At the dinner which followed, Neptune took the head of the table, with his wife on his right and McBain himself as vice-president. The dinner was good even for the Arrandoon, and that is saying a deal. In size, in odour, and beauty of rotundity, the plum-pudding that two stalwart men carried in and placed in front of Neptune, was something to remember for ever and a day. Size? Why, Neptune could have served it out with his trident. Ay! and everybody had two helps, and looked all the healthier and happier after them.
Our three chief heroes were in fine form, Rory in one of his funniest, happiest moods. And why not? Had not he dubbed himself Queen o’ the May? Yes, and well he sustained the part.
I am not sure how Neptune managed to possess himself of so many bottles of Silas Grig’s green ginger, but there they were, and they went all round the table, and even the men of the crew seemed to prefer it to rum. The toasts given by the men were not a few, and all did honour to the manliness of their hearts. The songs sung ere the table was cleared were all well worth listening to, though some were ballads of extreme length.
Neptune was full of anecdotes of his life and adventures, and his wife also had a good deal to say about hers, which caused many a peal of laughter to rattle round the table.
Some of the men recited pieces of their own composition. Here is one by the crew’s pet, Ted Wilson to wit:
The Ghost of the Cochin-Shanghai
’Tis a tale of the Greenland ocean,
A tale of the Northern seas,
Of a ship that sailed from her native land
On the wings of a favouring breeze;
Her skipper as brave a seaman
As ever set sail before,
Her crew all told as true and bold
As ever yet left the shore.
And never a ship was better “found,”
She couldn’t be better, I know,
With beef in the rigging and porkers to kill,
And tanks filled with water below;
And turkeys to fatten, and ducklings and geese,
And the best Spanish pullets to lay;
But the pride of the ship, and the pet of the mess,
Was a Brahma cock, Cochin-Shanghai.
And every day when the watches were called,
This cock crew so cheery O!
With a shrill cock-a-lee, and a hoarse cock-a-lo,
And a long cock-a-leerie O!
But still as the grave was the brave bird at night,
For well did he know what was best;
Yes, well the cock knew that most of the crew
Were weary and wanted their rest
But one awful night he awoke in a fright,
Then wasn’t it dreary O!
To hear him crow, with a hoarse cock-a-lo,
And a shrill cock-a-leerie O!
Oh!
Then out of bed scrambled the men in a mass,
“We cannot get sleep,” they all cried;
“May we never reach dock till we silence that cock,
We’ll never have peace till the villain is fried.”
All dressed as they were in the garments of night,
Though the decks were deep covered with snow,
They chased the cock round, with wild yell and bound,
But they never got near him – no. And wherever he flew, still the bold
Cochin crew, With a shrill cock-a-lee, and a hoarse cock-a-lo,
And a long cock-a-leerie O!
Now far up aloft defiant he stands,
Like an eagle in eerie O!
Till a sea-boot at last, knocked him down from the mast,
And he sunk in the ocean below.
But the saddest part of the story is this:
He hadn’t quite finished his crow,
He’d got just as far as the hoarse cock-a-lo
But failed at the leerie O!
Oh-h!
And that ship is still sailing, they say, on the sea,
Though ’tis hundreds of years ago;
Till they silence that cock they’ll ne’er reach a dock,
Nor lay down their burden of woe;
For out on the boom, till the crack of doom,
The ghost of the Cochin will crow,
With his shrill cock-a-lee, and his hoarse cock-a-lo,
But never the leerie O!
No!
They tell me at times that the ship may be seen
Straggling on o’er the billows o’ blue,
That the hardest of hearts would melt like the snow,
To witness the grief of that crew,
As they eye the cold waves, and long for their graves,
Looking so weary O!
Will he never have done with that weird cock-a-lo,
As get to the leerie O!
Oh-h!
Dinner discussed, the fun commenced. In the first place, there were sailors’ dances, and the floor was kept pretty well filled one way or another. But certainly the dances of the evening were the barber’s “break-down,” Rory’s “Irish jig,” and the doctor’s “Hielan fling.” They were solos, of course, and the barber was the first to take the floor; and oh! the shuffling and the double-shuffling, and the tripleing and double-tripleing of that wonderful hornpipe! No wonder he was cheered, and encored, and cheered again. Then came Rory, dressed in natty knickerbockers and carrying a shillelah! nobody could say at times which end of him was uppermost, or whether he did not just as often strike his seemingly adamantine head with his heels as with his shillelah. Lastly came Sandy McFlail in Highland costume, and being a countryman of my own, I must be modestly mum on the performance, only, towards the end of the “fling,” you saw before you such a mist of waving arms and legs and plaid-ends, that you could not have been sure it was Sandy at all, and not an octopus.
But hark! there comes a shriek from the pack, so loud that it drowns the sounds of music and merriment. Men grow suddenly serious. Again they hear it, and there is a perceptible movement – a kind of thrill under their feet. It is the wail that never fails to give the first announcement of the breaking up of the sea of ice.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Breaking Up of the Great Ice Pack – In the Nips – The “Canny Scotia” on her Beam-Ends – Staving of the “Arrandoon.”
In the very midst of joy and pleasure in this so-called weary world, we are oftentimes very nigh to grief and pain.
See yonder Swiss village by the foot of the mountain, how peacefully it is sleeping in the moonlight; not a sound is to be heard save the occasional crowing of a wakeful cock, or the voice of watch-dog baying the moon. The inhabitants have gone to bed hours and hours ago, and their dreams, if they dream at all, are assuredly not dreams of danger. But hark to that terrible noise far overhead. Is it thunder? Yes, the thunder of a mighty avalanche. Nearer and nearer it rolls, till it reaches the devoted village, then all is desolation and woe.
See yet another village, far away in sunny Africa; its little huts nestle around the banyan-tree, the tall cocoa-palm, and the wide-spreading mango. They are a quiet, inoffensive race who inhabit that village. They live south of the line, far away from treacherous Somali Indians or wild Magulla men; they never even dreamt of war or bloodshed. They certainly do not dream of it now.
“The babe lies in its mother’s arms,
The wife’s head pillowed on the husband’s breast.”
Suddenly there is a shout, and when they awake – oh! horror! their huts are all in flames, the Arab slavers are on them, and – I would not harrow your young feelings by describing the scenes that follow.
But a ship – and this is coming nearer home – may be sailing over a rippling sea, with the most pleasant of breezes filling her sails, no land in sight, and every one, fore and aft, as happy as the birds on an early morning in summer, when all at once she rasps, and strikes – strikes on a rock, the very existence of which was never even suspected before. In half an hour perhaps that vessel has gone down, and those that are saved are afloat in open boats, the breeze freshening every moment, the wavetops breaking into cold spray, night coming on, and dark, threatening clouds banking up on the windward horizon.
When the first wail arose from the pack that announced the breaking up of the sea of ice, a silence of nearly a minute fell on the sailors assembled at the entertainment. Music stopped, dancing ceased, and every one listened. The sound was repeated, and multiplied, and the ship quivered and half reeled.
McBain knew the advantage of remaining calm and retaining his presence of mind in danger. Because he was a true sailor. He was not like the sailor captains you read of in penny dreadfuls – half coal-heaver, half Herzegovinian bandit.
“Odd, isn’t it?” he muttered, as he stroked his beard and smiled; then in a louder voice he gave his orders.
“Men,” he said, “we’ll have some work to do before morning – get ready. The ice is breaking up. Pipe down, boatswain. Mr Stevenson, see to the clearing away of all this hamper.”
Then, followed by Rory and the doctor, he got away out into the daylight.
The ships were all safe enough as yet, and there was only perceptible the gentlest heaving motion in the pack. Sufficient was it, however, to break up the bay ice between the bergs, and this with a series of loud reports, which could be heard in every direction. McBain looked overboard somewhat anxiously; the broken pieces of bay ice were getting ploughed up against the ship’s side with a noise that is indescribable, not so much from its extreme loudness as from its peculiarity; it was a strange mixture of a hundred different noises, a wailing, complaining, shrieking, grinding noise, mingled with a series of sharp, irregular reports.
“It is like nothing earthly,” said Rory, “that ever I heard before; and when I close my eyes for a brace of seconds, I could imagine that down on the pack there two hundred tom-cats had lain down to die, that twenty Highland bag-pipers – twenty Peters – were playing pibrochs of lament, and that just forenenst them a squad of militia-men was firing a feu-de-joie, and that neither the militia-men nor the pipers either were as self-contained as they should be on so solemn an occasion.”
The doctor was musing; he was thinking how happy he had been half an hour ago, and now – heigho; it was just possible he would never get back to Iceland again, never see his blue-eyed Danish maiden more.
“Pleasures,” he cried, “pleasures, Captain McBain – ”
“Yes,” said McBain, “pleasures – ”
“Pleasures,” continued the doctor, —
“‘Are like poppies shed,
You seize the flower, the bloom is fled.’
“I’ll gang doon below. Bed is the best place.”
“Perhaps,” said McBain, smiling, “but not the safest. Mind, the ship is in the nips, and a berg might go through her at any moment. There is the merest possibility of your being killed in your bed. That’s all; but that won’t keep you on deck.”
Mischievous Rory was doing ridiculous attitudes close behind the worthy surgeon.
“What?” cried Sandy, in his broadest accent. “That not keep me on deck! Man, the merest possibility of such a cawtawstrophy would keep me on deck for a month.”
“A vera judeecious arrangement,” hissed Rory in his ear, for which he was chased round the deck, and had his own ears well pulled next minute. The doctor had him by the ear when Allan and Ralph appeared on the scene.
“Hullo!” they laughed, “Rory got in for it again.”
“Whustle,” cried Sandy.
“I only said ‘a vera – ’” began Rory.
“Whustle, will ye?” cried the doctor.
“I can’t ‘whustle,’” laughed Rory. But he had to “whustle,” and then he was free.
“It’s going to be a tough squeeze,” said Silas to McBain.
“Yes; and, worse luck, the swell has set in from the east,” answered the captain.
“I’m off to the Canny Scotia; good morning.”
“One minute, Captain Grig; we promised to hoist up Cobb’s cockle-shell. Lend us a hand with your fellows, will you?”
“Ay, wi’ right good will,” said Silas.
There were plenty of spars on board the Arrandoon big enough to rig shears, and these were sent overboard without delay, with ropes and everything else required.
The men of the Arrandoon, assisted by those of the Canny Scotia, worked with a readiness and will worthy even of our gallant Royal Engineers. A shears was soon rigged, and a winch got up. On a spar fastened along the cockle-shell’s deck the purchase was made, and, under the superintendence of brave little Ap, the work began.
For a long time the “shell” refused to budge, so heavily did the ice press around her; the spar on her deck started though, several times. “Worse luck,” thought little Ap. He had the spar re-fastened. Tried again. The same result followed. Then little Ap considered, taking “mighty” big pinches of snuff the while.
“We won’t do like that,” he said to himself, “because, look you see, the purchase is too much on the perpendicular. Yes, yes.”
Then he had the spar elevated a couple of yards, and fastened between the masts, which he had strengthened by lashing extra spars to them. The result of this was soon apparent. The hawsers tightened, the little yacht moved, even the pressure of the ice under her helped to lift her as soon as she began to heel over, and, in half an hour afterwards, the cockle-shell lay in a very ignominious position indeed – beam-ends on the ice.
“Bravo!” cried Silas, when the men had finished their cheering. “Bravo! what would long Cobb say now? what would he say? Ha! ha! ha!”
Silas Grig laughed and chuckled till his face grew redder than ever, but he would not have been quite so gay, I think, had he known what was so soon to happen to his own ship.
Stevenson touched McBain on the shoulder.
“The ice presses heavy on the rudder, sir.”
“Then unship it,” said McBain.
“And I’ll unship mine,” said Silas.
Unshipping rudders is a kind of drill that few save Greenland sailors ever learn, but it is very useful at times, nevertheless.
In another hour the rudders of the two ships were hoisted and laid on the bergs. So that was one danger past.
But others were soon to follow, for the swell under the ice increased, the bergs all around them rolled higher and higher. The noise from the pack was terrific, as the pieces met and clashed and ground their slippery sides together. In an hour or two the bay ice had been either ground to slush, or piled in packs on top of the bergs, so that the bergs had freedom to fight, as it were. Alas! for the two ships that happened to be between the combatants. Their position was, indeed, far from an enviable one. Hardly had an hour elapsed ere the ice-harbours McBain and Silas had prided themselves in, were wrecked and disintegrated. They were then, in some measure, at the mercy of the enemy, that pressed them closely on every quarter. The Canny Scotia was the worst off – she lay between two of the biggest bergs in the pack. McBain came to his assistance with torpedoes. He might as well have tried to blow them to pieces with a child’s pop-gun. Better, in fact, for he would have had the same sport with less trouble and expense, and the result would have been equally gratifying.
For once poor Silas lost his equanimity. He actually wrung his hands in grief when he saw the terrible position of his vessel.
“My poor shippie,” he said. “Heaven help us! I was building castles in the air. But she is doomed! My bonnie ship is doomed.”
At the same time he wisely determined not to be idle, so provisions and valuables were got on shore, and all the men’s clothes and belongings.
As nothing more could be done, Silas grew more contented. “It was just his luck,” he said, “just his luck.”
Long hours of anxiety to every one went slowly past, and still the swell kept up, and the bergs lifted and fell and swung on the unseen billows, and ground viciously against the great sides of the Arrandoon. Now the Canny Scotia was somewhat Dutchified in her build – not as to bows but as to bottom. She was not a clipper by any manner of means, and her build saved her. The ice actually ground her up out of the water till she lay with her beam-ends on the ice, and her keel completely exposed.
(As did the P – e, of Peterhead, once for weeks. The men lived on the ice alongside, expecting the vessel to sink as soon as the ice opened. The captain, however, would not desert his ship, but slept on board, his mattress lying on the ship’s side. The author’s ship was beset some miles off at the same time.)
But the Arrandoon had no such build. The ice caught under her forefoot, and she was lifted twelve feet out of the water. No wonder McBain and our heroes were anxious. The former never went below during all the ten hours or more that the squeeze lasted. But the swells gradually lessened, and finally ceased. The Arrandoon regained her position, and lost her list, but there lay the Canny Scotia, a pitiable sight to see, like some giant overthrown, silent yet suffering.
When the pumps of the Arrandoon had been tried, and it was found that there was no extra water in her, McBain felt glad indeed, and thanked God from his inmost heart for their safe deliverance from this great peril. He could now turn his attention to consoling his friend Silas. After dinner that day, said McBain, —
“Your cabin is all ready, Captain Grig, for of course you will sleep with us now.”
But Silas arose silently and calmly.
“I needn’t say,” he replied, “how much I feel your manifold acts of kindness, but Silas Grig won’t desert his ship. His bed is on the Canny Scotia.”
“But, my dear fellow,” insisted McBain, “the ice may open in an hour, and your good ship go down.”
“Then,” said Silas, “I go with her, and it will be for you to tell my owners and my little wife – heaven keep her! – that Skipper Grig stuck to his ship to the last.”
What could McBain say, what argument adduce, to prevent this rough old tar from risking his life in what he considered a matter of duty? Nothing! and so he was dumb.
Then away went Silas home, as he called it, to his ship. He lowered himself down by a rope, clambered over the doorway of the cabin, took one glance at the chaos around, then walked tenderly over the bulkhead, and so literally down to his bed. He found the mattress and bed-clothes had fallen against the side, and so there this good man, this true sailor, laid him down and slept the sleep of the just.
But the Scotia did not go to the bottom; she lay there for a whole week, defying all attempts to move her, Silas sleeping on board every night, the only soul in her, and his crew remaining on the Arrandoon. At the end of that time the ice opened more; then the prostrate giant seemed to begin to show signs of returning life. She swayed slightly, and looked as if she longed once more to feel the embrace of her native element; seeing which, scientific assistance was given her. Suddenly she sprang up as does a fallen horse, and hardly had the men time to seek safety on the neighbouring bergs, when she took the water – relaunched herself – with a violence that sent the spray flying in every direction with the force of a cataract. It would have been well had the wetting the crew received been the only harm done.
It was not, for the bergs moved asunder with tremendous force. One struck the Arrandoon in her weakest part – amidships, under the water-line. She was stove, the timbers bent inwards and cracked, and the bunks alongside the seat of accident were dashed into matchwood. Poor old Duncan Gibb, who was lying in one of these bunks with an almost united fracture of one of his limbs, had the leg broken over again.
“Never mind, Duncan,” said the surgeon, consolingly, “I didn’t make a vera pretty job of it last time. I’ll make it as straight as a dart this turn!”
“Vera weel, sir; and so be it,” was poor contented Duncan’s reply, as he smiled in his agony.
“Dear me, now!” said Silas, some time afterwards; “I could simply cry – make a big baby of myself and cry. It would be crying for joy and grief, you know – joy that my old shippie should show so much pluck as to right herself like a race-horse, and grief to think she should go and stave the Arrandoon. The ungrateful old jade!”
“Never mind,” said McBain, cheerfully, “Ap and the carpenters will soon put the Arrandoon all right. We will shift the ballast, throw her over to starboard, and repair her, and the place will be, like Duncan’s leg, stronger than ever.”
It did not take very long to right Captain Cobb’s cockle-shell, and all the vessels being now in position again, and the ice opening, it might have been as well to have got steam up at once, and felt the way to the open water. McBain decided to make good repairs first; it was just as easy to list the ship among the ice as out of it, and probably less dangerous. Besides, the water kept pouring in, and the beautiful arrangement of blankets and hammock-cloths which Ap had devised, hardly sufficed to keep it out. – This decision of the captain nearly cost the life of two of our best-loved heroes, and poor old Seth as well. But their adventure demands a chapter, or part of one at least, to itself.