I did as I was desired, swallowed the grog, and turned in; but I could not have been in bed above an hour, when the drum beat to quarters, and I had once more to bundle out on the cold wet deck, where I found all excitement. At the time I speak of, we had been beaten by the Americans in several actions of single ships, and our discipline improved in proportion as we came to learn by sad experience that the enemy was not to be undervalued. I found that there was a ship in sight, right ahead of us—apparently carrying all sail. A group of officers were on the forecastle with night-glasses, the whole crew being stationed in dark clusters round the guns at quarters. Several of the American skippers were forward amongst us, and they were of opinion that the chase was a man-of-war, although our own people seemed to doubt this. One of the skippers insisted that she was the Hornet, from the unusual shortness of her lower masts, and the immense squareness of her yards. But the puzzle was, if it were the Hornet, why she did not shorten sail. Still this might be accounted for, by her either wishing to make out what we were before she engaged us, or she might be clearing for action. At this moment a whole cloud of studding-sails were blown from the yards as if the booms had been carrots; and to prove that the chase was keeping a bright lookout, she immediately kept away, and finally bore up dead before the wind, under the impression, no doubt, that she would draw ahead of us, from her gear being entire, before we could rig out our light sails again.
And so she did for a time, but at length we got within gun-shot. The American masters were now ordered below, the hatches were clapped on, and the word was passed to see all clear. Our shot was by this time flying over and over her, and it was evident she was not a man-of-war. We peppered away—she could not even be a privateer; we were close under her lee-quarter, and yet she had never fired a shot; and her large swaggering Yankee ensign was now run up to the peak, only to be hauled down the next moment. Hurrah! a large cotton ship, from Charleston to Bourdeaux, prize to H.M.S. Torch.
She was taken possession of, and proved to be the Natches, of four hundred tons burden, fully loaded with cotton.
By the time we got the crew on board, and the second lieutenant, with a prize crew of fifteen men, had taken charge, the weather began to lower again; nevertheless we took the prize in tow, and continued on our voyage for the next three days, without anything particular happening. It was the middle watch, when I was startled by a violent jerking of my hammock, and a cry “that the brig was amongst the breakers.” I ran on deck in my shirt, where I found all hands, and a scene of confusion such as I never had witnessed before. The gale had increased, yet the prize had not been cast off, and the consequence was, that by some mismanagement or carelessness, the sway of the large ship had suddenly hove the brig in the wind, and taken the sails aback. We accordingly fetched stern away, and ran foul of the prize, and there we were, in a heavy sea, with our stern grinding against the cotton ship’s high quarter.
The mainboom, by the first rasp that took place after I came on deck, was broken short off, and nearly twelve feet of it hove right in over the taffrail; the vessels then closed, and the next rub ground off the ship’s mizzen channel as clean as if it had been sawed away. Officers shouting, men swearing, rigging cracking, the vessels crashing and thumping together, I thought we were gone, when the first lieutenant seized his trumpet—“Silence, men; hold your tongues, you cowards, and mind the word of command!”
The effect was magical. “Brace round the foreyard; round with it—set the jib—that’s it—foretopmast staysail—haul—never mind if the gale takes it out of the bolt rope”—a thundering flap, and away it flew in truth down to leeward, like a puff of white smoke. “Never mind, men, the jib stands. Belay all that—down with the helm, now don’t you see she has stern way yet? Zounds! we shall be smashed to atoms if you don’t mind your hands, you lubbers—main-topsail sheets let fly—there she pays off, and has headway once more, that’s it—right your helm now—never mind his spanker-boom, the fore-stay will stand it—there—up with helm, sir—we have cleared him—hurrah!” And a near thing it was too, but we soon had everything snug; and although the gale continued without any intermission for ten days, at length we ran in and anchored with our prize in Five Fathom Hole, off the entrance to St. George’s Harbor.
It was lucky for us that we got to anchor at the time we did, for that same afternoon, one of the most tremendous gales of wind from the westward came on that I ever saw. Fortunately it was steady and did not veer about, and having good ground-tackle down, we rode it out well enough. The effect was very uncommon; the wind was howling over our mastheads, and amongst the cedar bushes on the cliffs above, while on deck it was nearly calm, and there was very little swell, being a weather shore; but half a mile out at sea all was white foam, and the tumbling waves seemed to meet from north and south, leaving a space of smooth water under the lee of the island, shaped like the tail of a comet, tapering away, and gradually roughening and becoming more stormy, until the roaring billows once more owned allegiance to the genius of the storm. Then we rode, with three anchors ahead, in safety through the night; and next day, availing of a temporary lull, we ran up, and anchored off the Tanks. Three days after this, the American frigate President was brought in by the Endymion, and the rest of the squadron.
TREASURE ISLAND
Jim Hawkins, the boy hero of Stevenson’s tale, had sailed with a party of adventuresome gentlemen on the ship Hispaniola, to find the pirate gold which, as they had private proof, lay buried on Treasure Island. Unfortunately, the crew was largely composed of ruffians, who had themselves been pirates, and who also knew of the buried treasure. On reaching the island, these fellows mutinied and tried to kill brave Captain Smollett and the party of gold-seekers. As their only means of safety the latter went ashore and entrenched themselves in a stockade which former visitors had built there; while the Hispaniola, anchored in the harbor, fell into the hands of the pirates, who promptly hoisted the black flag. One foggy night Jim, who was an adventurous and inquisitive lad, secretly stole out from the stockade and found hidden in a cove a tiny home-made boat, clumsy and queer. This boat was “buoyant and clever in a sea-way, but the most cross-grained, lopsided craft to manage. Turning round and round was the manœuvre she was best at.” However, he managed to paddle out to the Hispaniola, intending to cut her moorings. With some difficulty he accomplished this design, but immediately a change of wind and current seized both ship and coracle, and sent them spinning out through the narrows towards open sea. Expecting to be dashed in pieces on some bar or in the raging breakers, Jim lay down helpless, and overcome by weariness and anxiety fell asleep. “The Cruise of the Coracle” begins at this point.
(From Treasure Island.)By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
It was broad day when I awoke, and found myself tossing at the southwest end of Treasure Island. The sun was up, but was still hid from me behind the great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to the sea in formidable cliffs. Haulbowline Head and Mizzenmast Hill were at my elbow; the hill bare and dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high, and fringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.
That notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore, or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.
Nor was that all; for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge slimy monsters—soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness—two or three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their barkings.
I have understood since that they were sea-lions, and entirely harmless. But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.
In the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North of Haulbowline Head, the land runs in a long way, leaving, at low tide, a long stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes another cape—Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart—buried in tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.
I remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward along the whole west coast of Treasure Island; and seeing from my position that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave Haulbowline Head behind me, and reserve my strength for an attempt to land upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.
There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.
Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.
I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and struck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.
I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led me as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her course, what hope had I left of reaching land?
I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that. First, moving with all care, I gradually baled out the coracle with my sea-cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.
I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks from shore, or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided the steep slopes and higher, toppling summits of the waves.
“Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie where I am, and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.” No sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.
It was very tiring, and slow to work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, close in. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail.
It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow of the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the sea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the current had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.
Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the Hispaniola under sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water, that I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken entire possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but stare and wonder.
The Hispaniola was under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing; she was lying a course about north-west; and I presumed the men on board were going round the island on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind’s eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there a while helpless, with her sails shivering.
“Clumsy fellows,” said I; “they must still be drunk as owls.” And I thought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.
Meanwhile, the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead in the wind’s eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and down, north, south, east, and west, the Hispaniola sailed by swoops and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly-flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if so, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk, or had deserted her, I thought, and perhaps if I could get on board, I might return the vessel to her captain.
The current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate. As for the latter’s sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she hung each time so long in stays, that she certainly gained nothing, if she did not even lose. If only I dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that inspired me, and the thought of the water beaker beside the fore companion doubled my growing courage.
Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but this time stuck to my purpose; and set myself, with all my strength and caution, to paddle after the unsteered Hispaniola. Once I shipped a sea so heavy that I had to stop and bale, with my heart fluttering like a bird; but gradually I got into the way of the thing, and guided my coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows and a dash of foam in my face.
I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; I could see the brass glisten on the tiller as it banged about; and still no soul appeared upon her decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men were lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do what I chose with the ship.
For some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for me—standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all the time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these brought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was the worst thing possible for me; for helpless as she looked in this situation, with the canvas cracking like cannon, and the blocks trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her leeway, which was naturally great.
But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds, very low, and the current gradually turning her, the Hispaniola revolved slowly round her centre, and at last presented me her stern, with the cabin window still gaping open, and the lamp over the table still burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner. She was stock-still, but for the current.
For the last little while I had even lost; but now redoubling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.
I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap; she filled on the port tack, and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow.
My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me—round still till she had covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle.
And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think—scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet, and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the coracle, and that I was left without retreat on the Hispaniola.
(From The Swiss Family Robinson.)By JEAN RUDOLF WYSS.
For many days we had been tempest-tossed. Six times had the darkness closed over a wild and terrific scene, and returning light as often brought but renewed distress, for the raging storm increased in fury until on the seventh day all hope was lost. We were driven completely out of our course; no conjecture could be formed as to our whereabouts. The crew had lost heart, and were utterly exhausted by incessant labor....
My heart sank as I looked round upon my family in the midst of these horrors. Our four young sons were overpowered by terror. “Dear children,” said I, “if the Lord will, he can save us even from this fearful peril; if not, let us calmly yield our lives into his hand, and think of the joy and blessedness of finding ourselves forever and ever united in that happy home above.”
At these words my weeping wife looked bravely up, and, as the boys clustered round her, she began to cheer and encourage them with calm and loving words. I rejoiced to see her fortitude, though my heart was ready to break as I gazed on my dear ones....
Amid the roar of the thundering waves I suddenly heard the cry of “Land, land!” while at the same instant the ship struck with a frightful shock, which threw everyone to the deck, and seemed to threaten her immediate destruction.
Dreadful sounds betokened the breaking up of the ship, and the roaring waters poured in on all sides.
Then the voice of the captain was heard above the tumult, shouting, “Lower away the boats! We are lost!”...
Throughout the night my wife and I maintained our prayerful watch, dreading at every fresh sound some fatal change in the position of the wreck.
At length the faint dawn of day appeared, the long, weary night was over, and with thankful hearts we perceived that the gale had begun to moderate; blue sky was seen above us, and the lovely hues of sunrise adorned the eastern horizon.
I aroused the boys, and we assembled on the remaining portion of the deck, when they, to their surprise, discovered that no one else was on board.
“Hallo, papa! what has become of everybody? Are the sailors gone? Have they taken away the boats? Oh, papa! why did they leave us behind? What can we do by ourselves?”
“My good children,” I replied, “we must not despair, although we seem deserted. See how those on whose skill and good faith we depended have left us cruelly to our fate in the hour of danger. God will never do so. He has not forsaken us, and we will trust him still. Only let us bestir ourselves, and each cheerily do his best. Let each try to procure what will be of most use to us.”...
Fritz brought out a couple of guns, shot belt, powder flasks, and plenty of bullets.
Ernest produced a cap full of nails, an axe and a hammer, while pinchers, chisels, and augers stuck out of all his pockets.
Little Franz carried a box, and eagerly began to show us the “nice sharp little hooks” it contained. “Well done, Franz,” cried I; “these fish-hooks, which you, the youngest, have found, may contribute more than anything else in the ship to save our lives by procuring food for us. Fritz and Ernest, you have chosen well.”
“Will you praise me, too?” said my dear wife. “I have nothing to show, but I can give you good news. Some useful animals are still alive; a cow, a donkey, two goats, six sheep, a ram and a fine sow. I was but just in time to save their lives by taking food to them.”
“All these things are excellent indeed,” said I; “but my friend Jack here has presented me with a couple of huge, hungry, useless dogs, who will eat more than any of us.”
“Oh, papa, they will be of use! Why, they will help us to hunt when we get on shore!”
“No doubt they will, if ever we do get on shore, Jack; but I must say I don’t know how it is to be done.”
“Can’t we each get into a big tub, and float there?” returned he. “I have often sailed splendidly like that, round the pond at home.”
“My child, you have hit on a capital idea,” cried I. “Now, Ernest, let me have your tools, hammers, nails, saws, augers, and all; and then make haste to collect any tubs you can find!”
We very soon found four large casks, made of sound wood, and strongly bound with iron hoops; they were floating with many other things in the water in the hold, but we managed to fish them out, and drag them to a suitable place for launching them. They were exactly what I wanted, and I succeeded in sawing them across the middle. Hard work it was, and we were glad enough to stop and refresh ourselves with wine and biscuits.
My eight tubs now stood ranged in a row near the water’s edge, and I looked at them with great satisfaction; to my surprise, my wife did not seem to share my pleasure!
“I shall never,” said she, “muster courage to get into one of those!”
“Do not be too sure of that, dear wife; when you see my contrivance completed, you will perhaps prefer it to this immovable wreck.”...
All being ready, we cast off, and moved away from the wreck. My good, brave wife sat in the first compartment of the boat; next her was Franz, a pretty little boy, nearly eight years old. Then came Fritz, a handsome, spirited young fellow of fifteen; the two centre tubs contained the valuable cargo; then came our bold, thoughtless Jack; next him Ernest, my second son, intelligent, well-formed, and rather indolent. I myself, the anxious, loving father, stood in the stern, endeavoring to guide the raft with its precious burden to a safe landing-place.
The elder boys took the oars; every one wore a float belt, and had something useful close to him in case of being thrown into the water.
The tide was flowing, which was a great help to the young oarsmen. We emerged from the wreck and glided into the open sea. All eyes were strained to get a full view of the land, and the boys pulled with a will; but for some time we made no progress, as the boat kept turning round and round, until I hit upon the right way to steer it, after which we merrily made for the shore.
We had left two large dogs, Turk and Juno, on the wreck, as being both large mastiffs we did not care to have their additional weight on board our craft; but when they saw us apparently deserting them, they set up a piteous howl, and sprang into the sea. I was sorry to see this, for the distance to the land was so great that I scarcely expected them to be able to accomplish it. They followed us, however, and, occasionally resting their fore-paws on the outriggers, kept up with us well. Jack was inclined to deny them this, their only chance of safety. “Stop,” said I, “that would be unkind as well as foolish; remember, the merciful man regardeth the life of his beast.”
Our passage, though tedious, was safe; but the nearer we approached the shore the less inviting it appeared; the barren rocks seemed to threaten us with misery and want.
Many casks, boxes, and bales of goods floated on the water around us. Fritz and I managed to secure a couple of hogsheads, so as to tow them alongside. With the prospect of famine before us, it was desirable to lay hold of anything likely to contain provisions.
By and by we began to perceive that, between and beyond the cliffs, green grass and trees were discernible. Fritz could distinguish many tall palms, and Ernest hoped they would prove to be cocoanut trees, and enjoyed the thought of drinking the refreshing milk.
“I am very sorry I never thought of bringing away the captain’s telescope,” said I.
“Oh, look here, father!” cried Jack, drawing a little spyglass joyfully out of his pocket.
By means of this glass, I made out that at some distance to the left the coast was much more inviting; a strong current however, carried us directly toward the frowning rocks, but I presently observed an opening, where a stream flowed into the sea, and saw that our geese and ducks were swimming towards this place. I steered after them into the creek, and we found ourselves in a small bay or inlet where the water was perfectly smooth and of moderate depth. The ground sloped gently upward from the low banks of the cliffs, which here retired inland, leaving a small plain, on which it was easy for us to land. Everyone sprang gladly out of the boat but little Franz, who, lying packed in his tub like a potted shrimp, had to be lifted out by his mother....
Fritz meanwhile, leaving a loaded gun with me, took another himself, and went along the rough coast to see what lay beyond the stream; this fatiguing sort of walk not suiting Ernest’s fancy, he sauntered down to the beach, and Jack scrambled among the rocks, searching for shellfish.
I was anxious to land the two casks which were floating alongside our boat, but on attempting to do so I found that I could not get them up the bank on which we had landed, and was therefore obliged to look for a more convenient spot. As I did so, I was startled by hearing Jack shouting for help, as though in great danger. He was at some distance, and I hurried toward him with a hatchet in my hand. The little fellow stood screaming in a deep pool, and as I approached, I saw that a huge lobster had caught his leg in its powerful claw. Poor Jack was in a terrible fright; kick as he would, his enemy still clung on. I waded into the water, and seizing the lobster firmly by the back, managed to make it loosen its hold, and we brought it safe to land. Jack, having speedily recovered his spirits, and anxious to take such a prize to his mother, caught the lobster in both hands, but instantly received such a severe blow from its tail that he flung it down, and passionately hit the creature with a large stone. This display of temper vexed me. “You are acting in a very childish way, my son,” said I; “never strike an enemy in a revengeful spirit.” Once more lifting the lobster, Jack ran triumphantly toward the tent.
“Mother, mother! a lobster, Ernest! look here, Franz! mind, he’ll bite you! Where’s Fritz?” All came crowding round Jack and his prize, wondering at its unusual size, and Ernest wanted his mother to make lobster soup directly, by adding it to what she was now boiling.
She, however, begged to decline making any such experiment, and said she preferred cooking one dish at a time. Having remarked that the scene of Jack’s adventure afforded a convenient place for getting my casks on shore, I returned thither and succeeded in drawing them up on the beach, where I set them on end, and for the present left them.
On my return, I resumed the subject of Jack’s lobster, and told him he should have the offending claw all to himself, when it was ready to be eaten, congratulating him on being the first to discover anything useful.
“As to that,” said Ernest, “I found something very good to eat, as well as Jack, only I could not get at them without wetting my feet.”
“Pooh!” cried Jack, “I know what he saw—nothing but some nasty mussels; I saw them too. Who wants to eat trash like that? Lobster for me!”
“I believe them to be oysters, not mussels,” returned Ernest calmly.
“Be good enough, my philosophical young friend, to fetch a few specimens of these oysters in time for our next meal,” said I; “we must all exert ourselves, Ernest, for the common good, and pray never let me hear you object to wetting your feet. See how quickly the sun has dried Jack and me.”
“I can bring some salt at the same time,” said Ernest. “I remarked a good deal lying in the crevices of the rocks; it tasted very pure and good, and I concluded it was produced by the evaporation of sea-water in the sun.”
“Extremely probable, learned sir,” cried I; “but if you had brought a bagful of this good salt instead of merely speculating so profoundly on the subject, it would have been more to the purpose. Run and fetch some directly.”
It proved to be salt sure enough, although so impure that it seemed useless, till my wife dissolved and strained it, when it became fit to put in the soup.
“Why not use the sea-water itself?” asked Jack.
“Because,” said Ernest, “it is not only salt, but bitter too. Just try it.”
“Now,” said my wife, tasting the soup with the stick with which she had been stirring it, “dinner is ready, but where can Fritz be?” she continued, a little anxiously....
He presently appeared before us, his hands behind his back, and a look of disappointment upon his countenance.
“Unsuccessful!” said he.
“Really!” I replied; “never mind, my boy, better luck next time.”
“Oh, Fritz!” exclaimed his brothers, who had looked behind him, “a sucking-pig, a little sucking-pig. Where did you get it? How did you shoot it? Do let us see it!”....
“It was one of several,” said Fritz, “which I found on the shore; most curious animals they are; they hopped rather than walked, and every now and then would squat down on their legs and rub their snouts with their fore-paws. Had not I been afraid of losing them all, I would have tried to catch one alive, they seemed so tame.”
Meanwhile Ernest had been carefully examining the animal in question.
“This is no pig,” he said; “and except for its bristly skin, does not look like one. See, its teeth are not like those of a pig, but rather those of a squirrel. In fact,” he continued, looking at Fritz, “your sucking-pig is an agouti.”
“Dear me,” said Fritz; “listen to the great professor lecturing! He is going to prove that a pig is not a pig!”
“You need not be so quick to laugh at your brother,” said I, in my turn; “he is quite right. I, too, know the agouti by descriptions and pictures, and there is little doubt that this is a specimen. The little animal is a native of North America, where it makes its nest under the roots of trees, and lives upon fruit. But, Ernest, the agouti not only looks something like a pig, but most decidedly grunts like a porker.”
While we were thus talking, Jack had been vainly endeavoring to open an oyster with his large knife. “Here is a simpler way,” said I, placing an oyster on the fire; it immediately opened. “Now,” I continued, “who will try this delicacy?” All at first hesitated to partake of them, so unattractive did they appear. Jack, however, tightly closing his eyes and making a face as though about to take medicine, gulped one down. We followed his example, one after the other, each doing so rather to provide himself with a spoon than with any hope of cultivating a taste for oysters.
Our spoons were now ready, and gathering round the pot we dipped them in, not, however, without sundry scalded fingers. Ernest then drew from his pocket the large shell he had procured for his own use, and scooping up a good quantity of soup he put it down to cool, smiling at his own foresight.
“Prudence should be exercised for others,” I remarked; “your cool soup will do capitally for the dogs, my boy; take it to them, and then come and eat like the rest of us....”
By this time the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and the poultry, which had been straying to some little distance, gathered round us, and began to pick up the crumbs of biscuits which had fallen during our repast. My wife hereupon drew from her mysterious bag some handfuls of oats, peas, and other grain, and with them began to feed the poultry. She showed me at the same time several other seeds of various vegetables. “That was indeed thoughtful,” said I; “but pray be careful of what will be of such value to us; we can bring plenty of damaged biscuits from the wreck, which, though of no use as food for us, will suit the fowls very well indeed.”
The pigeons now flew up to crevices in the rocks, the fowls perched themselves on our tent pole, and the ducks waddled off, cackling and quacking, to the marshy margin of the river. We, too, were ready for repose, and having loaded our guns, and offered up our prayers to God, thanking Him for His many mercies to us, we commended ourselves to His protecting care, and as the last ray of light departed, closed our tent and lay down to rest.
NOTES
Cooper, J. F., born in New Jersey, 1789; died, 1851. He followed the sea for five years, after three years at Yale. His first novel, “Precaution,” was published when he was thirty. His chief books are “The Spy,” “The Pilot,” “The Last of the Mohicans,” “The Prairie,” “Red Rover,” “The Bravo,” “The Pathfinder,” “The Deerslayer,” “The Two Admirals,” “Wing and Wing,” and “Satanstoe,” all of them either sea-tales or tales of frontier life.Bullen, F. T., English author and lecturer, born, 1857; educated at a dame’s school; started life as errand-boy; from 1869 to 1883 was at sea in all capacities up to and including chief mate, then clerk in the English meteorological office until 1899. In addition to “The Cruise of the Cachalot,” he has written “Idylls of the Sea,” “The Log of a Sea Waif,” “The Men of the Merchant Service,” “With Christ at Sea,” and many articles, poems, and sketches.Cleveland, R. J., was the brother of the great-grandfather of Grover Cleveland; born in Salem in 1740; died about 1786; when sixteen years old was seized by a press-gang in Boston streets, and served for several years on board an English frigate under William Trelawney, afterwards Sir William, Governor of Jamaica. He was long occupied in the merchant service; and when the Revolution broke out he, with his brigPilgrim, captured over fifty British prizes. His “Narrative of Voyages and Commercial Enterprises” was not published until 1842, and it was republished at once in England, and went through three editions here.Cupples, George, born in Berwickshire, Scotland, 1822; died, 1901. Son of a Scottish clergyman. He had a strong desire to go to sea: at sixteen he was apprenticed as a sailor, and made a voyage to India and back. After studying art and divinity, on his return, he devoted himself to literature, and besides “The Green Hand,” he wrote “The Two Frigates” and some other books, and contributed largely to magazines.Dana, R. H., American author and lawyer; born, 1815; died 1882; graduated at Harvard 1837; afterward shipped as a common sailor and made a voyage to California. He described the voyage in “Two Years Before the Mast.” Became a distinguished maritime lawyer, and wrote “The Seaman’s Friend,” “To Cuba and Back,” and edited an edition of Wheaton’s International Law.Defoe, D., born in London, 1661; died, 1731; a great politician in his time, but best remembered by his “Robinson Crusoe.” His political pamphlets, of which he wrote over four hundred, caused him to be imprisoned and pilloried, and his books to be burned by the common hangman. Among his other writings are “The Memoirs of a Cavalier,” “Captain Singleton,” “A History of the Plague,” and “The History of Colonel Jack.”Dickens, Charles, born, 1812; died, 1870. As a boy he had a very hard life, and much of the story of “David Copperfield” is autobiographical. He became a reporter, and began to write about 1833. His chief books are “Sketches by Boz,” “Pickwick,” “Oliver Twist,” “Nicholas Nickleby,” “Old Curiosity Shop,” “Barnaby Rudge,” “A Tale of Two Cities,” “Martin Chuzzlewit,” “Bleak House,” “Dombey and Son,” “Little Dorrit,” and “Our Mutual Friend.”Ingelow, J., English poetess and novelist, born, 1820; died, 1899. Her chief novels are “Off the Skelligs,” “Fated to be Free,” “Don John,” and “Sarah de Berenger.” “The Hightide on the Coast of Lincolnshire,” and “A Story of Doom,” are the best known of her poetical writings.Kingsley, Charles, an English clergyman and author, born in Devonshire, 1819; died, 1875. From 1844, until his death, he was rector of Eversley, in Hampshire. In 1873 he was appointed Canon of Westminster and Chaplain to Queen Victoria. He wrote “Alton Locke” and “Yeast,” “Two Years Ago,” “Hereward the Wake,” “Hypatia,” and “Westward Ho!” And under the pen-name of “Parson Lot” wrote much on Christian Socialism. A charming book of travel, “At Last,” and “The Heroes,” “Glaucus,” “The Water Babies,” “Prose Idylls,” “Health and Education,” are some of his other books. His “Life,” by his widow, is a most interesting biography.Kingston, W. H. G., English writer of boys’ stories; born, 1814; died, 1880. His father was a merchant in Oporto, and his voyages thence to London gave him his knowledge of ships and sailing. His first book for boys, “Peter, the Whaler,” had an immense success. Among his most popular books are “The Three Midshipmen,” “The Three Lieutenants,” and “The Three Admirals.” He wrote over 120 books of this kind, all simple, vigorous, and healthy in tone.Loti, Pierre, French marine officer and author, born in 1850. He entered the navy in 1867, and at first sailed the Pacific Ocean. He went through the Chinese campaign with distinction. Among his numerous books may be cited, “Aziyadé,” “Le Mariage de Loti,” “The Romance of a Spahi,” “The Iceland Fisherman,” “Madame Chrysanthemum,” “The Romance of a Child,” “The Book of Pity and of Death,” and “A Phantom of the East.”Marryat, Capt. F., English author, born, 1792; died, 1848. In 1806 went as midshipman on board the frigateImpérieuse. He followed the sea until 1830, and then devoted himself to literature. He wrote “Frank Mildmay,” “The King’s Own,” “Peter Simple,” “Jacob Faithful,” “Mr. Midshipman Easy,” “Snarleyyow,” “The Pasha of Many Tales,” etc. In 1837 he visited America, and afterward published his “Diary in America;” “Settlers in Canada,” and “The Children of the New Forest,” were his last works.Melville, H., American author, born, 1819; died, 1891; became a sailor, and deserted, owing to the captain’s harsh treatment; was kept prisoner by a savage tribe in the Marquesas Islands, and was rescued by an Australian whaler. “Typee” contains an account of this adventure. “Omoo” continues his adventures in the Marquesas. “Moby Dick” and “Red Jacket” are among his best-known sea tales. He also published some volumes of verse.Reade, C., English novelist and playwright, born, 1814; died, 1884; studied at Oxford, and was called to the bar. He wrote several plays which proved very popular. Of his eighteen novels may be mentioned “Peg Woffington,” “Christie Johnson,” “It is Never Too Late to Mend,” “The Cloister and the Hearth,” “Hard Cash,” “Griffith Gaunt,” “Foul Play,” and “A Terrible Temptation.”Russell, W. Clark, sea-story writer, born in New York, 1844. Son of Henry Russell, author of “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.” He went to sea in a merchantman at thirteen and a half, but abandoned it after seven or eight years. His first nautical novel was “John Holdsworth, Chief Mate” (published in 1874). “The Wreck of the Grosvenor” is the most popular of his stories. He also wrote “A Sailor’s Sweetheart,” “Little Lou,” “An Ocean Free Lance,” “A Sea Queen,” “The Lady Maud,” “My Shipmate Louise,” “Round the Galley Fire,” “An Ocean Tragedy,” “The Emigrant Ship,” “List, Ye Landsmen,” “What Cheer,” “The Two Captains,” “The Romance of a Midshipman,” and many others.Scott, Michael, English author, born, 1789; died, 1835. Spent a great part of his life in the West Indies, and finally established himself in business in Glasgow, where he died. He wrote “Tom Cringle’s Log” and “The Cruise of the Midge,” and contributed largely to Blackwood’s Magazine, in which these stories first appeared.Stevenson, R. L., born in Edinburgh, 1850; died, 1894; was trained as a lawyer, but soon turned his attention to literature. From his childhood he had written constantly. Among essays and stories, he wrote “An Inland Voyage,” “Travels with a Donkey,” “Virginibus Puerisque,” “New Arabian Nights,” “Treasure Island,” “Kidnapped,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” “Prince Otto,” “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” etc., and “A Child’s Garden of Verse.”Wyss, J. R., born in Switzerland, 1781; died, 1830, at Bern, where he was professor of philosophy and chief librarian. “The Swiss Family Robinson” is the work by which his name is best remembered. It appeared in two volumes in 1812-13. Was translated into English, the first volume in 1820, the second in 1849. Since then countless editions have appeared.
Cooper, J. F., born in New Jersey, 1789; died, 1851. He followed the sea for five years, after three years at Yale. His first novel, “Precaution,” was published when he was thirty. His chief books are “The Spy,” “The Pilot,” “The Last of the Mohicans,” “The Prairie,” “Red Rover,” “The Bravo,” “The Pathfinder,” “The Deerslayer,” “The Two Admirals,” “Wing and Wing,” and “Satanstoe,” all of them either sea-tales or tales of frontier life.
Bullen, F. T., English author and lecturer, born, 1857; educated at a dame’s school; started life as errand-boy; from 1869 to 1883 was at sea in all capacities up to and including chief mate, then clerk in the English meteorological office until 1899. In addition to “The Cruise of the Cachalot,” he has written “Idylls of the Sea,” “The Log of a Sea Waif,” “The Men of the Merchant Service,” “With Christ at Sea,” and many articles, poems, and sketches.
Cleveland, R. J., was the brother of the great-grandfather of Grover Cleveland; born in Salem in 1740; died about 1786; when sixteen years old was seized by a press-gang in Boston streets, and served for several years on board an English frigate under William Trelawney, afterwards Sir William, Governor of Jamaica. He was long occupied in the merchant service; and when the Revolution broke out he, with his brigPilgrim, captured over fifty British prizes. His “Narrative of Voyages and Commercial Enterprises” was not published until 1842, and it was republished at once in England, and went through three editions here.
Cupples, George, born in Berwickshire, Scotland, 1822; died, 1901. Son of a Scottish clergyman. He had a strong desire to go to sea: at sixteen he was apprenticed as a sailor, and made a voyage to India and back. After studying art and divinity, on his return, he devoted himself to literature, and besides “The Green Hand,” he wrote “The Two Frigates” and some other books, and contributed largely to magazines.
Dana, R. H., American author and lawyer; born, 1815; died 1882; graduated at Harvard 1837; afterward shipped as a common sailor and made a voyage to California. He described the voyage in “Two Years Before the Mast.” Became a distinguished maritime lawyer, and wrote “The Seaman’s Friend,” “To Cuba and Back,” and edited an edition of Wheaton’s International Law.
Defoe, D., born in London, 1661; died, 1731; a great politician in his time, but best remembered by his “Robinson Crusoe.” His political pamphlets, of which he wrote over four hundred, caused him to be imprisoned and pilloried, and his books to be burned by the common hangman. Among his other writings are “The Memoirs of a Cavalier,” “Captain Singleton,” “A History of the Plague,” and “The History of Colonel Jack.”
Dickens, Charles, born, 1812; died, 1870. As a boy he had a very hard life, and much of the story of “David Copperfield” is autobiographical. He became a reporter, and began to write about 1833. His chief books are “Sketches by Boz,” “Pickwick,” “Oliver Twist,” “Nicholas Nickleby,” “Old Curiosity Shop,” “Barnaby Rudge,” “A Tale of Two Cities,” “Martin Chuzzlewit,” “Bleak House,” “Dombey and Son,” “Little Dorrit,” and “Our Mutual Friend.”
Ingelow, J., English poetess and novelist, born, 1820; died, 1899. Her chief novels are “Off the Skelligs,” “Fated to be Free,” “Don John,” and “Sarah de Berenger.” “The Hightide on the Coast of Lincolnshire,” and “A Story of Doom,” are the best known of her poetical writings.
Kingsley, Charles, an English clergyman and author, born in Devonshire, 1819; died, 1875. From 1844, until his death, he was rector of Eversley, in Hampshire. In 1873 he was appointed Canon of Westminster and Chaplain to Queen Victoria. He wrote “Alton Locke” and “Yeast,” “Two Years Ago,” “Hereward the Wake,” “Hypatia,” and “Westward Ho!” And under the pen-name of “Parson Lot” wrote much on Christian Socialism. A charming book of travel, “At Last,” and “The Heroes,” “Glaucus,” “The Water Babies,” “Prose Idylls,” “Health and Education,” are some of his other books. His “Life,” by his widow, is a most interesting biography.
Kingston, W. H. G., English writer of boys’ stories; born, 1814; died, 1880. His father was a merchant in Oporto, and his voyages thence to London gave him his knowledge of ships and sailing. His first book for boys, “Peter, the Whaler,” had an immense success. Among his most popular books are “The Three Midshipmen,” “The Three Lieutenants,” and “The Three Admirals.” He wrote over 120 books of this kind, all simple, vigorous, and healthy in tone.
Loti, Pierre, French marine officer and author, born in 1850. He entered the navy in 1867, and at first sailed the Pacific Ocean. He went through the Chinese campaign with distinction. Among his numerous books may be cited, “Aziyadé,” “Le Mariage de Loti,” “The Romance of a Spahi,” “The Iceland Fisherman,” “Madame Chrysanthemum,” “The Romance of a Child,” “The Book of Pity and of Death,” and “A Phantom of the East.”
Marryat, Capt. F., English author, born, 1792; died, 1848. In 1806 went as midshipman on board the frigateImpérieuse. He followed the sea until 1830, and then devoted himself to literature. He wrote “Frank Mildmay,” “The King’s Own,” “Peter Simple,” “Jacob Faithful,” “Mr. Midshipman Easy,” “Snarleyyow,” “The Pasha of Many Tales,” etc. In 1837 he visited America, and afterward published his “Diary in America;” “Settlers in Canada,” and “The Children of the New Forest,” were his last works.
Melville, H., American author, born, 1819; died, 1891; became a sailor, and deserted, owing to the captain’s harsh treatment; was kept prisoner by a savage tribe in the Marquesas Islands, and was rescued by an Australian whaler. “Typee” contains an account of this adventure. “Omoo” continues his adventures in the Marquesas. “Moby Dick” and “Red Jacket” are among his best-known sea tales. He also published some volumes of verse.
Reade, C., English novelist and playwright, born, 1814; died, 1884; studied at Oxford, and was called to the bar. He wrote several plays which proved very popular. Of his eighteen novels may be mentioned “Peg Woffington,” “Christie Johnson,” “It is Never Too Late to Mend,” “The Cloister and the Hearth,” “Hard Cash,” “Griffith Gaunt,” “Foul Play,” and “A Terrible Temptation.”
Russell, W. Clark, sea-story writer, born in New York, 1844. Son of Henry Russell, author of “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.” He went to sea in a merchantman at thirteen and a half, but abandoned it after seven or eight years. His first nautical novel was “John Holdsworth, Chief Mate” (published in 1874). “The Wreck of the Grosvenor” is the most popular of his stories. He also wrote “A Sailor’s Sweetheart,” “Little Lou,” “An Ocean Free Lance,” “A Sea Queen,” “The Lady Maud,” “My Shipmate Louise,” “Round the Galley Fire,” “An Ocean Tragedy,” “The Emigrant Ship,” “List, Ye Landsmen,” “What Cheer,” “The Two Captains,” “The Romance of a Midshipman,” and many others.
Scott, Michael, English author, born, 1789; died, 1835. Spent a great part of his life in the West Indies, and finally established himself in business in Glasgow, where he died. He wrote “Tom Cringle’s Log” and “The Cruise of the Midge,” and contributed largely to Blackwood’s Magazine, in which these stories first appeared.
Stevenson, R. L., born in Edinburgh, 1850; died, 1894; was trained as a lawyer, but soon turned his attention to literature. From his childhood he had written constantly. Among essays and stories, he wrote “An Inland Voyage,” “Travels with a Donkey,” “Virginibus Puerisque,” “New Arabian Nights,” “Treasure Island,” “Kidnapped,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” “Prince Otto,” “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” etc., and “A Child’s Garden of Verse.”
Wyss, J. R., born in Switzerland, 1781; died, 1830, at Bern, where he was professor of philosophy and chief librarian. “The Swiss Family Robinson” is the work by which his name is best remembered. It appeared in two volumes in 1812-13. Was translated into English, the first volume in 1820, the second in 1849. Since then countless editions have appeared.
A BOOK OF SEA STORIES
SUGGESTIONS FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Loss of the Swansea, by William L. AldenThe Coral Island, by Robert M. BallentynePicked up Adrift, by James DeMillePerseverance Island, by Douglas FraserVoyage of the Constance, by Mary GilliesVoyages of Elizabethan Seamen, by E. HakluytStories of the Sea, by Edward Everett HaleStarboard and Port, by George H. HepworthTwenty Years at Sea, by Frederick Stanhope HillThe Sinking of the Merrimac, by Richmond P. HobsonCaptains Courageous, by Rudyard KiplingNotable Voyages from Columbus to Parry, by W. H. G. KingstonSix Months on a Slaver, by E. ManningNorthward Ho, by Albert H. MarkhamTypee, by Herman MelvilleIn Peril and Privation, by James PayneThe Boy Tar, by Mayne ReidAround the World with the Blue Jackets, by H. D. RhodesVoyage to the Cape, by William Clark RussellFrom Forecastle to Cabin, by S. SamuelsMidshipman PauldingTwelve Naval Captains, by Molly E. SeawellThirty Years at Sea, by Edward ShippenSailor Boys of ’61, by James R. SoleyFrom Pole to Pole, by Gordon StablesBy Way of Cape Horn, by Paul E. StevensonTreasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Loss of the Swansea, by William L. AldenThe Coral Island, by Robert M. BallentynePicked up Adrift, by James DeMillePerseverance Island, by Douglas FraserVoyage of the Constance, by Mary GilliesVoyages of Elizabethan Seamen, by E. HakluytStories of the Sea, by Edward Everett HaleStarboard and Port, by George H. HepworthTwenty Years at Sea, by Frederick Stanhope HillThe Sinking of the Merrimac, by Richmond P. HobsonCaptains Courageous, by Rudyard KiplingNotable Voyages from Columbus to Parry, by W. H. G. KingstonSix Months on a Slaver, by E. ManningNorthward Ho, by Albert H. MarkhamTypee, by Herman MelvilleIn Peril and Privation, by James PayneThe Boy Tar, by Mayne ReidAround the World with the Blue Jackets, by H. D. RhodesVoyage to the Cape, by William Clark RussellFrom Forecastle to Cabin, by S. SamuelsMidshipman PauldingTwelve Naval Captains, by Molly E. SeawellThirty Years at Sea, by Edward ShippenSailor Boys of ’61, by James R. SoleyFrom Pole to Pole, by Gordon StablesBy Way of Cape Horn, by Paul E. StevensonTreasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson