Chapter Thirteen.
The Storm, and its Consequences
It came at length with awful speed and fury.
At first there was a stifling heat in the atmosphere; then clouds began to dim the sky. Mysterious and solemn changes seemed to be taking place in nature—noiselessly for a time. Ere long the war began with a burst of heaven’s artillery. It was distant at first; muttering, prolonged, and fitful, like the rattling musketry of advancing skirmishers. Soon a roar of deafening thunder rent the sky. Another and another followed, with blinding flashes of lightning between, while rain came down in torrents.
The order had been given to take in the mainsail, and the little vessel was almost under bare poles, when the storm burst upon it, and threw it nearly on its beam-ends.
Righting from the first shock, it sprang away like a living creature trying to escape from some deadly foe. Ere long the waves were up and the storm was raging in all its fury.
“If it holds like this till to-morrow, we’ll be in port by noon,” said Haco Barepoles to Gaff as they stood near the wheel, holding on to the backstays, and turning their backs to the seas that swept heavily over the side from time to time.
“You speak as if you wor sure o’ gettin’ in,” said Gaff.
“Well, we an’t sure o’ nothin’ in this world,” replied the skipper; “if Providence has willed it otherwise, we can’t help it, you know. We must submit whether we will or no.”
“D’ye know,” rejoined Gaff, “it has often bin in my mind, that as Christian men, (which we profess to be, whether we believe our own profession or not), we don’t look at God’s will in the right way. The devil himself is obliged to submit to God whether he will or no, because he can’t help it. Don’t ’ee think it would be more like Christians if we was to submit because it is His will?”
Before Haco could answer, an enormous wave came curling over the stern.
“Mind your helm, lad!”
The words were scarce uttered when a heavy mass of water fell inboard, almost crushing down the deck. For some moments it seemed as if the little vessel were sinking, but she cleared herself, and again rushed onward.
That night the wind chopped round, and Haco was obliged to lay-to until daylight, as the weather was thick. Before morning the gale took off and at sunrise had moderated into a stiff breeze. All that day they beat slowly and heavily against the wind, which, however, continued to decrease. At night the wind again veered round to the northward, enabling the “Coal-Coffin” to spread most of her canvass, keep her course, and bowl pleasantly along before the breeze. But the weather was still thick, necessitating a sharp look-out.
During most of this time our friend Billy was confined, much against his will, to the bandbox cabin, where he did as much mischief as he could in the circumstances.
Towards midnight, while Haco and Gaff were standing by the man on the look-out, who was on the heel of the bowsprit, they fancied they observed something looming up against the dark sky on the weather bow.
The look-out gave a shout.
“Port! port! hard a-port!” roared the skipper, at the same moment bounding aft.
“Port it is!” replied the man at the wheel, obeying with promptitude.
The sloop sheered away to leeward. At the same instant the hull of a great vessel bore right down upon them. The yell of the steam-whistle betrayed her character, while the clanging of the fog-bell, and shouts of those on board, proved that the sloop had been observed. At the same time the seething sea that flowed like milk round her bow, showed that the engines had been reversed, while the captain’s voice was heard distinctly to shout “starboard! starboard hard!” to the steersman.
The promptitude with which these orders were given and obeyed, prevented the steamer from running down the sloop altogether. A collision, however, was unavoidable. The crew of the sloop and the Russians, seeing this, rushed to the place where they expected to be struck, in order to leap, if possible, into the head of the steamer. Even the steersman left his post, and sprang into the weather shrouds in the hope of catching some of the ropes or chains below the bowsprit.
On came the steamer like a great mountain. Her way had been so much checked that she seemed merely to touch the side of the sloop; but the touch was no light one. It sent the cutwater crashing through bulwark, plank, and beam, until the “Coal-Coffin” was cut right down amidships, within a foot of the water-line. There was a wild cry from the men as they leaped towards their destroyer. Some succeeded in grasping ropes, others missed and fell back bruised and stunned on the sloop’s deck.
Billy had been standing beside his father when the steamer was first observed, and naturally clung to him. Gaff put his left arm tight round the boy, and with the others prepared for a spring, believing, as did all the rest, that the sloop would be sunk at once.
Not so Haco Barepoles, who went to the wheel of his little vessel, and calmly awaited the result.
Gaff’s spring at the chains of the cutwater was successful, but in making it he received a blow on the head from one of the swinging blocks of the sloop which almost stunned him, insomuch that he could only cling to the chain he had caught with the tenacity of despair.
One of the sailors observed him in this position of danger, and instantly descending with a rope fastened it under his chest, so that he and Billy were safely hauled on board, and the former was led below to have his head examined by the surgeon.
Meanwhile the men in the bow of the steamer shouted to Haco to come on board.
“No, thank’ee,” replied the skipper, “shake yourself clear o’ my riggin’ as fast as ye can, and let me continoo my voyage.”
“Your sloop is sinking,” urged the captain of the steamer.
“Not sinkin’ yet; I’ll stick to her as long as she can float.”
“But you’ve none of your men left on board, have you?”
“No; better without ’em if they’re so easy frightened.”
As he said this one of his own men slid quickly down a rope that hung from the steamer’s bowsprit, and dropt on the deck of the sloop, exclaiming—
“It’ll never be said o’ Tom Grattan that he forsack his ship so long as a man wos willin’ to stick by her.”
Haco took Tom by the hand as he went aft and shook it.
“Any more comin’?” he said, glancing at the faces of the men that stared down upon him.
There was no reply.
“You can’t expect men to volunteer to go to the bottom,” said the captain of the steamer. “You’re mad, both of you. Think better of it.”
“Back your ship off, sir!” said Haco in a deep stern voice.
The order was given to back off, and the vessels were soon clear. Haco put his sloop at once on the larboard tack, and looking over the side observed that the bottom of the yawning gap was thus raised nearly three feet out of the water.
“Tom,” said he, resuming his place at the wheel, “go and nail a bit of canvas over that hole. You’ll find materials down below. We’ll have to steer into port on this tack, ’cause if we try to go on the other, she’ll sink like a stone. I only hope the wind’ll hold as it is. Look alive now!”
In a few minutes the little craft was away and the captain of the steamer, seeing that she did not sink, continued his course.
Next day Haco Barepoles steered the “Coal-Coffin” triumphantly into the port of London, with a hole in her side big enough, if Tom Grattan’s report is to be believed, “to admit of a punt bein’ row’d d’rect from the sea into the hold!”
Chapter Fourteen.
Gaff and Billy become the Sport of Fortune, and see Strange Things
The steamer which had run down the sloop of Haco Barepoles was a large iron one, which had just set out on a voyage to the West Indies.
Being anxious to send on shore the men whom he had so unexpectedly picked up at sea, the captain hailed the first inward-bound vessel he met with, and put them on board. It was found, however, that the blow received by Stephen Gaff had been more severe than was at first imagined, and the doctor advised that he should not be moved until farther down the Channel. He and Billy were therefore retained on board; but when the steamer passed the Isle of Wight, the weather became thick and squally, and continued so for several days, so that no vessel could be spoken with.
In these circumstances the captain was compelled to carry Gaff and his boy away to sea, much to the regret of the former, who was curious to know what the news could be that was to be to his advantage in London, besides being grieved at the anxiety his sudden disappearance with Billy would cause to his wife.
The Bu’ster did not by any means share the regret or grief of his father. To that amiable cherub the whole affair was a piece of unexpected and unparalleled good fortune. It was the realisation to some extent of his rapturous dreams of travel and adventure in foreign lands, and it freed him, at one fell swoop, from the iron yoke of his mother.
Billy, although he congratulated himself on the deliverance, did, strange to say, shed a few tears in memory of his mother, for the boy had an affectionate disposition, and really loved his mother, and would have shown his love too if she would have let him.
Gaff feared there was but little prospect of being speedily delivered from the steamer; nevertheless he begged the captain to put him on board the first homeward-bound vessel they should meet with. To this request the captain agreed.
An opportunity occurred sooner than had been expected. On the afternoon of the fifth day out, a large barque hove in sight. On nearing this vessel the captain ran up his colours, and the signal was replied to by the Union Jack. On being asked as to where they were bound, the port of Liverpool was signalled in answer.
“You’re in luck. Gaff,” said the captain; “I’ll put you on board of that barque if you choose.”
“Thank ’ee, sir, I’d like it well.”
“I rather think that your little boy would prefer to go with us,” added the captain, laughing.
Billy at once admitted that he would, and begged to be allowed to stay where he was, but this request could not be granted.
“Now, Gaff,” said the captain confidentially, “if you’re short o’ cash I’ll be happy to—”
“Thank’ee, sir, I’ve as much as I require.”
“Very well, then, you’d better get ready, and I’ll order a boat to be lowered.”
Half an hour afterwards Gaff stood on the deck of the barque, waving his hat to the few friends he had made during his short stay in the steamer.
The barque turned out to be a South Sea whaler from New York, which had suffered severely in a recent gale which had driven her far out of her course to the northward. She was obliged to run to Liverpool for repairs. The captain, whose name was Graddy, and who was one of the most ill-favoured and ill-mannered men that Gaff had ever set eyes on, agreed to take the newcomer to England on condition that he should work his way besides paying for his rations.
There was something about this vessel which was very offensive to the critical eye of Gaff. The nature of her work might account for her being so dirty; but that was no reason for the slovenliness of her rigging and general management, the surliness and tyranny of her captain, and the semi-mutinous condition of her crew.
The crew was a mixed one. There seemed to be representatives of at least half a dozen nations. The captain himself was of mixed blood, and no one could have told from his look or speech to what nation he belonged. He was a big powerful man, much feared by the crew, who hated him cordially. He was well aware of this, and returned the hatred with interest. Besides this, being monarch of the ship, he worried them in every way that lay in his power.
It is awful to think of the ruinous effects of sin, and how nearly men can come to resemble devils. This monster actually laid plots to entrap his men in order that he might have an excuse to vent his hatred on them.
Gaff soon found that he had got into a nest, so to speak, of evil spirits. Before he had been two days with them, he would have given all he possessed, or ever hoped to possess, in order to escape from the “Rattlesnake,” which was the vessel’s name.
As for Billy, his heart sank to a depth of woe he had never hitherto conceived of. Every one kicked and cuffed him and swore at him for being in the way, and when he was wanted he was kicked, cuffed, and sworn at for being out of the way. Poor boy! his dreams had never presented him with this species of adventure.
So bad did the state of things become that the men began to talk among themselves of deserting the moment they should reach port, no matter what should be the consequences. This threat reached the captain’s ears, and he frustrated it by telling the mate that he thought the needful repairs could be managed on board by the ship’s carpenters; and so gave orders to alter the course for South America!
Deep and fierce were the counsels that went on in the forecastle that night among the men. Some hinted darkly at murder. Others suggested that the captain should be put on shore on a desert island and left to his fate. All agreed that something must be done, that a decisive blow must be struck, with the exception of Gaff, who remained silent while his shipmates were discussing the matter.
Observing this they called upon him for his opinion.
“Lads,” said he in decided tones, “I’ve got no opinion to offer. I am—at least I strive to be—a Christian man; an’, to be plain with ye, I won’t go for to consult or act with murderers, or mutineers, or pirates, which it appears you intend to become, if you’re not that a’ready. One opinion I will give ye, however, an’ one piece of advice I’ll offer. The opinion is, that if you go on as you’ve bin a-goin’ on since I came aboard, you’ll all live to be hanged. The advice is, that you should face yer troubles like men—take things as ye find ’em, an’ if ye can’t mend ’em, why grin and bear ’em.”
The crew received this in varied mood. Some laughed, others swore, and one suggested that Gaff should be thrown overboard.
This latter, who was a big strong man, and a sort of bully among his mates, shook his fist at Gaff, and said—
“Now, I’ll tell ye wot it is, Mister Toogood, if you go for to tell the cap’n wot we’ve bin a-talkin’ about, I’ll knock yer two daylights into one, so see that ye keep yer tongue in order.”
“What’s past is past,” said Gaff quietly; “but I tell ye plainly, that if you let your tongues go the same pace again in my hearin’, I’ll go aft and report ye. I’ll be no spy, but I give ye fair warnin’.”
At this the bully lost command of himself. Seizing an iron bar that lay on a chest close by, he rushed at Gaff with the evident intention of felling him. But the latter was on his guard. He was active and powerful too, besides being quite cool. Leaping nimbly aside, he avoided the bully’s onset, and at the same moment laid him flat on the deck with one blow of his fist.
“Sarves him right!”
“So it does!” exclaimed several of the men, who were not sorry to see one whom they disliked so roughly handled.
“Well, so it does sarve him right,” added one who had been a prominent speaker in the recent debates; “but hark’ee, friend,” he said, turning to Gaff with a scowl, “you can’t knock the whole crew down in that fashion. I advise ye, for your own sake, to mind what ye’re about.”
“I means to do so,” said Gaff; “I’ll stick to my dooty and to the cap’n.”
“Very good,” replied the other with a sneer, “then wotiver is the cap’n’s fate you’ll have the pleasure of sharin’ it with him.”
“Tumble up there! tumble up, an’ reef tops’ls!” roared the captain down the hatch at that moment.
The men obeyed, and for the time their mutinous intentions seemed to have been dismissed. For many weeks after this Gaff heard nothing that could lead him to suppose that the men still harboured their dark designs. Yet the state of affairs on board became worse and worse. The captain cursed and tyrannised more than ever, and the men grew sulkier and more wretched, but no word of a murderous nature was ever uttered in the hearing of Gaff or his little son.
As for Billy his small mind had received such a rude shock by the sudden and terrible change in his circumstances, that he seemed to have lost all his wonted vivacity as well as his mischief. In fact, both qualities, or tendencies, had been thoroughly kicked out of him before he had been a week on board. He was protected to some extent by his father, who one day quietly knocked another of the men down for giving Billy an undeserved beating; but some of them kicked and cuffed the poor boy when his father was not present.
Billy was found to be active and useful in small matters and light duties suited to his age, and in the course of time was appointed to the position of steward’s assistant, in which capacity he became deeply learned in the matter of washing cups, dishes, etcetera, besides acquiring a knowledge of baking, pudding-making, and many other useful arts more or less allied to cookery; in addition to which he had the inestimable benefit of being taught thoroughly submission and obedience—a lesson which the Bu’ster found very hard to learn, and thought particularly grievous, but which at his age, and considering his previous training, was an absolute blessing.
The way in which that cherub went about that ship in a little blue jacket, straw hat, and canvas trousers, rubbing and cleaning, and according prompt obedience at all times to every one, would have charmed his mother as much as it gratified his father, who was in consequence somewhat reconciled to his otherwise hard lot.
Now, philosophical reader—if such you be—do not suppose that I advocate kicking and cuffing as the best possible cure for general mischievousness and badness in a boy. By no means. My strong-minded wife says I do; but then she always forms, or rather partially forms, her opinions on assumptions, retains them in confusion, states them at haphazard, according to her mood at the time being, and, having stated them, sticks to them like a limpet to a rock.
You will judge differently when I explain my ideas on this point. I maintain that Billy Gaff, alias the Bu’ster, was taught to accord obedience—simple obedience and nothing else—by means of the kicking and cuffing he received on board of that whaler; and, further, that the method is a sure one. I do not say that it is the best one, but that does not affect the fact that it is almost infallible. It was reserved for Billy’s father, however, by means of wise counsels, kindly given advice, and otherwise affectionate treatment, to save Billy from being turned into an obedient but misanthropic brute, and to lead him to accord his obedience, not because he could not help it, but because his father wished him to do it.
This appeal went right home to Billy’s heart, because he loved his father fervently. He had always loved him in time past, now more than ever, for the poor boy regarded him much as a drowning man regards the solitary plank to which he clings as his last hope. Thus did Billy practically learn the great truth, that “Love is the fulfilling of the law.”
Weeks rolled on; gales succeeded calms, and calms succeeded gales. The “line” was passed; southern seas were reached; new constellations glittered overhead; strange fish and luminous creatures gambolled in the sea, and the whalers’ fishing-ground was entered. Latterly the men had ceased to grumble at the captain, although he had by no means ceased to swear at and bully the men, and Gaff began to hope that they had got over their bad fit, and were going to settle down to work peaceably.
The calm, however, was deceitful; it preceded a storm.
One sultry afternoon when Gaff was standing at the helm and the captain beside him, the men came aft in a body, and two of their number, with pistols in their hands, advanced to seize the captain.
He saw at once what they meant to do, and, springing back, seized a handspike.
“Lay that down and surrender, else I’ll blow out yer brains,” said one of the two, levelling his pistol.
Instead of obeying, the captain raised the heavy handspike, and the man pulled the trigger. At the same instant Gaff struck up the muzzle with his hand; the ball passed over the captain’s head, and the handspike descended on the seaman’s crown felling him at once.
Upon this the entire crew made a rush and overpowered Gaff and the captain. The latter, who struggled with the fury of a tiger, was kicked while down until he was nearly dead. Gaff at once gave in, knowing that any attempt at further resistance, besides being hopeless, would only render matters worse. He was therefore allowed to rise, and his hands were tied behind his back.
The captain, being similarly secured, was raised to his feet.
“Now, you tyrant,” said the ringleader of the crew with a terrible oath, “how would you like to have your throat cut?”
The man slowly opened a long clasp-knife as he spoke, and felt its keen edge with his thumb. Blood was flowing down his face and breast from the wound inflicted by the handspike, and the fiendish expression of his countenance, added to the terribleness of his aspect, while it showed that his sarcastic question would certainly be followed by the murderous deed. But the other mutineers restrained him.
“It’s too good for him, make him walk the plank and drown like a dog—as he is,” cried one.
“Hang him up to the yard-arm,” said another.
Several voices here expressed dissent, and an elderly seaman stepped forward and said that they didn’t intend to become pirates, so they had better not begin with murder.
“Hear, hear!” from several voices emphatically.
“What’ll we do with him, then?” inquired one in angry excitement.
Upon this they all began to consult noisily, and they were so much engrossed that they failed to perceive the movements of Billy, who, when his first alarm at the uproar was over, began to feel deep anxiety in regard to his father’s bound and helpless condition. His active mind did not remain long paralysed; pulling out the clasp-knife which he always carried in his pocket, he quickly cut the cords that fastened Gaff’s wrists. Before the latter could avail himself of his freedom the act was discovered, and he was secured again more firmly than before, while Billy was favoured with a slap on the ear so tremendous that it threw all those he had ever received from his mother utterly into the shade!
Recovering from this, he sat down on the deck at his father’s feet, and wept silently.
In a few minutes the mutineers agreed among themselves. One of the smallest boats in the ship was lowered, and the captain and Gaff having been cast loose were ordered to get into it. The former obeyed at once, pronouncing a terrible curse on the crew as he went down the side.
One of the men at the same time threw a bag of biscuit into the boat.
“Come along, Billy,” said Gaff, as he followed the captain.
The boy was about to do so, when one of the men seized him and pulled him back.
“No, no,” said he, “the lad’s useful, and will only eat up your biscuit faster than need be. We’ll keep him aboard.”
Gaff listened to this with an expression of agony on his rugged features.
“Oh, have mercy on my son!” he cried, as they cast the boat adrift. Then feeling that an appeal to such desperadoes was useless, he clasped his hands, and, looking up to Heaven, prayed God, for Christ’s sake, to deliver him from the company of sinful men.
A light breeze was blowing, and the ship, which had been hove-to while the boat was being lowered, soon gathered way, and left the boat behind.
All of a sudden Billy broke away, and, rushing towards the stern, sprang wildly into the sea!
“Down with the helm! heave-to!” shouted some of the men.
“No, no, let the whelp go,” cried others; “besides, he’d be able to peach on us.”
This last argument was all-powerful. The ship held on her course, and Billy was left to his fate.
The moment that Gaff saw him take the leap he seized the oars, and applying all his strength to them, succeeded in catching hold of his son before his struggles had ceased.
Billy was none the worse for his adventure beyond the ducking. Gaff soon wrung the water out of his garments, and then placing him on his knee, sat down to watch the ship as it sailed slowly away.
The captain, who sat in the stern with his chin resting in his hand, and a dark scowl on his face, also watched the retreating vessel.
Soon it glimmered like the wing of a sea-mew on the horizon, and then, just as night began to set in, it disappeared, leaving the boat a solitary speck in the midst of the great wide sea.