Then he pushed me on one side and took my place at the wheel, shouting to the steersman—“I meant the Scotch lad, not that boy.”
“He’s strong enough, and steady too,” was the reply.
They both drove the wheel in silence, and I held on by a coil of heavy rope, and sucked my fingers to warm them, and very salt they tasted. Then the captain left the wheel and turned to me again.
“Are you cold?”
“Rather, sir.”
“You may go below, and see if the cook can spare you a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But first find Mr. Johnson, and send him here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Whilst the captain was talking, I began to think of Dennis O’Moore, and how he groaned, and to wonder whether it was true that he would get better, and whether it would be improper to ask the captain, who would not be likely to humbug me, if he answered at all.
“Well?” said the captain sharply, “what are you standing there like a stuck pig for?”
I saluted. “Please, sir, will he get better?”
“What the —— Oh, yes. And hi, you!”
“Yes, sir?”
“He’s in the steerage. You may go and see if he wants anything, and attend on him. You may remain below at present.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I lost no time in finding Mr. Johnson, and I got a delicious cup of coffee and half a biscuit from the cook, who favoured me in consequence of the conscientious scouring I had bestowed upon his pans. Then mightily warmed and refreshed, I made my way to the side of the hammock I had swung for the rescued lad, and by the light of a swinging lamp saw his dark head buried in his arms.
When I said, “Do you want anything?” he lifted his face with a jerk, and looked at me.
“Not I—much obliged,” he said, smiling, and still staring hard. He had teeth like the half-caste, but the resemblance stopped there.
“The captain said I might come and look after you, but if you want to go to sleep, do,” said I.
“Why would I, if you’ll talk to me a bit?” was his reply; and resting his head on the edge of, his hammock and looking me well over, he added, “Did they pick you up as well?”
I laughed and wrung some salt water out of my sleeve.
“No. I’ve not been in the sea, but I’ve been on deck, and it’s just as wet. It always is wet at sea,” I added in a tone of experience.
His eyes twinkled as if I amused him. “That, indeed? And yourself, are ye—a midshipman?”
It had been taken for granted that our new hand was “a gentleman.” I never doubted it, though he spoke with an accent that certainly recalled old Biddy Macartney; a sort of soft ghost of a brogue with a turn up at the end of it, as if every sentence came sliding and finished with a spring, and I did wish I could have introduced myself as a midshipman—instead of having to mutter, “No, I’m a stowaway.”
He raised himself higher in his hammock.
“A stowaway? What fun! And what made ye go? Were ye up to some kind of diversion at home, and had to come out of it, eh? Or were ye bored to extinction, or what? (Country life in England is mighty dull, so they tell me.) I suppose it was French leave that ye took, as ye say you’re a stowaway? I’m asking ye a heap of impertinent questions, bad manners to me!”
Which was true. But he asked them so kindly and eagerly, I could only feel that sympathy is a very pleasant thing, even when it takes the form of a catechism that is all questions, and no room for the answers. Moreover, I suspect that he rattled on partly to give me time to leave off blushing and feel at ease with him.
“I ran away because of several things,” said I.
“I always did want to see the world”—(“And why wouldn’t ye?” my new friend hastily interpolated). “But even if I had stayed at home I don’t believe I should ever have got to like being a lawyer”—(“Small chance of it, I should say, the quill-driving thievery!”) “It was my uncle’s office”—(“I ask his pardon and yours.”) “Oh, you may say what you like. I never could get on with him. I don’t mean that he was cruel to me in the least, though I think he behaved shabbily ——”
“Faith, it’s a way they have! I’ve an uncle myself that’s a sort of first cousin of my father’s, and six foot three in his stockings, without a drop of good-nature in the full length of him.”
“Where is your home?” said I, for it certainly was my turn to ask questions.
“Where would it be but ould Ireland?” And after a moment’s pause he added, “They call me Dennis O’Moore. What’s your name, ye enterprising little stowaway?”
I told him. “And where were you going in your boat, and how did you get upset?” I asked.
He sighed. “It was the old hooker we started in, bad luck to her!”
“Is that the name of the boat you were holding on to?”
“That boat? No! We borrowed her—and now ye remind me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tim Brady was missing her by this, for I had no leisure to ask his leave at the time, and, as a rule, we take our own coracle in the hooker—”
“What is a hooker?” I interrupted, for I was resolved to know.
“What’s a hooker? A hooker—what a catechetical little chatterbox ye are! A man can’t get a word in edgeways—a hooker’s a boat. Ours was a twenty-ton, half-decked, cutter-rigged sort of thing, built for nothing in particular, and always used for everything. It was lucky for me we took Tim Brady’s boat instead of the coracle, or I’d be now where—where poor Barney is. Oh, Barney, Barney! How’ll I ever get over it? Why did ye never learn to swim, so fond of the water as ye were? Why couldn’t ye hold on to me when I got a good grip of ye! Barney, dear, I’ve a notion in my heart that ye left your hold on purpose, and threw away your own life that ye mightn’t risk mine. And now I’ll never know, for ye’ll never be able to tell me. Tim Brady’s boat would have held two as easy as one, Barney, and maybe the old hooker’d have weathered the storm with a few more repairs about her, that the squire always intended, as no one knows better than yourself! Oh, dear! oh, dear! But—Heaven forgive us!—putting off’s been the ruin of the O’Moores from time out of mind. And now you’re dead and gone—dead and gone! But oh, Barney, Barney, if prayers can give your soul ease, you’ll not want them while Dennis O’Moore has breath to pray!”
I was beginning to discover that one of the first wonders of the world is that it contains a great many very good people, who are quite different from oneself and one’s near relations. For I really was not conceited enough to disapprove of my new friend because he astonished me, though he certainly did do so. From the moment when Barney (whoever Barney might be) came into his head, everything else apparently went out of it. I am sure he quite forgot me.
For my own part I gazed at him in blank amazement. I was not used to seeing a man give way to his feelings in public, still less to seeing a man cry in company, and least of all to see a man say his prayers when he was neither getting up nor going to bed, nor at church, nor at family worship, and before a stranger too! For, as he finished his sentence he touched his curls, and then the place where his crucifix lay, and then made a rapid movement from shoulder to shoulder, and then buried his head in his hands, and lay silent, praying, I had no manner of doubt, for “Barney’s” soul.
His prayers did not take him very long, and he finished with a big sigh, and lifted his head again. When his eyes met mine he blushed, and said, “I ask your pardon, Jack; I’d forgotten ye. You’re a kind-hearted little soul, and I’m mighty dull company for ye.”
“No, you’re not,” said I. “But—I’m very sorry for you. Was ‘Barney’ your ——?” and I stopped because I really did not know what relationship to suggest that would account for the outburst I had witnessed.
“Ah! ye may well say what was he—for what wasn’t he—to me, anyhow? Jack! my mother died when I was born, and never a soul but Barney brought me up, for I wouldn’t let ’em. He’d come with her from her old home when she married; and when she lay dead he was let into the room to look at her pretty face once more. Times out of mind has he told me how she lay, with the black lashes on her white cheeks, and the black crucifix on her breast, that they were going to bury with her; the women howling, and me kicking up an indecent row in a cradle in the next apartment, carrying on like a Turk if the nurse came near me, and most outrageously disturbing the chamber of death. And what does Barney do, when he’s said a prayer by the side of the mistress, but ask for the crucifix off her neck, that she’d worn all her girlhood? If the women howled before, they double-howled then, and would have turned him out neck and crop, but my father lifted his head from where he was lying speechless in a kind of a fit at the foot of the bed, and says he, ‘Barney Barton! ye knew the sweet lady that lies there long before that too brief privilege was mine. Ye served her well, and ye’ve served me well for her sake; whatever ye ask for of hers in this hour ye’ll get, Barney Barton. She trusted ye—and I may.’ ‘God bless ye, squire,’ says Barney; and what does he do but go up to her and unloose the ribbon from her throat with his own hands. And away he went with the crucifix, past the women that couldn’t get a sound out of them now, and past my father as silent as themselves, and into the room where I lay kicking up the devil’s own din in my cradle. And when he held it up to me, with the light shining on the silver, and the black ribbons hanging down, never believe him if I didn’t stop squalling, and stretch out my hands with a smile as sweet as sunshine. And Barney tied it round my neck, and took me into his arms. And they said he spoke never a word when they told him my mother was dead, and shed never a tear when he saw her lie, but he sobbed his heart out over me.”
“You may well care for him!” said I.
“Indeed I may. He kept my mother’s memory green in my heart, and he taught me all ever I knew but books. He taught me to walk, and he taught me to ride, and shooting, and fishing, and such like country diversions; and strange to say, he taught me to swim, the way they learn in my mother’s country, with a bundle of bull-rushes—for the old man couldn’t swim a stroke himself, or he might be here now, alive and hearty, please God.”
“Were there only you and he in the hooker?”
“That’s all. It was altogether sheer madness, for the old boat was barely fit for a day’s fishing in fine weather, and though Barney nearly killed himself overhauling her, and patching her sails, I doubt if he knew very well what he was after. I’ve been thinking, Jack, that his mind was not what it was. He was always a bit obstinate, if he got a notion into his head, but of late the squire himself couldn’t turn him. When he wanted to do a thing about the place that Barney didn’t approve, if he didn’t give in (as he was apt to do, being easy-tempered) I can tell ye he had to do it on the sly. That was how he ordered the new ploughs that nearly broke Barney’s heart, both because of being new-fangled machines, and ready money having to be paid for them. ‘I’ll see the ould place ruined before ye come to your own, Master Dennis,’ he told me. And—Jack! that’s another thing makes me think what I tell ye. He was for ever talking as if the place was coming to me, and I’ve two brothers older than myself, let alone my sister. But ye might as well reason with the rock of Croagh Patrick! Well, if he didn’t ask my father to let him and me run round in the hooker with a load of sea-weed for Tim Brady’s farm, and of course we got leave, and started as pleasant as could be; barring that if Barney’d been a year or two younger, there’d have been wigs on the green over the cold potatoes, before we got off.”
“Wigs on the green over cold potatoes?” I repeated, in bewilderment.
“Tst! tst! little Saxon! I mean we’d have had a row over the provisions. It wasn’t too hours’ run round to Tim Brady’s, and I found the old man stowing away half-a-peck of cold boiled potatoes, and big bottles of tea, and goodness knows what. ‘Is it for ballast ye’re using the potatoes, Barney?’ says I. ‘Mind your own business, Master Dennis’—(and I could see he was cross as two sticks),—‘and leave the provisioning to them that understands it,’ says he. ‘How many meals d’ye reckon to eat between this and Tim Brady’s?’ I went on, just poking my fun at him, when—would ye believe it?—the old fellow fired up like a sky-rocket, and asked me if I grudged him the bit of food he ate, and Heaven knows what besides. ‘Is it Dennis O’Moore you’re speaking to?’ says I, for I’ve not got the squire’s easy temper, God forgive me! We were mighty near to a quarrel, Jack, I can tell ye, but some shadow of a notion flitting across my brain that the dear soul was not responsible entirely, stopped my tongue, and something else stopped his which I didn’t know till we got to Tim Brady’s, and found that all we wanted with him was to borrow his boat, and that the sea-weed business was no better than a blind; for Barney had planned it all out that we were to go down to Galway and fetch the new ploughs home in the hooker, to save the cost of the land-carriage. ‘Sure it’s bad enough for the squire to be soiling his hands with trumpery made by them English thieves, that’s no more conscience over bothering a gentleman for money nor if he was one of themselves,’ said Barney; ‘sorra a halfpenny shall the railway rogues rob him of.’ Ah, little stowaway, ye may guess my delight! And hadn’t we glorious weather at first, and wasn’t the dear old man happy and proud! I can tell ye I yelled, and I sang, and I laughed, when I felt the old hooker begin to bound on the swell when we got into the open, but not a look would Barney turn on me for minding the boat; but I could hear him chuckling to himself and muttering about the railway rogues. It wasn’t much time we either of us had for talking, by and by. I steered and saw to the main sheet, and Barney did look-out and minded the foresail, Tim Brady’s boat towing astern, getting such a dance as it never had before, and at last dragging upside down. We’d one thing in our favour, anyhow. There was no disputing or disturbing of our minds as to whether we’d turn back or not, for the gale was at our backs; and the old hooker was like my father’s black mare—you might guide her, but she was neither to stop nor turn. How the gallant old boat held out as she did, Heaven knows! It was not till the main-sail had split into ribbons with a noise like a gun going off, and every seam was strained to leaking, and the sea came in faster than we could bale it out, that we righted Tim Brady’s tub and got into her, and bade the old hooker good-bye. The boat was weather-tight enough—it was a false move of Barney’s capsized her,—and I’d a good hold of her with one hand when I gripped him with the other. Oh! Barney dear! Why would ye always have your own way? Oh, why—why did ye lose your hold? Ye thought all hope was over, darling, didn’t ye? Ah, if ye had but known the brave hearts that ——”
I suppose it was because I was crying as well as Dennis that I did not see Mr. Johnson till he was standing by the Irish boy’s hammock. I know I got a sound scolding for the state of his pulse (which the third mate seemed to understand, as he understood most things), and was dismissed with some pithy hints about cultivating common-sense and not making a fool of myself. I sneaked off, and was thankful to meet Alister and pour out my tale to him, and ask if he thought that our new friend would have brain-fever, because I had let him talk about his shipwreck.
Alister was not quite so sympathetic as I had expected. He was so much shocked about the crucifix and about Dennis praying for Barney’s soul, that he could think of nothing else. He didn’t seem to think that he would have fever, but he said he feared we had small reason to reckon on the prayers of the idolatrous ascending to the throne of grace. He told me a long story about the Protestant martyrs who were shut up in a dungeon under the sea, on the coast of Aberdeenshire, and it would have been very interesting if I hadn’t been thinking of Dennis.
We had turned in for some sleep, and I was rolling myself in my blanket, when Alister called me—
“Jack! did ye ever read Fox’s Book of Martyrs?”
“No.”
“It’s a gran’ work, and it has some awful tales in it. When we’ve a bit of holiday leesure I’ll tell ye some.”
“Thank you, Alister.”