Chapter Thirteen
Kenneth’s Story (continued) – At the Cave
“On, on the vessel flies; the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay;
Four days are sped, but with the fifth anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay.”
Byron.
Scene: The Spanish Señor and his two guests, Kenneth and Archie, once more together, not in the mountain cottage to-night, but in a cave, close down by the edge of the sea. It was the sea that was lisping on the sands not far from where they sat on the rocks, but the view beyond was one of moonlight, trees, rocks, and water combined, altogether very beautiful, and in some respects almost English-like.
Yes, now by moonlight it looked thoroughly English, but if by day you had rowed round these rocks, you would soon have been undeceived, for sharks in dozens visited the deep water, and in the cracks beyond were alligators, active and strong, and very hideous-looking crabs often crawled up the wet black cliffs; and among the trees themselves were great snakes, deadly and venomous; but it all looked very quiet and lovely now.
Kenneth was fond of caves, and there were plenty of them about here. He kept his boat in one. That very day, together the two friends had launched it, and spent all the long hours of sunlight in sailing or rowing about among the lovely islands of this sparkling sea, that look on a calm day as if they were actually afloat not in the water, but in the sky itself.
“My life,” said Kenneth, resuming his narrative of the day before, “my life, I thought, was going to be all rose-tinted now.
“Alas! Archie, lad, I soon found it quite the reverse, and it does really seem to me that those writers of books who paint a sailor’s existence as one long picnic do grievous wrong to the young folks who read them.
“A sailor’s life is like the billowy ocean on which he resides, all ups and downs, Archie.”
“I can easily believe that,” said his friend.
“But Captain Pendrey was very good to me, and there was an old boatswain on board who became my friend from the very first. He taught me to reef, to splice, and to steer, ay, and a deal more; in fact, during the two years I sailed in the old Miranda, he made a man of me.
“You see, Archie, I was already so far a seaman that I was not afraid of the ocean; and I was good at an oar.
“I was downright seasick when I first went out of Plymouth Sound. We had a head wind, and being only a sailing craft, had to beat and beat for days. I didn’t care much then what became of me. But the rough old bo’sun came and shook me up – I was lying nearly dead on a sea-chest – ‘Pull yourself together, youngster. Go on deck,’ he said, ‘and look at the waves. Ain’t they mountains, just! It won’t do to give in.’
“I did go on deck and look at the waves, just for a moment. A green sea came thundering over the bows, took me off my legs, and washed me away down into the lee-scuppers, where I would have been drowned if the bo’sun hadn’t caught me up.
“‘I’m not going below again, though,’ I said to myself.
“Nor did I.
“The boats were all on board; I got into one of these as night fell, lashed myself to a thwart, and wet though I was, I slept with my head on a coil of ropes all through that stormy night. Stiff in the morning? Yes, a little, but I was better. I got my clothes off, and a man dashed buckets of sea water over me, and this revived me so much that I went below.
“The men in my mess were at breakfast; they were sitting on deck, jammed into corners anyhow, with their sou’wester hats between their legs to steady their coffee mugs.
“‘Salt pork, my lad,’ said the bo’sun. ‘You’re just at that stage that salt pork will turn the scale.’
“I took the hunk of pork he gave me and devoured it.
“Well, the bo’sun was right. It did turn the scale with a vengeance: I went on deck and hove the lead apparently. The steward passed me and said, —
“‘You’re not sick, are you, Sandie?’
“‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m only shamming. Ugh!’
“But by the time we were over the bay I was as sea-fast as any one on board. I got my sea legs, too.
“How blue the sea was now! How white the birds that skimmed over its surface! And the sails of ships that appeared in the distance were like snow when the sun shone over them.
“It wasn’t all sunshine even then, for a smart breeze was blowing, and cloud shadows chasing each other over the sea, just as I had often seen them do over fields of ripening grain in Glen Alva.
“I settled down to sea-life very easily now and very naturally. I soon knew every rope and spar and bolt in her, and was as happy as the sea-gulls. I cannot say more.
“We touched at Madeira, and here the captain took me on shore, and all over the place. What an isle of romance and beauty it is!
“We called in both at Saint Helena and Ascension, the former not the lonely sea-girt rock that old books describe, but a charming island of mountain, strath, and glen. Nor did I find Ascension to be a cinder with a few turtles on its beach. It has been cultivated to a wonderful extent, and I never did see a bluer, brighter ocean than that which laves its shores. The Cape of Good Hope hove in sight at last. I watched its bold and rugged coast as we came nearer and still more near to it.
“It was but like a long irregular cloud lying along the horizon at first. Then this cloud grew higher and darker and more defined. Then it grew bluer in parts, and lines stood boldly out towards us, then it turned blue and purple, oh! so lovely, and last of all it was a cloud no longer, but mountains stern and wild, and braelands covered half-way up with purple heath and wild flowers – geraniums I found afterwards these were – with rocks on the shore and a long white line of surf and sand.
“We did our business at the Cape and bore up for Australia.
“What a stretch of sea we had to cross, and what a length of time it was ere we reached Sydney!
“But I was not idle all these months. It was so good of Captain Pendrey, but he seemed to take a delight in teaching me navigation. He flattered me, too, I fear.
“‘You’re far too good and bright a boy,’ he said, ‘to stick before the mast.’
“So I worked and worked not only to please him, but because there was a prospect of my one day walking on the snowy quarter-deck of some beautiful barque, her proud commander.
“Every one on board loved our captain, although they called him the old man behind his back. From Australia we went to Hong Kong, then to Ceylon, from there to Calcutta, and then back again to Ceylon, and returned to India, lying up for repairs at the city of Bombay. And my kind captain never once went on shore without taking me with him, so that I saw so much that was strange in life, lad, that I could sit and talk in this cave for a month if my good friend here would bring us prog, and then I wouldn’t have half told you all my strange experiences.
“I had been now nearly two years at sea, and had passed one examination, so things were looking up.
“I dearly loved the sea and sea-life now. I would not have changed places with a land-lubber for all the world.
“We had many narrow escapes, of course, for our ship was a clipper, and the captain ‘cracked on.’ He did not mind risk so long as he made good voyages. But somehow I never dreamt of danger, not even while in the centre of a tornado in the Indian Ocean at night, and if there be a more fearful experience than that in the life of a mariner, I have yet to encounter it.
“Nor did I dream of danger even when seated of a night under the bright stars at the fo’c’stle head, while the men spun yarn after yarn of the awful dangers they had come through.
“‘I’ve been wrecked often and often,’ said our old ‘bo’sun’ one night. ‘I was in the Bombay when she was burned; I was a man-o’-war’s man then. Ah! Kennie, lad, it is a fearful thing, a fire at sea. I hope you’ll never see a burning ship. Over seventy of my shipmates were doomed that night, and some of them met worse deaths than drowning.
“‘Another time,’ he went on, ‘I was the only one saved out of a gunboat. I was taken off a bit of wreckage and rigging by the lifeboat after drifting about for twelve wet, cold, weary hours. Strange thing was this. I had been made captain of the foretop only a week before we were wrecked. ’Tis funny, mate, but it was on that same foretop I floated about so long. He! he! I was captain of the foretop then, and no mistake, and monarch of all I surveyed.’
“Just three weeks after this particular evening, Archie, I was away aloft one beautiful day. We were well down over the line, and bearing about South-South-East.
“There was a kind of haze over the ocean that day which made seeing distinctly difficult at any great distance, but I noticed what at first sight I thought was a bird or a shark’s fin. I hailed the deck as soon as I made out it was something afloat with men on it.
“‘Where away?’ came the reply.
“On pointing in the direction, the yards were trimmed, and we soon got nearer.
“The sight that met my eyes I will not forget till my dying day. The survivors of a ship that had foundered they were, half-naked, half-dead, sun-blistered, sinking wretches, five in all.
“They had been afloat on a raft for nine days without food to eat, and with hardly a drop of water to quench their awful thirst.
“From that day, Archie, I began to think that a sailor’s life had its dark as well as its rosy side.
“A year after this grief came. We were homeward bound. We got nearly to the Cape, and there our ship was dashed on a lee-shore, and I lost two of the best friends ever I had at sea, our poor captain and the dear old bo’sun.
“I was landed at Symon’s Town at last, and there, Archie, I got your letter, and found I was an orphan. And all this great grief came to me within a fortnight.
“I had been bound for English shores; my hopes beat high; in a few months longer, at most, I would once again clasp my dear mother in my arms, once more visit my home. Changed I knew the glen would be, but old friends would give me a warm greeting.
“Heigho! the blow fell; I determined not to return, and, Archie, from that day to this I have been a wanderer.
“But bless Providence for all His mercies! Archie, lad, I’m not badly off, and I have you.
“Shake hands, old boy. Now I’ve been doing all the talking, I shall take it out of you next, for I dearly love to hear your voice.
“Señor Gasco, mon ami, suppose we launch our little boat, and be off. I’m longing for supper and longing to sit down and rest in our mountain cottage. I don’t think I’ve been so happy for many and many a long year.
“Come along, Archie. How lovely the moonlight is playing over the water!”
Chapter Fourteen
Friday Night at Sea
“Now round the galley fire the merry crew,
With song and yarn and best of cheer,
Have gathered. And storms may rage, and seas may rise,
And thunders roll; they know not fear.”
Anon.
Scene: A ship at sea, south of the Cape of Good Hope. A steamer evidently from her build, though the funnel has been lowered, and a gale of wind is roaring through her rigging, bellying out the few sails she is able to carry till it looks as though the cloth would bust. She is making heavy weather, dipping the ends of her long yards right into the water, and plunging so much, that at times neither her jib-boom nor bows are visible in the foam and spray. She must be shipping tons of water. Looking at her as we are now doing with the eye of imagination, it would seem there could be little else save discomfort on board of her. And the night, too, is closing around her dark and thick. The sea is very troubled, the waves are racing, brawling, foam-crested billows, lightning plays around the ship every now and then, and thunders hurtle in the air, the awful noise appearing to run along over the sea. But let us go on board of her.
Here are Kenneth and Archie. Neither is on duty. Kenneth’s watch will come on deck at midnight. Archie, who is engineer of this craft, may be called upon at any moment to stir up the banked fires and get up steam.
This is the ship in which Kenneth has been second mate for eighteen months, including the time he lay sick or roamed convalescent on the South American shore, where Archie found him. They have bidden farewell to that beautiful coast, which in some parts is so enchanting, with its wealth of vegetation, its grand old woods, its fruit trees, its flower-trees, its flowers themselves, the life and loveliness that teems everywhere on the earth, in the air, in the sea, on the little islands, green and feathery, that peep up here and there out of the blue, on mountain top, and even in its caves, that I feel sad as well as sorrowful. I cannot pause to describe it all.
But why should I? My descriptions, after all, would fall flat on the senses of the reader, even with the aid of the best of illustrations, for no artist can give colour and movement combined. Go, reader, and see the world for yourself if you feel so inclined, and if ever you have the chance, I can tell you from long experience it is a very beautiful one.
“Well,” said Kenneth, “we came up here, Archie, lad, to have a walk, but I don’t see much chance. What a night it is going to be! How black the sky! How vivid the lightning! How close the horizon is – ”
The last part of Kenneth’s sentence was lost in a peal of thunder.
“Stand by! Jump, Archie. There is a comber.”
They both leapt on the top of the capstan as an immense green sea swept over the bows and came tearing aft, carrying everything movable before it.
When it passed away, and the water found partial exit by the scuppers, —
“I don’t think there will be much pleasure in a walk to-night, Kennie,” said Archie. “Wouldn’t I like to be back again on that flower mountain of yours!”
“Poor dear old Gasco!” said Kennie with a sigh. “You find good among people of all nations.”
“He was very sad when you bade him good-bye.”
“Yes, and I won’t forget his last words. They are so true ‘Farewell,’ he sighed rather than said, ‘farewell, if farewell it must be. This meeting to part, and meeting but to part with those one gets to love, is one of the most soul-sobering feelings attached to our lot here below. Ah!’ he continued, lifting up a finger – you know his style, Archie – ‘Ah! my young friend, what a joyful place heaven must be, if only for this one reason, we shall meet all our dear, dear friends again, and parting will be unknown! Farewell; we’ll meet Yonder, if not on earth again.’”
There was a pause in the conversation, filled in by the whistling wind and the ceaseless rush of the dashing waves.
“Well,” said Archie at last, “I cannot say that a night like this, Kennie, makes one feel enamoured of a sailor’s life.”
“You must take the shadow as well as the sunshine, though,” returned Kenneth. “You would rather be back at my boathouse cave, I daresay, at Cotago, launching the tub for a pleasant day among the islands, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed. Stand by; there is another wave.”
“Hark?” said Kennie during a lull. “They are singing forward, round the galley fire. I’ve a good mind to go and join them; will you come? a second officer can do what a first can’t.”
“Yes, take your flute; that will be an excuse.”
Given a trim ship and plenty of sea room, and it isn’t all the wind that can blow that will succeed in lowering the spirits of the British sailor.
The jolliest of the crew of the Brilliant were seated to-night near the galley fire, or they clung to lockers or lay on the deck; it is all the same. It was cold enough to make a fire pleasant and agreeable, and they were all within speaking distance; they had pipes and tobacco and plates of sea-pie, for it was Friday night, the old custom of making Friday a kind of Banian day being still kept up in some vessels of the merchant service.
“Hullo! Mr McAlpine,” cried the carpenter. “Right welcome, sir. And you too, Mr McCrane. Glad to see the smiling faces of the pair of you. Ain’t we, mates?”
“That we are,” and “that we be,” came the ready chorus.
“Some sea-pie, gentlemen,” said the cook, handing each a steaming basin of that most savoury dish.
“I made it,” cried the bo’sun.
“Not all,” cried another. “I rolled the paste.”
“And I cut the beef.”
“And I sliced the bacon.”
“And I chopped the onions.”
“And I pared the ’taters.” This last from the cabin-boy.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the jolly carpenter. “I say, maties, blowed if we haven’t all had a hand in the pie.”
“Well, it is jolly eating anyhow,” said Kenneth.
“The smell of it’s enough to raise a dying man,” quoth Archie.
“Bravo, sir,” cried the bo’sun, “and I hopes it makes ye both ’appy.”
“Happy, yes,” said Kenneth. “I’m so happy now, I can sing and play.”
“Oh I give us a toot on the old flute first.”
Kenneth gave them “a toot.”
“Now give us a song.”
“Let the gentleman take his breath,” the carpenter remonstrated.
“Never a breath,” persisted the bo’sun. “He must pay his footin’, I says. And I warrant you, too, he has as much pleasure in singing as we has in listenin’ to ’im.”
“Oh! shut up, old Barkshire,” said somebody.
“Barkshire be bothered,” cried the bo’sun. “I’m not ashamed to own my shire. You comes from the land o’ Tres and Pens; you’re west-country, you be. Have to fish for your breakfast every mornin’, else ye doesn’t get none: He! he!”
“Well, never mind,” said the good-natured carpenter, smiling. “We’re all nationalities here. Bill here is York; Tim is Irish; I’m just what Pipes calls me, Barkshire.”
“And I and my friend are Scotch,” said Kenneth.
“Hurrah! for a Scotch song, then.”
It wasn’t one, but several songs Kennie and Archie had to sing, but all Scotch, and what can beat them, reader mine?
“Sing ony o’ the auld Scotch sangs,
The blithesome or the sad;
They mak’ me laugh when I am wae,
And weep when I am glad.
Though eyes grow dim and hair grow grey,
Until the day I dee,
I’ll bless the Scottish tongue that sings
The auld Scotch sangs to me.”
There was no satisfying his audience, so once more Kennie had to fall back upon the flute. While playing, a heavy sea struck the vessel on the weather bow, and the water came tumbling down the hatchway; although it rushed forward among the men and hissed against the hot iron fending of the copper, they hardly shifted their positions.
But Kenneth played a selection of the best English, Irish, Scotch, and Welsh airs now, now merry, now plaintive and sad, now almost wailing, and anon merry again, once more.
There was a perfect chorus of applause when he had finished. The old bo’sun must crawl over to the corner where the musician was – although, owing to the motion of the ship, it was no easy task – and shake Kenneth by the hand.
“God bless you, young sir,” he said, and the tears were in his eyes. “I was back in bonnie Berkshire all the time you was a-playin’, sir. I saw my children, sir, runnin’ among the daisies, the crimson poppies growin’ among the corn’s green, the waving lime trees all in flower and covered with bees – ah! sir, you took the old man home, you took him home.”
“Don’t talk twaddle,” cried his tormentor; “he took us all home, for the matter o’ that.”
“Sit down, ye ould fool!” cried Tim O’Flaherty.
Kenneth put up his flute, and the bo’sun sat down beside him.
“Hark to the thunder!” he said; “listen to the thud o’ the seas. My eye! it is a night and a half. Just like the night we went over in the old Salanella.”
“Went over!” cried the carpenter. “What d’ye mean?”
“Why, I means what I says, to be sure. We turned turtle. Every soul below was called to his account, and only myself and five more managed to cling to the keel.”
“She must have been a barnacley old tub,” said the cook, “else you wouldn’t ha’ got over the copper.”
“You just mind your ladle, old man,” said the carpenter. “You’re only a cook, arter all, and Pipes knows what he’s a-talking about.”
“O’ course I does,” said Pipes. “Thank ye, Chips; it ain’t very often you takes my part. O’ course I knows what I’se a-talkin’ about. The keel rolled over to us, and we easily got on top.”
“Suffer much?”
Pipes did not look at the speaker, but away into vacancy as if he were recalling the past.
“Suffer!” he said. “I hope it may never be the lot o’ anybody in this galley to know what we suffered. For three days and nights o’ storm I and one other clung to that ship’s bottom; the rest dropped off one by one or slipped willingly into the sea, glad to end their terrible misery.
“I never did think the ocean was so vast and empty-like till then, mates. All the weary days we did nothing but gaze and gaze around us, and hope and hope, and pray and pray. Well, blessed be His name, mates, God heard our prayers at last. A ship – ’twas the second we’d seen, for the first took no notice of us – bore down and took us off, and that was no easy task in the condition our misery had reduced us to.”
“Listen,” cried one of the men.
There were three distinct knocks on the deck with a heavy boot; (A plan adopted in some merchant ships for calling the attention of those below to an order about to be given) then a stentorian voice sang down the hatchway, —
“All hands, shorten sail! Look alive there, lads. Tumble up. Tumble up.”
A fiercer squall than any the vessel had yet encountered struck her before the men had time to reach the yards, and the sails they would have furled were rent into ribbons, and the noise they made as they fluttered out in the breeze was like the volley-firing of a company of soldiers. It was two hours before those whose watch was not on deck got back to the galley fire. It had just gone eight bells in the last dog watch, so the evening was still young.