Away on her course, before a strong north-easterly breeze, flew her Majesty’s brig Gadfly. Every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, each sail was well trimmed, each brace hauled taut, and it might have been supposed that we were eager to reach some port where friends and pleasure awaited us. But it was far otherwise. We were quitting England and our home, that spot which contains all a seaman holds most dear, and were bound for a land of pestilence and death, the little delectable coast of Africa, to be employed for the next three years in chasing, capturing, or destroying, to the best of our power and ability, all vessels engaged in the traffic of human flesh. We touched at the Azores, and reached Sierra Leone, the chief port on that station, without meeting with any adventure worth relating. We remained there a week to wood and water, to perform which operations we shipped a dozen stout Kroomen. These people come from a province south of Sierra Leone, and are employed on board all vessels on that coast to perform such occupations as would too much expose Europeans to the heat of the sun. They are an energetic, brave, lively set of fellows, and very trustworthy; indeed, I do not know how we should have got on without them. They work very hard, and when they have saved money enough to buy themselves one or more wives, according to their tastes, they return to their own country to live in ease and dignity. As they generally assume either the names of the officers with whom they have served, or of some reigning prince or hero of antiquity, it is extraordinary what a number of retired commanders and lieutenants, not to speak of higher dignitaries, are to be found in Krooland. Sierra Leone has been so often described that I will not attempt to draw a picture of its romantic though deceitful beauties. Its blue sky and calm waters, its verdant groves and majestic mountains, its graceful villas and flowering shrubs, put one in mind of a lovely woman who employs her charms to beguile and destroy those who confide in her.
On turning to my log, I find that on the —, at dawn, we unmoored ship, and under all plain sail ran out of the river of Sierra Leone. As soon as we were clear of the land we shaped a course for the mouth of the Sherbro River, a locality notorious for its numerous slave depots. On our way thither we chased several sail, but some of them got off altogether, and others proved to be either British cruisers, foreign men-of-war, or honest traders; so that not a capture of any sort or kind did we make. It was for no want of vigilance, however, on our part; early and late, at noon and at night, I was at the masthead on the look-out for a sail. I knew that if I did not set a good example of watchfulness, others would be careless; for I held the responsible post, with all the honour and glory attached to it, of first lieutenant of the Gadfly.
“Mr Rawson,” said the captain one day to me, in a good-natured tone, as I was walking the quarter-deck with him, “you will wear yourself out by your never-ceasing anxiety in looking out for slavers. There may be some, but my opinion is that they are a great deal too sharp-sighted to let us catch them in the brig. We may chance to get alongside one now and then in the boats and up the rivers, but out here it’s in vain to look for them.”
He was new to the coast, and the climate had already impaired his usual energy.
“Never fear, sir,” I answered; “we may have a chance as well as others; and at all events it shall not be said that we did not get hold of any slavers for want of looking for them.”
The next day we made the land about the mouth of the Sherbro River, and had to beat up against as oppressive a wind as I ever recollect experiencing. One is apt to fancy that the sky and water in that climate must always be blue. Now, and on many other occasions, instead of there being any cerulean tints in any direction, the sky was of a dirty copper tinge, or rather such as is seen spread out like a canopy over London on a calm damp day in November; while the sea, which rolled along in vast and sluggish undulations, looked as if it was formed of sheets of lead of the same hue. Looking astern, one almost expected to see the wake we ploughed up remaining indelible as on a hard substance. Over the land hung a mist of the same brownish-yellow hue, hiding everything but the faint outline of the coast.
“This is what I call a right-down regular Harmattan,” said the master, who, like me, had been before in that delectable clime. The rest of the officers were new to it. “It will put the purser’s whiskers in curl if he gives them a turn round with a marline-spike. Don’t you smell the earthy flavour of the sands of Africa?”
“In truth I think I do,” said Jenkins, the second lieutenant, one of a group who were collected on the weather side of the quarter-deck. “I can distinguish the lions’ and boa-constrictors’ breath in it, too, if I’m not mistaken. Not much of Araby’s spicy gales here, at all events.”
“Blue skies, and verdant groves, and spicy gales sound very pretty in poetry, but very little of them do we get in reality,” said the master. “And when there is a blue sky there’s such a dreadfully hot sun peeps out of it, that one feels as if all the marrow in one’s bones was being dried up. But this won’t last long. We shall have a change soon.”
“Glad you think so,” observed Jenkins; “I’m tired of this already.”
“I didn’t say the change would be for the better,” answered the master. “We may have a black squall come roaring up from off the land, and take our topsails out of the bolt-ropes, or our topmasts over the side, before we know where we are, if you don’t keep a bright look-out for it; and we shall have the rainy season beginning in earnest directly, and then look out for wet jackets.”
“A pleasant prospect you give us, Smith,” said I. “I wish I could draw a better, but my experience won’t let me differ from you.”
The fog and the heat continued, and the wind, which put one in mind of the blast of a furnace, was equally steady, so, that we slowly beat up till we got close in-shore. It was dark when we made our approach to the mouth of the Sherbro, and when we were off it we furled everything, and let the vessel go where she might, in the hopes that should there be a slaver inside ready to sail she might take the opportunity of running out while the land-wind lasted, and, not seeing us, might fall into our clutches. Every light was dowsed on board, and the bells were even not allowed to be struck. There we lay, like a log on the water, or, as Jenkins said, like a boa-constrictor ready to spring on its prey. Besides the regular look-outs, we had plenty of volunteer eyes peering into the darkness, in hopes of distinguishing an unsuspecting slaver. We of course kept the lead at the bottom, to mark the direction we were driving; but we did not move much, as the send of the sea on shore was counteracted by the wind blowing off it. Everybody made sure of having a prize before morning. Jenkins said he was certain of having one, and the master was very sanguine. The first watch passed away, and nothing appeared, but neither of them would go below.
“I think we must have driven too much to the southward,” said Jenkins to the master, growing impatient. “The written orders for the night are to hold our position. Don’t you think we had better make sail back again?”
“What! and show our whereabouts to the slaver, if there is one?” answered the master. “Besides, we haven’t driven the sixteenth of a mile, except off-shore; and there isn’t much odds about that. Hark! did not you hear some cries coming from in-shore of us?”
We listened, but if sounds there were they were not repeated; and as Jenkins had the middle watch, I turned in, desiring to be called if anything occurred. I was on deck again just as the light of day was struggling into existence through the heavy canopy which hung over us; and as the sun, which must have been rising in the heavens, got higher, so the mass of vapour over the land increased in density and depth. At first it hung just above the mangrove bushes, and we could see the tops of a few lofty palm-trees on shore, and some distant mountains popping their heads above it; but by degrees they and the whole scene before us were immersed in it.
The people’s breakfast was just over when the captain came on deck.
“No success, Mr Rawson, last night,” said he. “We’ll try my plan now. I’m convinced that there must be slavers up that river; so we’ll send the cutter and pinnace up to look after them. Desire Mr Jenkins to be prepared to take the command of them, and let Mr Johnston go also.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” I answered. “Shall I get the boats ready, sir?”
“Yes, you may, at once,” was the answer.
And the boats’ crews were soon busily engaged in making the necessary arrangements for their departure. With three cheers from the ship, away they pulled towards the mouth of the Sherbro. We watched them anxiously; for although the wind was off-shore, the swell which rolled in threw up a heavy surf on the bar, which at times makes the entrance to that river very dangerous. There was, however, every probability of Jenkins finding a smooth place to get across, and if not, he was ordered to return.
The crews gave way with a will, and the boats flew across the dark, slow, heaving undulations, now on the summit of one of the leaden rises, and now lost to view from the deck. At last they reached the irregular line of white foam, which danced up glittering and distinct against the dark mass of land and fog beyond. Into it they seemed to plunge, and we saw no more of them, for the wall of breakers and the height of the swell entirely shut out all view beyond. With hearty wishes for the safety of our shipmates, we hoisted the topsails and ran off the land.
When we had run some eight or ten miles by the log, it came on a dead calm, and there we lay, rolling and tumbling about, as the master said, like a crab in a saucepan, without being able to help ourselves. At length it cleared up a little in the north-west, and a line of whitish sky was seen under the copper. The line increased in size and blueness, till our topsails were filled with a fine strong breeze from that quarter. The brig was then kept away, in order to run down to the southernmost extremity of our station.
I had just gone aloft to have a look round, when my eye fell on a sail broad on our starboard bow, which, from the size of her royals, just appearing above the horizon, I judged to be a large square-rigged vessel. I descended to the cabin to inform the captain, and to ask leave to make sail in chase.
“What, another of your phantom slavers, Rawson?” he answered, laughing. “Make sail, by all means; but I’m afraid we shall not be much the wiser.”
Hauling up a little, I soon had every stitch of canvas on the brig which she could carry, with starboard fore-topmast studding-sails. We drew rapidly on the chase, and in half-an-hour could see nearly down to her topsails. The breeze freshened, and we went through the water in earnest.
“A thumping brig; there’s no doubt about it,” said the master. “Observe the rakish cut of her sails; one can almost smell the niggers on board her.”
“She’s carrying on, too, as it she was in a hurry to get away from us,” I remarked.
“So she is,” said the captain, coming on deck. “But it strikes me that those slave-dealers generally send faster craft to sea than she appears to be. It’s only some of your wise governments who don’t care about the slavers being caught who send out slow-coaches, which are fit for nothing but carrying timber.”
“Then why should she be in such a hurry?” I observed.
“A sail right ahead!” sang out the man at the mast-head.
“Because she’s in chase of something else,” remarked the captain, laughing. “Hand me the glass. I thought so. What do you make out of that ensign which has just blown out at her peak?”
I took a look through the telescope.
“A Yankee brig, sir,” I exclaimed, in a tone of vexation. “I should not wonder but what she is an American man-of-war, after all.”
Well, though it must be owned that the Yankees can build fine and fast ships when they wish to do so, and want them to go along, I must say that the chase sailed as badly as any ship-of-war I ever met. We came up with her hand-over-hand, and we were soon sufficiently near to exchange signals, when we made out that she was the United States brig-of-war the Grampus, in chase of a suspicious-looking craft to the southward.
Exchanging a few courteous expressions with the American captain, who stood on the weather side of the poop eyeing us with a look of envy, we passed rapidly by him.
“If you make yon stranger a prize, I think we ought to go shares,” he said, laughing. “We sighted her first.”
“You shall have the whole of her if you overhaul her first,” answered our captain.
“Then I calculate we may as well give in, for your legs are a tarnation deal longer than ours, it seems.”
The sun, which now shone forth for a brief space, glittered on the bright copper of the brig as she lifted to the send of the sea, and the foam flew over her bows and washed fore and aft along her dingy sides as she tore through the water; but it would not do, the little Gadfly laughed her to scorn, and, as we headed her, seemed impudently to kick up her heels at her in contempt at her slow ways. We were not long in coming up with the chase, nor in making out by the cut of her canvas, her short yards, and heavy-looking hull, that she was no slaver. As soon as we fired a gun, and hoisted our ensign and pennant, she hove-to, and on sending a boat on board we found that she was the Mary Jane, of Bristol, a steady-going old African trader. She had been carrying sail, both because she was on her right course, and because she could not tell but what the Grampus might be a slaver or pirate, anxious to overhaul her.
The master, who was a very civil old fellow, came on board, and gave us some valuable suggestions. He had witnessed some of the horrors of the middle passage, and was a strong advocate for the abolition of the slave-trade.
“Africa will never improve while it exists, and it will exist as long as people find it profitable, and the governments of the world either encourage it or only take half measures to abolish it. I am sorry to own, too, that people nearer home gain too much by it to withstand the temptation of assisting those engaged in it, and I know for certain that many English merchants have account-currents with slave-dealers, and send their vessels out here full of goods expressly for them.”
I afterwards found that what he said was perfectly true. After taking some luncheon with us, he tumbled into his boat and stood on his course, while we hauled our wind to return to the northward.
“We have not made our first prize yet, Rawson,” said the captain, as I took dinner with him in his cabin that day.
“No, sir; but I hope we soon shall,” I replied. “Better luck next time!”
As chance would have it, just after sunset we again fell in with the Grampus, and passed close to her.
“You didn’t find many woolly heads on board that ’ere craft, I calculate?” said a voice from the main rigging, followed by a loud laugh from several persons.
“No,” I answered, indignantly, thinking of the conversation with the master of the Mary Jane. “But there’s a time coming when your people will bitterly regret that woolly heads or slavery exists in your country, and will wish that you long ago had done your best to abolish it. Good night, gentlemen!”
There was no answer, and we rapidly flew by each other.
For two or three days we cruised about as unsuccessful as before, the weather continuing fine; but the sky giving indubitable signs of the approach of the stormy and rainy season, we beat back along shore to pick up our boats. The wind had been veering about for some time, and at length seemed to have made up its mind to enjoy a stiffish blow out of the south-west. This, of course, would have kicked up a considerable surf on the bar, and as Jenkins had orders, as soon as he saw signs of such being the case, to come out and look out for us, we were in hourly expectation of falling in with the boats. We had, however, seen nothing of them, though we kept a very sharp look-out, and had almost got up to the mouth of the river, when, in the afternoon watch, I bethought me that by way of a change I would go aloft, and try if a fresh pair of eyes would see farther than those of the man stationed there. I had been up about five minutes, when my eye fell on the white canvas of a largish vessel standing along shore under easy sail. She had a most suspicious look; indeed, I felt convinced that she, at all events, was a slaver. I was on deck in an instant, and, hurrying into the captain’s cabin with a look of triumph, though I tried to be perfectly calm and unconcerned, I uttered the words, “A sail on the lee beam!”
“Very well, Mr Rawson. What does she look like?” said the captain.
“She’s a large topsail schooner, sir, and she’s without doubt a slaver,” I answered quite calmly, as a matter of course.
“What, another of your slavers?” he answered. “I’m afraid they’ll all turn out Flying Dutchmen.”
“Not this time, sir, I’m certain,” I replied. “Shall we make sail in chase?”
“Oh, certainly—certainly!” he replied. “I’ll be on deck immediately myself.”
I flew on deck, and, without waiting for him, sang out, in a cheery voice, to the boatswain, “Turn the hands up! Make sail!” The pipe sounded along the decks with a shriller sound than usual, I thought, and the news that a suspicious sail was in sight having already travelled below, the men were all ready, and flew aloft before the last sound of the order was given. The gear of the courses was overhauled whilst the topgallant-sails and royals were being loosed, and in a few seconds all plain sail was made on the brig. The stranger, who had not apparently before seen us, was not long in following our example. He set his foresail, topgallant-sail, and royal, gaff-topsail and flying-jib, in addition to the canvas he had been before carrying, and, putting down his helm, stood off-shore on a bowline, with the intention of crossing our bows. The reason of his doing this was, that to the northward a long and dangerous reef ran off from the shore, so that he had no other means of escape. We had him, indeed, partly embayed, and yet, if he was able to carry on, it was clear that he might still manage to get out ahead of us. The Gadfly sailed well, and carried her canvas admirably, but so did the stranger; and, by the way every sail on board her was set, it was evident he was in earnest in doing his best to weather on us.
“What do you think of that fellow now, sir?” I said, as the captain came on deck. “There’s no mistaking what she is.”
“Why, Rawson, I think you are right this time, at all events,” was the answer. “Stand by the royals, though. We must not carry the masts over the side; and she will go along as fast without them.”
I saw it was time, indeed, to take in our lighter canvas, for, as we were obliged to haul more up, the masts were bending like whips, and the green seas came washing in bodily to leeward, while the spray flew in sheets over our weather bulwarks. The day wore on, and evening was fast approaching, with every prospect of a dirty night; the wind was increasing, and dark masses of clouds came rolling up from the south-west, and flying over in the opposite quarter, though as they came on faster than they disappeared, the sky overhead soon got pretty full of them. The stranger, meantime, was carrying on in gallant style—not an inch of anything did he slack. He seemed to think that it was neck or nothing with him. It must be understood that while his course was about west, and that nothing off that could he venture to go, we were able to keep rather more away. There was no chance, however, of our getting him under our guns before dark, when he, of course, would do his best to double on us. It was an exciting time, and even the most apathetic on board would not go below. We were longing to get near enough to give her a shot or two with any probability of hitting her. All this time the sea was getting up, and as she was evidently a sharp, shallow vessel, this much impeded her progress. Instead of, as when we first saw her, gliding gently through the waves, or putting them gracefully aside with her bows, she now rose and fell as they passed under her, and hammered away at them as she strove to make her onward progress.
We caught one bright gleam of the sun on her copper as she lifted on the top of a wave, just as the glowing orb of day sank into the water, and in a few minutes darkness would cover the face of the deep. Now was to come the tug of war, or rather, the trial of our patience. The moon had not yet risen, although it soon would, but, in the meantime, she might tack and stand away to the southward, or she might pass ahead of us.
“Try her with a shot, Mr Rawson,” said the captain. “If we could hull her, the fellow would heave-to.”
“I would prefer knocking away some of her wings, and thus secure her, rather than trust to such slippery gentry,” I thought, as I elevated one of the lee guns and fired.
The shot went over her or between her masts, for no damage was done. It showed, however, that she was within range.
“Have another slap at her,” said the captain. “But I do not think there’s much chance of hitting her with the sea we have on.”
This time the gunner took aim, but with no better success. Another and another shot was fired with the same want of result, and nothing seemed in any way to daunt the chase. Darkness had now come on in earnest, and we could just distinguish the schooner’s sails through the gloom. A number of sharp eyes were kept on her, though they at times almost lost sight of her, and the dark clouds which hung overhead, to increase our difficulties, every now and then sent down deluges of rain, which still more impeded our prospect. After some time the captain, who had been below, returned on deck.
“Whereabouts is the chase, Mr Rawson?” he asked.
“Right away under the lee cat-head,” I answered, “She was there a moment ago.”
I looked again. She was nowhere to be seen. I flew to the binnacle; we had not in any way altered our course.
“Provoking enough,” observed the captain, coolly. “But I thought it would be so.”
I had nothing to say in return, but I did not despair of seeing her again.
“She must have tacked,” said the captain, “and hopes to get away to the southward of us before the morning.”
“I think not, sir,” I answered. “I suspect she’ll hold her course; for, when last seen, she was drawing near us, and she hopes to pass ahead of us in the dark; but if we can but get a gleam of moonlight to show us her whereabouts, we may yet clip her wings for her before she gets away from us.”
Almost as I was speaking, the moon rose above the waters undimmed by a cloud, its pale light revealing the schooner just where I expected her to be. A cheer burst from the lips of many of the anxious watchers.
“Now or never is the time to knock some of her spars away!” I thought, “Shall we give her another shot, sir?” I asked of the captain.
“Yes; you may give her a broadside, Mr Rawson, and slap it into the fellow’s hull. He deserves no mercy at our hands. But stay; we might run the chance of killing some of the unfortunate blacks who may be below.”
Going round to the guns, I elevated them as much as possible, and told the captains to try and hit her masts. The order was given to fire as each gun could be brought to bear. No easy task, let me observe, for so much did the brig heel over, that the men in the waist were up to their knees nearly all the time in water. It was a night to try the mettle of fellows, and none could behave better than did outs. The wind howled and whistled as it rushed through the rigging, the waves roared and splashed as we dashed through them, and threw their white crests over us, the masts seemed to bend, and the hull to utter unusual groans of complaint as we tasked her powers to the utmost. Darkness was around us, an enemy at hand, and a dangerous short, under our lee; but all hands laughed and joked with the most perfect unconcern. Again the moon was obscured, and on we tore through the foaming waters. There was no use in firing, for no aim could then be taken. Once more the clouds cleared away, and the moonbeams shone on the hull and sails of the schooner with all her canvas set, just about to cross our fore foot.
“Now’s your time, my men!” I sang out, as I sprung forward, luffing up at the same time, so as to get our broadside to bear on her.
The foremost gun was the first fired, followed by the others in succession. Nothing daunted, the fellow was holding on, his jib-halyards alone having been carried away, and the jib was slashing about under his bows.
“By Jupiter! he’ll weather on us now, if we don’t take care and slip away in the wind’s eye,” I exclaimed.
The captain thought so too; and again ordering me to fire right at her hull, a yaw was given, and gun after gun as they were brought to bear was poured into the slaver. The effects of the shot made her fly up into the wind. Several of her braces and halyards were cut away, and, she now nearly a wreck, we in a few minutes were close aboard her. “Hands, shorten sail.” In three seconds Her Majesty’s brig was under topsails, hove-to alongside her prize.
“Mr Rawson,” said the captain, addressing me, “there will be some difficulty in boarding that vessel, and I wish that you would go in the gig and take possession of her. She is our first prize, remember, and it would not do to let her slip through our fingers.”
“Ay, ay, sir. Gig’s crew away, then?” I sung out, as I stepped to the binnacle to take the bearings of the schooner from us. Luckily I did so, for we could only then just distinguish her, and a dark mass of clouds driving across the moon shut her out completely from our sight. “Bear a hand there, and lower away the gig!” I sung out, for I was anxious to shove off before the brig entirely lost her way through the water.
It was not particularly pleasant work in the heavy sea there was running having to grope about in the dark for a craft manned probably by desperadoes, who would be too happy to cut our throats if they had the opportunity. I had a brace of pistols, and a few cutlasses had been thrown into the boat. Thus prepared we cast off, and the men bent bravely to their oars as the boat topped the heavy seas over which we had to pass. The brig showed a light for us to steer by, but the schooner was in no way so civil. On we pulled, however, in the hope of hitting her, but though we had gone over fully the distance I calculated she must have been from us, yet nothing of her could we see. I was almost in despair, and as while looking for her I could not attend carefully to the boat’s steering we shipped two or three heavy seas, which almost swamped her, and we had to bale them out as fast as we could. For some time the men lay on their oars, just keeping the boat’s head to the seas while we looked round for the chase.
“She has gone! The rascal took the opportunity of the last shower to sneak off,” I thought. “Pleasant. But patience; c’est la fortune de la guerre.”
Disconsolate enough I was steering back for the faint glimmer of light which I believed proceeded from the lantern on board the Gadfly, when I fancied I heard the loud flapping of a sail near us. I looked earnestly into the darkness.
“There she is, sir,” sung out the coxswain.
“You’re right. Give way, my boys,” I cried; and in a few minutes we were alongside the schooner.
Not a rope was thrown to us, nor was any assistance offered, so we had to scramble on board as best we could. It was fortunate that we met with no resistance, from which we afterwards found we had had a narrow escape, when all our lives would have been sacrificed. As we leaped down on board over the bulwarks we found only one man on deck, on the after-part of which he was walking by himself, evidently in a furious rage, by the manner in which he cursed and gesticulated. As the light of the lantern fell on his countenance I thought I had never seen one with a more diabolical expression. He was a little man, slightly built, with dark weather-beaten, and sharp features, excessively ugly. His eyes were small, but black as jet, and I fancied that I could see them twinkling even in the dark. The crew had all been sent below, but we soon roused them up, twenty in number; fierce, cut-throat-looking villains most of them were. The between-decks we found crowded with slaves; and we found, when we came to count them, that there were three hundred men, women, and children, so closely packed that they could not lie down even to rest. They had suffered dreadfully during the chase, with the fright and heat, and from having the hatches battened down. Our first business was to shorten sail, which we made the Spaniards and Portuguese who formed the crew go aloft to do; and we then edged the schooner down to where the brig was, and lay-to close to her.
The master of the slaver, when at length he became convinced that there was no help for what had occurred, grew more calm, and he then told me that everything he had in the world was embarked on board that craft, that he had set his canvas and made every sheet and tack fast, when, sending all his people below, the hatches being battened down, he himself had taken the helm, determined to weather us or to run his vessel under water.
“I should have escaped, too,” he continued, “if your cursed shot had not carried away my topsails while all the hands were below. A quarter of an hour more and you might have looked for me in vain.”
I did not tell him how nearly we were missing him after all; indeed I had enough to do to watch him and his crew, and to see that they did not play us any trick. All the men I confined in the fore peak, after securing all the arms I could find, while I allowed him to turn into his own berth, where he slept, or pretended to sleep. I never passed a more anxious night, what with the stench and the groans of the wretched slaves, and the risk of a crew of desperadoes rising on us. We kept, however, as close to the Gadfly as we could, and hailed every time the bell was struck, to say all was right. Towards morning the wind moderated and the sea went down, and at daylight a prize crew came on board to set the schooner to rights. This we were not long in doing, as her damages were slight, and such as, had the slaver’s people been more determined, they might without difficulty have repaired. There was by that time merely a light breeze, and as soon as we got the canvas on the schooner we found that we could sail round and round the brig, so that it was fortunate we had managed to wing her before the sea went down, or we should have had no chance with her.
While the slave captain was still asleep, and the rest of his crew were below, one of the fellows shoved his head up the fore hatchway, and asked to speak with me. I told him to come aft, and I recognised him as a Portuguese whom I had taken once before in the West Indies. With an affrighted look he glanced towards the round-house on deck, where the captain was sleeping, and motioned me to come as far from it as possible.
“I have run every risk, senhor, to come and warn you of danger, in the hope that you will be lenient to us,” he began. “That man in there, senhor, is the very devil. Don’t you recollect him? You took him in the Andorinha, off the Havannah. He was really her master, though he pretended to be the mate.”
It had struck me from the first that I had seen the fellow’s face before, but I could not recollect where.
“Yes, I remember him,” I replied. “But what of that?”
“Why, senhor, you know what a desperate fellow he was then, and he has not altered. Even last night, when we rounded to to prevent your sinking us, he called us all aft, and asking us if we would stick by him, proposed heaving some shot into your gig as you came alongside, knocking you and your people on the head, and while your vessel was looking about to pick up the sinking boat, in the dark to try and slip away from you. He was in a furious rage when we would not consent. Some were afraid of the plan miscarrying, and of being caught notwithstanding, and hung for murder. Others were unwilling to kill you, as you never ill-treat your prisoners, of which number pray rank me, and while he was still urging his project you jumped on board. You had a narrow escape though, senhor, for he was nearly pistolling you as you appeared, to set us the example.”
So I felt, especially when I saw the diabolical-looking little villain soon after appear on deck. I promised the informer that I would not forget him, and would be on my guard, though I did not give him any credit for disinterested motives in mentioning what had occurred. I had no difficulty by daylight in recognising my friend the captain, nor shall I again forget his ugly mug in a hurry. He also saw that he was known, and had the impudence to claim me as an old acquaintance.
Everything being put to rights on board the schooner, I handed her over to a mate and the crew, who were to take her to Sierra Leone. Before leaving her, however, I had all the slaves up on deck, a third at a time, and had them washed and cleaned, as also the hold, as well as circumstances would allow. A great number of the poor wretches died before they reached their port; not on account of bad weather, or the length of the voyage, but from their having been a long time confined in the barracoons previously to their being embarked. The little captain and most of his crew, however, we sent on board the Gadfly, as it would not have been prudent to trust him in the schooner.
With a flowing sheet our first prize stood away for Sierra Leone, and three hearty cheers accompanied her on her course.
“We’ve not made a bad night’s work of it, master,” said I, as I sat down to breakfast with him.
“No,” he answered, “if the prize ever reaches her port.”
“Why should you think she will not?” I asked.
“It’s better not to be too sanguine. There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,” was the reply.
“Too true an adage,” I felt. “I’m sure I’ve found it so in my course through life.”
We, meantime, stood in-shore to look for our boats. The night closed in without our meeting with them, till at length we became seriously alarmed for their safety. The next day, when just off the mouth of the Sherbro, two black objects were descried from the mast-head. We made towards them, and with no little satisfaction welcomed our shipmates on board. They had had hard work of it, with damp fogs or rain nearly half the time, and without having enjoyed any other shelter than such as the boats and a sail could afford. Poor Jenkins was ill with fever, as were several of the people, and they were for some time on the doctor’s list. We now shaped a course for Sierra Leone, to assist in the condemnation of our prize. We found her arrived there safe enough, and having been taken with slaves on board, there was no doubt of her capture being legal. We were not sorry to get rid of the little slave captain and his crew. He kept up his character to the last, and I never met a man so energetic and daring in doing evil. Before we left we discovered that he was trying to induce some other slave captains and their crews to join with him in cutting out a condemned slaver which lay in the harbour; but it appeared that they considered the risk of the undertaking too great to attempt it. He formed afterwards several other similar projects, and was finally shipped off to the Havannah as too dangerous a character to remain in the colony.
We afterwards captured a number of slavers, but none of them afforded us so much interest and gratification as the taking of our first prize.
Midshipman wanted for a first-class India trader! “Oh! mother, that will just do for me!” I exclaimed. “Do let me go; I shall be back in no time, and have all sorts of yarns to tell you.” I pressed and pressed. My mother saw that I should do little good by remaining longer at school, or thought so at all events, and I gained my point. Within a month I found myself on board the good ship Betsey Blair, of six hundred tons, Captain Joseph Johns, master, gliding over the Atlantic at the rate of nine knots an hour, bound out to Singapore. We had two mates, a surgeon, two midshipmen besides myself, one of whom was making his first voyage, and three apprentices who had never before been to sea, with a crew, including the boatswain, of five-and-twenty hands. I did not find things quite as pleasant as I had expected, from reading “Tom Cringle’s Log” and Captain Marryat’s novels, and other romantic tales of the sea. Captain Johns was every inch a sailor. He told us midshipmen that he intended we should become sailors, and he began by sending us aloft the first calm day to black down the rigging and grease the masts. I began to go aloft with my span new uniform on. “No! no!” he said, calling me down, “the second mate will serve you out a shirt and trousers fit for that work.” The mates laughed and the men laughed also. I got the shirt and trousers, and spent a couple of hours aloft, making good use of tar-brush and grease-pot, till my clothes were as black as the rigging and as greasy as the masts. It was my first real lesson in the duty of a seaman. I am now much obliged to our worthy master. I mention it to show that the realities of a midshipman’s life on board a merchantman, if the captain does his duty, are not quite what young gentlemen anticipate.
We had a quick passage to Singapore. There discharging our cargo, which, from that important mart of the East, was distributed in small craft in all directions among the numberless islands of those seas, we got ready for our return home, having to call at Melbourne on our way. Having taken in our cargo, we polished up, and hearing that several passengers were coming on board, we midshipmen put on our best uniforms to receive them, flattering ourselves that, as the paint-brushes and polishing leathers had been kept going, we and the ship cut a very respectable appearance. Captain Johns was proud of his ship, and prouder still of keeping his crew in perfect order. We had several passengers, a Mr and Mrs Haliday and three children, a Mrs Burnett, Mrs Magnus, and a Mr Turner, a merchant. The ladies were going home, I believe, on account of health. My chief friend on board was the surgeon of the ship, Mr Gilbert. He was a young man, but very intelligent and scientific, and took a pleasure in imparting the information he possessed. There seemed thus every prospect of our having a pleasant voyage home. Mr Crawford was the first mate. I was in his watch. Our second mate was a Mr Morgan. With colours flying, our smart little ship stood out of the harbour of Singapore. The weather was fine and the sea smooth.
“Do you think we shall have this sort of weather all the way home,” asked Mr Haliday, who was a timid man, and anxious about his wife and family.
“Well, sir, I have made three or four passages, when we carried the fine weather the whole way out and home, but if we do not, we must do our best and trust to God, Mr Haliday, that is my maxim, and I have always found it hold good. I have been at sea ever since I was a boy, and in more hurricanes and gales of wind than I can well count up, and yet I never was shipwrecked, and here I am alive and well,” answered Captain Johns, to whom the question had been put.
“But, captain, there is a saying, ‘the pitcher which goes often to the well gets broken at last.’”
“That, I rather think, means to refer to those who tempt God, and a man who has to run into danger in the way of duty is not to my mind doing that. We must trust God whatever happens, Mr Haliday. Even if the stout little ship were to be cast away, He would find a means for our escape if He thought fit.”
I overheard this conversation, and it made a strong impression on me. For some time the fine weather continued, when it came on very thick, with baffling winds. For three days or more we had been unable to take an observation. The chief mate had the morning watch. Soon after I got on deck I heard him sing out, “Keep a sharp look-out there forward!” Then stepping aft he said to the man at the helm, “Keep the ship north-by-west.” The wind, I should say, at this time was west-by-south, and we were going nearly nine knots through the water. The events of that morning were vividly impressed upon my memory.
“Mr Jennings,” said the first mate to me, “what is that black look in the water ahead!”
I ran forward. The look-out man declared that it was the reflection of a heavy black cloud hanging just over the ship.
“It is no such thing!” exclaimed the mate, sharply looking over the gangway. “Hard up with the helm! All hands on deck! Wear ship!”
I, with the watch on deck, flew to the braces. The ship wore round, but almost before we could touch the ropes a terrific crash was heard, and she struck heavily aft. The following sea drove her broadside on to the reef, part of which we now saw clearly rising out of the water not a cable’s length from us. The first crash sent the captain and other officers rushing on deck, while cries and shrieks arose from the poor passengers in the cabin. The next sea which struck her, after she had touched, came flying over us, and there seemed scarcely a possibility of our saving our lives. “Lads!” shouted the captain, “obey my orders, and I will do my best for you. See to cutting away the masts. Clear the rigging as the masts are cut away. Mr Jennings, clear the pinnace for launching.” Another midshipman was sent down to entreat the passengers to remain quiet below till the boats were ready, assuring them that they would run great risk of losing their lives if they came on deck. Although the masts were quickly cut away, the ship continued to lurch heavily upon the reef, and it seemed that she must quickly go to pieces. She now lay completely on her beam ends, so that it was difficult to stand on her deck. I had made the pinnace ready for launching, but she was a heavy boat, and though all hands exerted themselves to the utmost, we could not manage it, our good captain getting his leg jammed in the attempt. We hauled him up to the weather bulwarks, where he held on, still giving his orders. Our next attempt was to launch the jolly-boat. To do this we had to hoist her up to the davits on the upper quarter. When placing oars, and a couple of good hands in her, we watched our opportunity, and, after a sea had broken over us, quickly bailing her out, allowed her to glide into the water. Captain Johns ordered the men to pull to the rock which we had at first seen, and which lay a short distance inside the reef. We had a small well-built lifeboat. To preserve her from injury was of the greatest importance. We got her up in the same way to the upper davits and launched her in safety. As soon as this was done the ladies and children were brought up from the cabin, which was already half full of water, and, being placed in her, she pulled away for the jolly-boat. The ladies’ husbands watched them anxiously. It was impossible to say at what moment the ship would break up. So terrific were the blows she was receiving that it seemed scarcely possible she could hold together many minutes; indeed, already portions of her had been torn away, and were seen floating to leeward.
In the next trip the men passengers and the young seamen were taken to the jolly-boat.
“Do you, Jennings, and you, Mr Gilbert, go in her,” said the captain.
“No, sir, thank you, I will stay by you,” I answered.
“I order you both into the boat. I am not to be disobeyed,” he exclaimed.
Of course we could not refuse. Already the jolly-boat, when we got into her, was very full, and there seemed some risk of her being swamped. Just then one of the seamen struck his boat-hook down alongside. “Why, the water is quite shallow here!” he exclaimed. “Overboard lads! The ladies shall run no risk on our account;” and six or eight men instantly jumped into the water, holding on to the boat, it being tolerably smooth under the lee of the rock where she lay.
By the last trip the master came off, bringing some charts and nautical instruments, which he had secured. “What about food?” some one asked. A small quantity, it appeared, had been secured, but not a drop of fresh water had been brought off. The master now ordered some of the men to get into the lifeboat, and we were pretty evenly divided among the two.
“How far off are we from the Australian coast?” asked Mr Haliday.
“Four hundred miles at the nearest,” was the answer. “It is true, my friends,” said the master, “but half-a-mile off there is a sand-bank. We will make for that, and there pray that God will give us the means of escape.” The grey dawn broke soon after we reached the bank, where we landed in safety. “Now, my friends,” said the master, as we stood grouped around him, “let us lift up our hearts in thankfulness to that merciful God who has thus far preserved us.” Hearty and sincere was, I feel assured, the prayer that rose from that barren sand-bank. We thanked God for preserving us, and we prayed that He might yet watch over us, and carry us in safety to land.
The bank was scarcely more than a hundred and fifty yards long, and about a third of the width. Still we had reason to be thankful. Not a life had been lost, in spite of the fearful risk we had run. Had a gale been blowing, however, not one of us could have escaped. As the sun rose our clothes quickly dried, but its rays soon became fearfully hot, and beat down upon our unprotected heads. The master was suffering all this time from the injury he had received, and was obliged to lie down. He, however, first directed the two mates to return with the boats to the wreck, to bring off whatever they could find likely to be of use, and anxiously we watched them as they pulled away. Our lives depended upon the success of their expedition. Meantime, the hot sun increased, and we all began to suffer from thirst. It was sad to see the poor little children crying for water when there was none to give them. Some of us, with pieces of board, began to dig in the sand, hoping to find water, but after making several deep holes we came each time to the coral rock. That, however, was moist and free from salt. Though the amount of fluid we could obtain was trifling, it afforded us some slight relief to lick the bare rock, and helped to cool our tongues. At length the boats returned. Eagerly we all hurried down to welcome them, and haul them up on the beach. A shout of joy arose when we found that the jolly-boat had a cask of water on board, besides some provisions—a cheese, some potted meat, and some biscuit. How thankfully we poured the sweet liquid down our throats. Captain Johns, however, would allow only half-a-gill to each of us, all sharing alike. These things might prolong our lives for a short time, but yet our hopes of escaping were small indeed. The wreck still hung together, but the wind appeared to be again getting up; indeed, there was so much sea, that the captain was afraid of sending back the boats. Anxiously that night passed away, but our courage was kept up by the captain’s cheerful and manly voice.
“Trust in God, friends,” he continued to say, “that is the best advice I can give you. As I have said before, I will do my best, and I hope all you will do your best, and let us never despair.” Next morning, in spite of the heavy sea running, the mates pushed off in the boats in the hopes of obtaining further supplies from the wreck. Dangerous as was the undertaking, the condition of our party on the sand-bank was not less perilous, for should the boats be lost, our fate, in all human probability, would be sealed. We watched them anxiously. Now they appeared on the crest of a sea, now they were hidden by the foaming breakers. At length they were altogether lost to sight from the sand-bank. We stood, our hands on each others’ shoulders, our necks stretched out, eagerly watching for their return. Now a dark object was seen. We thought it was one of the boats. No, it was a piece of the wreck. Another and another piece appeared. Some drove on to the beach, and we hurried down to secure them. At length I saw the lifeboat drawing near. Alas! was the other lost? “See! see! she is astern of her!” cried someone. On they both came, and we hurried down to welcome them. Both of them came laden. In the jolly-boat were some sails, and several casks of provisions, and in the lifeboat, among other things, a small keg of lime-juice. The surgeon spied it out, and literally shouted for joy. “It may be the saving of our lives,” he exclaimed; “and will at all events keep scurvy at bay.” That night we were able to erect a tent for the poor women and children, as also for some of the men passengers, and two or three of the seamen and boys who were suffering from exposure. Still my friend the surgeon looked grave.
“Jennings,” he said to me, as we were taking a turn together, “there is one thing I dread more than all others—the want of water. What we have will go a very, very short way, and then—! My lad, do you know what it is to die of thirst—the throat becoming drier and drier, the tongue swelling, and getting as hard as shoe-leather, and blacker and blacker, the sight growing dim, the voice failing?”
“A fearful picture!” I said. “What is to be done?”
“Why, we must go off at all risks, and see if we cannot get materials from the wreck to form a still. The ship struck at high water, I observed, and possibly what we want, even though washed out of her, may be obtained at low water. Will you go off with me to make the search?”
I, of course, agreed, and the second mate steered the lifeboat. A fresh crew was quickly found, and we put off from the bank.
“Another night may see the wreck broken up, and we may lose everything,” observed the surgeon. We pulled on. The wreck had by this time driven up so far on the reef that at dead low water part of the coral rock was exposed, and we could wade up to her. We hunted about till we came upon some copper piping. “This is valuable,” exclaimed the surgeon. We next found a boiler, and afterwards a large cistern, still inside the vessel. We got it out, though not without difficulty, and on board the boat. Several tools, an iron ladle and some solder were also found; indeed, we regretted that the jolly-boat had not come off, that many more things might have been landed. All we could hope was that the weather would continue moderate, and that other articles might be saved on the following day. We returned in safety with our prize. As soon as we landed, the surgeon summoned the blacksmith and his mate to his assistance, and a fire being lighted, immediately set to work to erect a still. A shout of joy was raised when the first fresh water was seen to issue from it. We lay down that night with one of our chief causes of anxiety removed. “We may thank God for this,” said the master, summoning all the people round him. “Now I have a proposal to make. It is clear we cannot remain on this reef for ever. I wish to know whether those who are fit to assist in the work will undertake the building of a boat, in which we may reach the mainland.” A considerable number held up their hands to signify their readiness to assist in what he proposed. “Then, my friends,” he said, “I will divide you into three parties—one to assist Mr Gilbert in distilling the water, another to visit the wreck and obtain all the materials which can be saved, while the third will be employed in building the boat.” All agreed to this proposal, and early next morning, as soon as daylight broke, we were on our feet ready to commence work. I was employed with the second mate in going off to the wreck, while the first mate and the master assisted the carpenter’s crew in building the boat. We were fortunate in obtaining all sorts of articles, amongst others, useful tools and a supply of clothing. With the articles we found, the surgeon improved his machinery for distilling the water, and at length he produced nearly thirty gallons a-day. Our provisions, however, were getting short, and at length we were reduced to half-a-pound of flour a-day, which we made up into puddings with salt-water—very heavy dough, but it stopped our hunger and kept us alive. It took us just a month from the day the boat’s keel was laid till she was launched. It was a day not to be forgotten. The ladies and children stood round cheering lustily. We called her the Hope. She sat well on the water, but leaked considerably. We had therefore to haul her up again, and stop the leaks. When again launched she was found to be thoroughly watertight. It took us two days to get her rigged and stowed. All the casks we had been able to save were filled with water, Mr Gilbert working day and night to obtain a supply. At length, after a residence of five weeks on the sand-bank, which would assuredly have proved our grave, had it not been for the invention of our surgeon, we bade the sand-bank farewell, and stood towards Moreton Bay, on the Australian coast. The wind was fair and moderate. About thirty of us were on board the Hope, while six preferred trusting their fortunes to the lifeboat. The wind shifting, when we were, according to our calculations, about twenty leagues off the land, drove us to the mouth of the Brisbane river. A somewhat heavy sea was running, but the Hope behaved beautifully, and our captain knew the entrance. What an idea it gave us of perfect rest, when, after being tossed about for so many days, we glided up the tranquil river! The settlers came down as we reached the shore, and warmly welcomed us. “Thanks, friends, thanks!” said our good master, “but before I thank you I desire to thank One by whose means we have been preserved,” and kneeling down, the fine old man poured out his heart in prayer. I am thankful to say that one and all of us followed his example, and if we did not pray with as much fervour and earnestness as he did, I believe that the prayer and the gratitude we expressed came from our hearts.