Chapter Four.The Escape.“Well, Millons, what news?” inquired the captain, as he stepped on deck.“Bad news, sir, I fear” replied the first mate. “I found, on coming aboard, that no one knew anything about Sling, so I went ashore at once and ’urried up to the hospital, w’ere, sure enough, I found ’im lyin’ with his ’ead bandaged, and lookin’ as if ’e were about gone. They asked me if I knew what ship ’e belonged to, as the police wanted to know. So I told ’em I knew well enough, but I wasn’t going to tell if it would get the poor fellow into a scrape.“‘Why don’t you ask himself?’ says I.“They told me ’e was past speaking, so I tried to make ’im understand, but ’e only mumbled in reply. W’en I was about to go ’e seemed to mumble very ’ard, so I put down my ear to listen, and ’e w’ispered quite distinct tho’ very low—‘All right, my ’eartie. I’m too cute for ’em by a long way; go aboard an’ say nothin’.’ So I came away, and I’ve scarce been five minutes aboard before you arrived. My own opinion is, that ’e’s crazed, and don’t know what ’e’s sayin’.”“Oh!” ejaculated Captain Dunning. “He said that, did he? Thenmyopinion is, that he’s not so crazed as you think. Tell the watch, Mr Millons, to keep a sharp look-out.”So saying, Captain Dunning descended to the cabin, and Rokens to the forecastle (in sea phraseology the “fok-sail”), while Glynn Proctor procured a basin and a piece of soap, and proceeded to rub the coat of charcoal off his face and hands.Half-an-hour had not elapsed when the watch on deck heard a loud splash near the wharf, as if some one had fallen into the water. Immediately after, a confused sound of voices and rapid footsteps was heard in the street that opened out upon the quay, and in a few seconds the end of the wharf was crowded with men who shouted to each other, and were seen in the dim starlight to move rapidly about as if in search of something.“Wot can it be?” said Tim Rokens in a low voice, to a seaman who leaned on the ship’s bulwarks close to him.“Deserter, mayhap,” suggested the man.While Rokens pondered the suggestion, a light plash was heard close to the ship’s side, and a voice said, in a hoarse whisper, “Heave us a rope, will ye. Look alive, now. Guess I’ll go under in two minits if ye don’t.”“Oho!” exclaimed Rokens, in a low, impressive voice, as he threw over the end of a rope, and, with the aid of the other members of the watch, hauled Nikel Sling up the side, and landed him dripping and panting on the deck.“W’y—Sling! what on airth—?” exclaimed one of the men.“It’s lucky—I am—on airth—” panted the tall cook, seating himself on the breech of one of the main-deck carronades, and wringing the water from his garments. “An’ it’s well I’m not at the bottom o’ this ’ere ’arbour.”“But where did ye come from, an’ why are they arter ye, lad?” inquired Rokens.“W’y? ’cause they don’t want to part with me, and I’ve gi’n them the slip, I guess.”When Nikel Sling had recovered himself so as to talk connectedly, he explained to his wondering shipmates how that, after being floored in the street, he had been carried up to the hospital, and on recovering his senses, found Mr Millons standing by the bedside, conversing with the young surgeons. The first words of their conversation showed him that something was wrong, so, with remarkable self-possession, he resolved to counterfeit partial delirium, by which means he contrived to give the first mate a hint that all was right, and declined, without creating suspicion, to give any intelligible answers as to who he was or where he had come from.The blow on his head caused him considerable pain, but his mind was relieved by one of the young surgeons, who remarked to another, in going round the wards, that the “skull of that long chap wasn’t fractured after all, and he had no doubt he would be dismissed cured in a day or two.” So the cook lay quiet until it was dark.When the house-surgeon had paid his last visit, and the nurses had gone their rounds in the accident-ward, and no sound disturbed the quiet of the dimly-lighted apartment save the heavy fitful breathing and occasional moans and restless motions of the sufferers, Nikel Sling raised himself on his elbow, and glanced stealthily round on the rows of pain-worn and haggard countenances around him. It was a solemn sight to look upon, especially at that silent hour of the night. There were men there with almost every species of painful wound and fracture. Some had been long there, wasting away from day to day, and now lay quiet, though suffering, from sheer exhaustion. Others there were who had been carried in that day, and fidgeted impatiently in their unreduced strength, yet nervously in their agony; or, in some cases, where the fear of death was on them, clasped their hands and prayed in whispers for mercy to Him whose name perhaps they had almost never used before except for the purpose of taking it in vain.But such sights had little or no effect on the cook, who had rubbed hard against the world’s roughest sides too long to be easily affected by the sight of human suffering, especially when exhibited in men. He paused long enough to note that the nurses were out of the way or dozing, and then slipping out of bed, he stalked across the room like a ghost, and made for the outer gateway of the hospital. He knew the way, having once before been a temporary inmate of the place. He reached the gate undiscovered, tripped up the porter’s heels, opened the wicket, and fled towards the harbour, followed by the porter and a knot of chance passers-by. The pursuers swelled into a crowd as he neared the harbour.Besides being long-limbed, Nikel Sling was nimble. He distanced his pursuers easily, and, as we have seen, swam off and reached his ship almost as soon as they gained the end of the wharf.The above narration was made much more abruptly and shortly than we have presented it, for oars were soon heard in the water, and it behoved the poor hunted cook to secrete himself in case they should take a fancy to search the vessel. Just as the boat came within a few yards of the ship he hastily went below.“Boat ahoy!” shouted Tim Rokens; “wot boat’s that?”The men lay on their oars.“Have you a madman on board your ship?” inquired the gatekeeper of the hospital, whose wrath at the unceremonious treatment he had received had not yet cooled down.“No,” answered Rokens, laying his arms on the bulwarks, and looking down at his questioner with a sly leer; “no, we ha’n’t, but you’ve got a madman aboord that boat.”“Who’s that?” inquired the warder, who did not at first understand the sarcasm.“Why, yourself, to be sure,” replied Rokens, “an’ the sooner you takes yourself off, an’ comes to an anchor in a loo-natick asylum, the better for all parties consarned.”“No, but I’m in earnest, my man—”“Asfar as that goes,” interrupted the imperturbable Rokens, “so am I.”“The man,” continued the gatekeeper, “has run out of the hospital with a smashed head, I calc’late, stark starin’ mad, and gone off the end o’ the w’arf into the water—”“You don’t mean it!” shouted Rokens, starting with affected surprise. “Now youarea fine fellow, ain’t you, to be talkin’ here an’ wastin’ time while a poor feller-mortal is bein’ drownded, or has gone and swummed off to sea—p’r’aps without chart, compass, or rudder! Hallo, lads! tumble up there! Man overboard! tumble up, tumble up!”In less than three minutes half-a-dozen men sprang up the hatchway, hauled up the gig which swung astern, tumbled into it, and began to pull wildly about the harbour in search of the drowning man. The shouts and commotion roused the crews of the nearest vessels, and ere long quite a fleet of boats joined in the search.“Wos he a big or a little feller?” inquired Rokens, panting from his exertions, as he swept up to the boat containing the hospital warder, round which several of the other boats began to congregate.“A big fellow, I guess, with legs like steeples. He was sloping when they floored him. A thief, I expect he must ha’ bin.”“A thief!” echoed Rokens, in disgust; “why didn’t ye say, so at first? If he’s a thief, he’s born to be hanged, so he’s safe and snug aboard his ship long ago, I’ll be bound. Good-night t’ye, friend, and better luck next time.”A loud laugh greeted the ears of the discomfited warder as the crews of the boats dipped their oars in the water and pulled towards, their respective ships.Next morning, about daybreak, little Alice Dunning came on board her father’s ship, accompanied by her two aunts, who, for once, became utterly and publicly regardless of appearances and contemptuous of all propriety, as they sobbed on the child’s neck and positively refused to be comforted.Just as the sun rose, and edged the horizon with a gleam of liquid fire, theRed Ericspread her sails and stood out to sea.
“Well, Millons, what news?” inquired the captain, as he stepped on deck.
“Bad news, sir, I fear” replied the first mate. “I found, on coming aboard, that no one knew anything about Sling, so I went ashore at once and ’urried up to the hospital, w’ere, sure enough, I found ’im lyin’ with his ’ead bandaged, and lookin’ as if ’e were about gone. They asked me if I knew what ship ’e belonged to, as the police wanted to know. So I told ’em I knew well enough, but I wasn’t going to tell if it would get the poor fellow into a scrape.
“‘Why don’t you ask himself?’ says I.
“They told me ’e was past speaking, so I tried to make ’im understand, but ’e only mumbled in reply. W’en I was about to go ’e seemed to mumble very ’ard, so I put down my ear to listen, and ’e w’ispered quite distinct tho’ very low—‘All right, my ’eartie. I’m too cute for ’em by a long way; go aboard an’ say nothin’.’ So I came away, and I’ve scarce been five minutes aboard before you arrived. My own opinion is, that ’e’s crazed, and don’t know what ’e’s sayin’.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Captain Dunning. “He said that, did he? Thenmyopinion is, that he’s not so crazed as you think. Tell the watch, Mr Millons, to keep a sharp look-out.”
So saying, Captain Dunning descended to the cabin, and Rokens to the forecastle (in sea phraseology the “fok-sail”), while Glynn Proctor procured a basin and a piece of soap, and proceeded to rub the coat of charcoal off his face and hands.
Half-an-hour had not elapsed when the watch on deck heard a loud splash near the wharf, as if some one had fallen into the water. Immediately after, a confused sound of voices and rapid footsteps was heard in the street that opened out upon the quay, and in a few seconds the end of the wharf was crowded with men who shouted to each other, and were seen in the dim starlight to move rapidly about as if in search of something.
“Wot can it be?” said Tim Rokens in a low voice, to a seaman who leaned on the ship’s bulwarks close to him.
“Deserter, mayhap,” suggested the man.
While Rokens pondered the suggestion, a light plash was heard close to the ship’s side, and a voice said, in a hoarse whisper, “Heave us a rope, will ye. Look alive, now. Guess I’ll go under in two minits if ye don’t.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Rokens, in a low, impressive voice, as he threw over the end of a rope, and, with the aid of the other members of the watch, hauled Nikel Sling up the side, and landed him dripping and panting on the deck.
“W’y—Sling! what on airth—?” exclaimed one of the men.
“It’s lucky—I am—on airth—” panted the tall cook, seating himself on the breech of one of the main-deck carronades, and wringing the water from his garments. “An’ it’s well I’m not at the bottom o’ this ’ere ’arbour.”
“But where did ye come from, an’ why are they arter ye, lad?” inquired Rokens.
“W’y? ’cause they don’t want to part with me, and I’ve gi’n them the slip, I guess.”
When Nikel Sling had recovered himself so as to talk connectedly, he explained to his wondering shipmates how that, after being floored in the street, he had been carried up to the hospital, and on recovering his senses, found Mr Millons standing by the bedside, conversing with the young surgeons. The first words of their conversation showed him that something was wrong, so, with remarkable self-possession, he resolved to counterfeit partial delirium, by which means he contrived to give the first mate a hint that all was right, and declined, without creating suspicion, to give any intelligible answers as to who he was or where he had come from.
The blow on his head caused him considerable pain, but his mind was relieved by one of the young surgeons, who remarked to another, in going round the wards, that the “skull of that long chap wasn’t fractured after all, and he had no doubt he would be dismissed cured in a day or two.” So the cook lay quiet until it was dark.
When the house-surgeon had paid his last visit, and the nurses had gone their rounds in the accident-ward, and no sound disturbed the quiet of the dimly-lighted apartment save the heavy fitful breathing and occasional moans and restless motions of the sufferers, Nikel Sling raised himself on his elbow, and glanced stealthily round on the rows of pain-worn and haggard countenances around him. It was a solemn sight to look upon, especially at that silent hour of the night. There were men there with almost every species of painful wound and fracture. Some had been long there, wasting away from day to day, and now lay quiet, though suffering, from sheer exhaustion. Others there were who had been carried in that day, and fidgeted impatiently in their unreduced strength, yet nervously in their agony; or, in some cases, where the fear of death was on them, clasped their hands and prayed in whispers for mercy to Him whose name perhaps they had almost never used before except for the purpose of taking it in vain.
But such sights had little or no effect on the cook, who had rubbed hard against the world’s roughest sides too long to be easily affected by the sight of human suffering, especially when exhibited in men. He paused long enough to note that the nurses were out of the way or dozing, and then slipping out of bed, he stalked across the room like a ghost, and made for the outer gateway of the hospital. He knew the way, having once before been a temporary inmate of the place. He reached the gate undiscovered, tripped up the porter’s heels, opened the wicket, and fled towards the harbour, followed by the porter and a knot of chance passers-by. The pursuers swelled into a crowd as he neared the harbour.
Besides being long-limbed, Nikel Sling was nimble. He distanced his pursuers easily, and, as we have seen, swam off and reached his ship almost as soon as they gained the end of the wharf.
The above narration was made much more abruptly and shortly than we have presented it, for oars were soon heard in the water, and it behoved the poor hunted cook to secrete himself in case they should take a fancy to search the vessel. Just as the boat came within a few yards of the ship he hastily went below.
“Boat ahoy!” shouted Tim Rokens; “wot boat’s that?”
The men lay on their oars.
“Have you a madman on board your ship?” inquired the gatekeeper of the hospital, whose wrath at the unceremonious treatment he had received had not yet cooled down.
“No,” answered Rokens, laying his arms on the bulwarks, and looking down at his questioner with a sly leer; “no, we ha’n’t, but you’ve got a madman aboord that boat.”
“Who’s that?” inquired the warder, who did not at first understand the sarcasm.
“Why, yourself, to be sure,” replied Rokens, “an’ the sooner you takes yourself off, an’ comes to an anchor in a loo-natick asylum, the better for all parties consarned.”
“No, but I’m in earnest, my man—”
“Asfar as that goes,” interrupted the imperturbable Rokens, “so am I.”
“The man,” continued the gatekeeper, “has run out of the hospital with a smashed head, I calc’late, stark starin’ mad, and gone off the end o’ the w’arf into the water—”
“You don’t mean it!” shouted Rokens, starting with affected surprise. “Now youarea fine fellow, ain’t you, to be talkin’ here an’ wastin’ time while a poor feller-mortal is bein’ drownded, or has gone and swummed off to sea—p’r’aps without chart, compass, or rudder! Hallo, lads! tumble up there! Man overboard! tumble up, tumble up!”
In less than three minutes half-a-dozen men sprang up the hatchway, hauled up the gig which swung astern, tumbled into it, and began to pull wildly about the harbour in search of the drowning man. The shouts and commotion roused the crews of the nearest vessels, and ere long quite a fleet of boats joined in the search.
“Wos he a big or a little feller?” inquired Rokens, panting from his exertions, as he swept up to the boat containing the hospital warder, round which several of the other boats began to congregate.
“A big fellow, I guess, with legs like steeples. He was sloping when they floored him. A thief, I expect he must ha’ bin.”
“A thief!” echoed Rokens, in disgust; “why didn’t ye say, so at first? If he’s a thief, he’s born to be hanged, so he’s safe and snug aboard his ship long ago, I’ll be bound. Good-night t’ye, friend, and better luck next time.”
A loud laugh greeted the ears of the discomfited warder as the crews of the boats dipped their oars in the water and pulled towards, their respective ships.
Next morning, about daybreak, little Alice Dunning came on board her father’s ship, accompanied by her two aunts, who, for once, became utterly and publicly regardless of appearances and contemptuous of all propriety, as they sobbed on the child’s neck and positively refused to be comforted.
Just as the sun rose, and edged the horizon with a gleam of liquid fire, theRed Ericspread her sails and stood out to sea.
Chapter Five.Day Dreams and Adventures among the Clouds—A Chase, a Battle, and a Victory.Early morning on the ocean! There is poetry in the idea; there is music in the very sound. As there is nothing new under the sun, probably a song exists with this or a similar title; if not, we now recommend it earnestly to musicians.Ailie Dunning sat on the bulwarks of theRed Eric, holding on tightly by the mizzen-shrouds, and gazing in open-eyed, open-mouthed, inexpressible delight upon the bright calm sea. She was far, far out upon the bosom of the Atlantic now. Sea-sickness—which during the first part of the voyage, had changed the warm pink of her pretty face into every imaginable shade of green—was gone, and the hue of health could not now be banished even by the rudest storm. In short, she had become a thorough sailor, and took special delight in turning her face to windward during the wild storm, and drinking-in the howling blast as she held on by the rigid shrouds, and laughed at the dashing spray—for little Ailie was not easily frightened. Martha and Jane Dunning had made it their first care to implant in the heart of their charge a knowledge of our Saviour’s love, and especially of His tenderness towards, and watchful care over, the lambs of His flock. Besides this, little Ailie was naturally of a trustful disposition. She had implicit confidence in the strength and wisdom of her father, and it never entered into her imagination to dream that it was possible for any evil to befall the ship whichhecommanded.But, although Ailie delighted in the storm, she infinitely preferred the tranquil beauty and rest of a “great calm,” especially at the hour just before sunrise, when the freshness, brightness, and lightness of the young day harmonised peculiarly with her elastic spirit. It was at this hour that we find her alone upon the bulwarks of theRed Eric.There was a deep, solemn stillness around, that irresistibly and powerfully conveyed to her mind the idea of rest. The long, gentle undulation of the deep did not in the least detract from this idea. So perfect was the calm, that several masses of clouds in the sky, which shone with the richest saffron light, were mirrored in all their rich details as if in a glass. The faintest possible idea of a line alone indicated, in one direction, where the water terminated and the sky began. A warm golden haze suffused the whole atmosphere, and softened the intensity of the deep-blue vault above.There was, indeed, little variety of object to gaze upon—only the water and the sky. But what a world of delight did not Ailie find in that vast sky and that pure ocean, that reminded her of the sea of glass before the great white throne, of which she had so often read in Revelation. The towering masses of clouds were so rich and thick, that she almost fancied them to be mountains and valleys, rocks and plains of golden snow. Nay, she looked so long and so ardently at the rolling mountain heights in the sky above, and their magical counterparts in the sky below, that she soon, as it were,thought herself intoFairyland, and began a regular journey of adventures therein.Such a scene at such an hour is a source of gladsome, peaceful delight to the breast of man in every stage of life; but it is a source of unalloyed, bounding, exhilarating, romantic, unspeakable joy only in the years of childhood, when the mind looks hopefully forward, and before it has begun—as, alas! it must begin, sooner or later—to gaze regretfully back.How long Ailie would have sat in motionless delight it is difficult to say. The man at the wheel having nothing to do, had forsaken his post, and was leaning over the stern, either lost in reverie, or in a vain effort to penetrate with his vision the blue abyss to the bottom. The members of the watch on deck were either similarly engaged or had stowed themselves away to sleep in quiet corners among blocks and cordage. No one seemed inclined to move or speak, and she would probably have sat there immovable for hours to come, had not a hand fallen gently on her shoulder, and by the magic of its simple contact scattered the bright dreams of Fairyland as the finger-touch destroys the splendour of the soap-bubble.“Oh! Glynn,” exclaimed Ailie, looking round and heaving a deep sigh; “I’ve been away—far, far away—you can’t believe how far.”“Away, Ailie! Where have you been?” asked Glynn, patting the child’s head as he leaned over the gunwale beside her.“In Fairyland. Up in the clouds yonder. Out and in, and up and down. Oh, you’ve no idea. Just look.” She pointed eagerly to an immense towering cloud that rose like a conspicuous landmark in the centre of the landscape of the airy world above. “Do you see that mountain?”“Yes, Ailie; the one in the middle, you mean, don’t you? Yes, well?”“Well,” continued the child, eagerly and hurriedly, as if she feared to lose the thread of memory that formed the warp and woof of the delicate fabric she had been engaged in weaving; “well, I began there; I went in behind it, and I met a fairy—not really, you know, but I tried to think I met one, so I began to speak to her, and then I made her speak to me, and her voice was so small and soft and sweet. She had on silver wings, and a star—a bright star in her forehead—and she carried a wand with a star on the top of it too. So I asked her to take me to see her kingdom, and I made her say she would—and, do you know, Glynn, I really felt at last as if she didn’t wait for me to tell her what to say, but just went straight on, answering my questions, and putting questions to me in return. Wasn’t it funny?“Well, we went on, and on, and on—the fairy and me—up one beautiful mountain of snow and down another, talking all the time so pleasantly, until we came to a great dark cave; so I made up my mind to make a lion come out of it; but the fairy said, ‘No, let it be a bear;’ and immediately a great bear came out. Wasn’t it strange? It really seemed as if the fairy had become real, and could do things of her own accord.”The child paused at this point, and looking with an expression of awe into her companion’s face, said— “Do you think, Glynn, that people canthinkso hard that fairiesreallycome to them?”Glynn looked perplexed.“No, Ailie, I suspect they can’t—not because we can’t think hard enough, but because there are no fairies to come.”“Oh, I’msosorry!” replied the child sadly.“Why?” inquired Glynn.“Because I love themsomuch—of course, I mean the good ones. I don’t like the bad ones—though they’re very useful, because they’re nice to kill, and punish, and make examples of, and all that, when the good ones catch them.”“So they are,” said the youth, smiling. “I never thought of that before. But go on with your ramble in the clouds.”“Well,” began Ailie; “but where was I?”“Just going to be introduced to a bear.”“Oh yes; well—the bear walked slowly away, and then the fairy called out an elephant, and after that a ’noceros—”“A ’noceros!” interrupted Glynn; “what’s that?”“Oh, you know very well. A beast with a thick skin hanging in folds, and a horn on its nose—”“Ah, arhinoceros—I see. Well, go on, Ailie.”“Then the fairy told a camel to appear, and after that a monkey, and then a hippopotamus, and they all came out one after another, and some of them went away, and others began to fight. But the strangest thing of all was, that every one of them wassolike the pictures of wild beasts that are hanging in my room at home! The elephant, too, I noticed, had his trunk broken exactly the same way as my toy elephant’s one was. Wasn’t it odd?”“It was rather odd,” replied Glynn; “but where did you go after that?”“Oh, then we went on, and on again, until we came to—”“It’s your turn at the wheel, lad, ain’t it?” inquired Mr Millons, coming up at that moment, and putting an abrupt termination to the walk in Fairyland.“It is, sir,” answered Glynn, springing quickly to the wheel, and relieving the man who had been engaged in penetrating the ocean’s depths.The mate walked forward; the released sailor went below, and Ailie was again left to her solitary meditations;—for she was enough of a sailor now, in heart, to know that she ought not to talk too much to the steersman, even though the weather should be calm and there was no call for his undivided attention to the duties of his post.While Nature was thus, as it were, asleep, and the watch on deck were more than half in the same condition, there was one individual in the ship whose faculties were in active play, whose “steam,” as he himself would have remarked, “was up.” This was the worthy cook, Nikel Sling, whose duties called him to his post at the galley-fire at an early hour each day.We have often thought that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit. Besides the innumerable anxieties in reference to such important matters as boiling over and over-boiling, being done to a turn, or over-done, or singed or burned, or capsized, he has the diurnal misery of being the first human being in his little circle of life, to turn out of a morning, and must therefore experience the discomfort—the peculiar discomfort—of finding things asthey were leftthe night before. Any one who does not know what that discomfort is, has only to rise an hour before the servants of a household, whether at sea or on shore, to find out. Cook, too, has generally, if not always, to light the fire; and that, especially in frosty weather, is not agreeable. Moreover, cook roastshimselfto such an extent, and at meal-times, in nine cases out of ten, gets into such physical and mental perturbation, that he cannot possibly appreciate the luxuries he has been occupied all the day in concocting. Add to this, that he spends all the morning in preparing breakfast; all the forenoon in preparing dinner; all the afternoon in preparing tea and supper, and all the evening in clearing up, and perhaps all the night in dreaming of the meals of the following day, and mentally preparing breakfast, and we think that we have clearly proved the truth of the proposition with which we started—namely, that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit.But this is by the way, and was merely suggested by the fact that, while all other creatures were enjoying either partial or complete repose, Nikel Sling was washing out pots and pans and kettles, and handling murderous-looking knives and two-pronged tormentors with a demoniacal activity that was quite appalling.Beside him, on a little stool close to the galley-fire, sat Tim Rokens—not that Mr Rokens was cold—far from it. He was, to judge from appearances, much hotter than was agreeable. But Tim had come there and sat down to light his pipe, and being rather phlegmatic when not actively employed, he preferred to be partially roasted for a few minutes to getting up again.“We ought,” remarked Tim Rokens, puffing at a little black pipe which seemed inclined to be obstinate, “we ought to be gittin’ among the fish by this time. Many’s the one I’ve seed in them ’ere seas.”“I rather guess we should,” replied the cook, pausing the midst of his toils and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an immense bundle of greasy oakum. “But I’ve seed us keep dodgin’ about for weeks, I have, later in the year than this, without clappin’ eyes on a fin. What sort o’ baccy d’ye smoke, Rokens?”“Dun know. Got it from a Spanish smuggler for an old clasp-knife. Why?”“Cause it smells like rotten straw, an’ won’t improve the victuals. Guess you’d better take yourself off, old chap.”“Wot a cross-grained crittur ye are,” said Rokens, as he rose to depart.At that moment there was heard a cry that sent the blood tingling to the extremities of every one on board theRed Eric.“Thar she blows! thar she blows!” shouted the man in the crow’s-nest.The crow’s-nest is a sort of cask, or nest, fixed at the top of the mainmast of whale-ships, in which a man is stationed all day during the time the ships are on the fishing-ground, to look out for whales; and the cry, “Thar she blows,” announced the fact that the look-out had observed a whale rise to the surface and blow a spout of steamy water into the air.No conceivable event—unless perhaps the blowing-up of the ship itself—could have more effectually and instantaneously dissipated the deep tranquillity to which we have more than once referred. Had an electric shock been communicated through the ship to each individual, the crew could not have been made to leap more vigorously and simultaneously. Many days before, they had begun to expect to see whales. Every one was therefore on thequi vive, so that when the well-known signal rang out like a startling peal in the midst of the universal stillness, every heart in the ship leaped in unison.Had an observant man been seated at the time in the forecastle, he would have noticed that from out of the ten or fifteen hammocks that swung from the beams, there suddenly darted ten or fifteen pairs of legs which rose to the perpendicular position in order to obtain leverage to “fetch way.” Instantly thereafter the said legs descended, and where the feet had been, ten or fifteen heads appeared. Next moment the men were “tumbling up” the fore-hatch to the deck, where the watch had already sprung to the boat-tackles.“Where away?” sang out Captain Dunning who was among the first on deck.“Off the weather bow, sir, three points.”“How far?”“About two miles. Thar she blows!”“Call all hands,” shouted the captain.“Starboard watch, ahoy!” roared the mate, in that curious hoarse voice peculiar to boatswains of men-of-war. “Tumble up, lads, tumble up! Whale in sight! Bear a hand, my hearties!”The summons was almost unnecessary. The “starboard watch” was—with the exception of one or two uncommonly heavy sleepers—already on deck pulling on its ducks and buckling its belts.“Thar she breaches, thar she blows!” again came from the crow’s-nest in the voice of a Stentor.“Well done, Dick Barnes, you’re the first to raise the oil,” remarked one of the men, implying by the remark that the said Dick was fortunate enough to be the first to sight a whale.“Where away now?” roared the captain, who was in a state of intense excitement.“A mile an’ a half to leeward, sir.”“Clear away the boats,” shouted the captain.“Masthead, ahoy! D’ye see that whale now?”“Ay, ay, sir. Thar she blows!”“Bear a hand, my hearties,” cried the captain, as the men sprang to the boats which were swinging at the davits. “Get your tubs in! Clear your falls! Look alive, lads! Stand-by to lower! All ready?”“All ready, sir.”“Thar she blows!” came again from the masthead with redoubled energy. “Sperm-whales, sir; there’s a school of ’em.”“Aschoolof them!” whispered Ailie, who had left her post at the mizzen-shrouds, and now stood by her father’s side, looking on at the sudden hubbub in unspeakable amazement. “Do whales go to school?” she said, laughing.“Out of the road, Ailie, my pet,” cried her father hastily. “You’ll get knocked over. Lower away, lads, lower away!”Down went the starboard, larboard, and waist-boats as if the falls had been cut, and almost before you could wink the men literally tumbled over the side into them, took their places, and seized their oars.“Here, Glynn, come with me, and I’ll show you a thing or two,” said the captain. “Jump in, lad; look sharp.”Glynn instantly followed his commander into the starboard boat, and took the aft oar. Tim Rokens, being the harpooner of that boat, sat at the bow oar with his harpoons and lances beside him, and the whale-line coiled in a tub in the boat’s head. The captain steered.And now commenced a race that taxed the boats’ crews to the utmost; for it is always a matter keenly contested by the different crews, who shall fix the first harpoon in the whale. The larboard boat was steered by Mr Millons, the first mate; the waist-boat by Mr Markham, the second mate—the latter an active man of about five-and-twenty, whose size and physical strength were herculean, and whose disposition was somewhat morose and gloomy.“Now, lads, give way! That’s it! that’s the way. Bend your backs, now!dobend your backs,” cried the captain, as the three boats sprang from the ship’s side and made towards the nearest whale, with the white foam curling at their bow.Several more whales appeared in sight spouting in all directions, and the men were wild with excitement.“That’s it! Go it lads!” shouted Mr Millons, as the waist-boat began to creep ahead. “Lay it on! give way! What d’ye say, boys; shall we beat ’em?”Captain Dunning stood in the stern-sheets of the starboard boat, almost dancing with excitement as he heard these words of encouragement.“Give way, boys!” he cried. “They can’t do it! That whale’s ours—so it is. Only bend your backs! A steady pull! Pull like steam-tugs! That’s it! Bend the oars! Double ’em up! Smash ’em in bits,do!”Without quite going the length of the captain’s last piece of advice, the men did their work nobly. They bent their strong backs with a will, and strained their sinewy arms to the utmost. Glynn, in particular, to whom the work was new, and therefore peculiarly exciting and interesting, almost tore the rowlocks out of the boat in his efforts to urge it on, and had the oar not been made of the toughest ash, there is no doubt that he would have obeyed the captain’s orders literally and have smashed it in bits.On they flew like racehorses. Now one boat gained an inch on the others, then it lost ground again as the crew of another put forth additional energy, and the three danced over the glassy sea as if the inanimate planks had been suddenly endued with life, and inspired with the spirit that stirred the men.A large sperm-whale lay about a quarter of a mile ahead, rolling lazily in the trough of the sea. Towards this the starboard boat now pulled with incredible speed, leaving the other two gradually astern. A number of whales rose in various directions. They had got into the midst of a shoal, or school of them, as the whale-men term it; and as several of these were nearer the other boats than the first whale was, they diverged towards them.“There go flukes,” cried Rokens, as the whale raised its huge tail in the air and “sounded”—in other words, dived. For a few minutes the men lay on their oars, uncertain in what direction the whale would come up again; but their doubts were speedily removed by its rising within a few yards of the boat.“Now, Rokens,” cried the captain; “now for it; give him the iron. Give way, lads; spring, boys. Softly now, softly.”In another instant the boat’s bow was on the whale’s head, and Rokens buried a harpoon deep in its side.“Stern all!” thundered the captain.The men obeyed, and the boat was backed off the whale just in time to escape the blow of its tremendous flukes as it dived into the sea, the blue depths of which were instantly dyed red with the blood that flowed in torrents from the wound.Down it went, carrying out the line at a rate that caused the chocks through which it passed to smoke. In a few minutes the line ceased to run out, and the whale returned to the surface. It had scarcely showed its nose, when the slack of the line was hauled in, and a second harpoon was fixed in its body.Infuriated with pain, the mighty fish gave vent to a roar like a bull, rolled half over, and lashed the sea with his flukes, till, all round for many yards, it was churned into red slimy foam. Then he turned round, and dashed off with the speed of a locomotive engine, tearing the boat through the waves behind it, the water curling up like a white wall round the bows.“She won’t stand that long,” muttered Glynn Proctor, as he rested on his oar, and looked over his shoulder at the straining line.“That she will, boy,” said the captain; “and more than that, if need be. You’ll not be long of havin’ a chance of greasin’ your fingers, I’ll warrant.”In a few minutes the speed began to slacken, and after a time they were able to haul in on the line. When the whale again came to the surface, a third harpoon was cleverly struck into it, and a spout of blood from its blow-hole showed that it was mortally wounded. In throwing the harpoon, Tim Rokens slipped his foot, and went down like a stone head-foremost into the sea. He came up again like a cork, and just as the boat flew past fortunately caught hold of Glynn Proctor’s hand. It was well that the grasp was a firm one, for the strain on their two arms was awful. In another minute Tim was in his place, ready with his lance to finish off the whale at its next rise.Up it came again, foaming, breaching, and plunging from wave to wave, flinging torrents of blood and spray into the air. At one moment he reared his blunt gigantic head high above the sea; the next he buried his vast and quivering carcase deep in the gory brine, carrying down with him a perfect whirlpool of red foam. Then he rose again and made straight for the boat. Had he known his own power, he might have soon terminated the battle, and come off the victor, but fortunately he did not. Tim Rokens received his blunt nose on the point of his lance, and drove him back with mingled fury and terror. Another advance was made, and a successful lance-thrust delivered.“That’s into his life,” cried the captain.“So it is,” replied Rokens.And so it was. A vital part had been struck. For some minutes the huge leviathan lashed and rolled and tossed in the trembling waves in his agony, while he spouted up gallons of blood with every throe; then he rolled over on his back, and lay extended a lifeless mass upon the waters.“Now, lads; three cheers for our first whale. Hip! hip! hip!—”The cheer that followed was given with all the energy and gusto inspired by a first victory, and it was repeated again and again, and over again, before the men felt themselves sufficiently relieved to commence the somewhat severe and tedious labour of towing the carcase to the ship.It was a hard pull, for the whale had led them a long chase, and as the calm continued, those left aboard could not approach to meet the boats. The exhausted men were cheered, however, on getting aboard late that night, to find that the other boats had been equally successful, each of them having captured a sperm-whale.
Early morning on the ocean! There is poetry in the idea; there is music in the very sound. As there is nothing new under the sun, probably a song exists with this or a similar title; if not, we now recommend it earnestly to musicians.
Ailie Dunning sat on the bulwarks of theRed Eric, holding on tightly by the mizzen-shrouds, and gazing in open-eyed, open-mouthed, inexpressible delight upon the bright calm sea. She was far, far out upon the bosom of the Atlantic now. Sea-sickness—which during the first part of the voyage, had changed the warm pink of her pretty face into every imaginable shade of green—was gone, and the hue of health could not now be banished even by the rudest storm. In short, she had become a thorough sailor, and took special delight in turning her face to windward during the wild storm, and drinking-in the howling blast as she held on by the rigid shrouds, and laughed at the dashing spray—for little Ailie was not easily frightened. Martha and Jane Dunning had made it their first care to implant in the heart of their charge a knowledge of our Saviour’s love, and especially of His tenderness towards, and watchful care over, the lambs of His flock. Besides this, little Ailie was naturally of a trustful disposition. She had implicit confidence in the strength and wisdom of her father, and it never entered into her imagination to dream that it was possible for any evil to befall the ship whichhecommanded.
But, although Ailie delighted in the storm, she infinitely preferred the tranquil beauty and rest of a “great calm,” especially at the hour just before sunrise, when the freshness, brightness, and lightness of the young day harmonised peculiarly with her elastic spirit. It was at this hour that we find her alone upon the bulwarks of theRed Eric.
There was a deep, solemn stillness around, that irresistibly and powerfully conveyed to her mind the idea of rest. The long, gentle undulation of the deep did not in the least detract from this idea. So perfect was the calm, that several masses of clouds in the sky, which shone with the richest saffron light, were mirrored in all their rich details as if in a glass. The faintest possible idea of a line alone indicated, in one direction, where the water terminated and the sky began. A warm golden haze suffused the whole atmosphere, and softened the intensity of the deep-blue vault above.
There was, indeed, little variety of object to gaze upon—only the water and the sky. But what a world of delight did not Ailie find in that vast sky and that pure ocean, that reminded her of the sea of glass before the great white throne, of which she had so often read in Revelation. The towering masses of clouds were so rich and thick, that she almost fancied them to be mountains and valleys, rocks and plains of golden snow. Nay, she looked so long and so ardently at the rolling mountain heights in the sky above, and their magical counterparts in the sky below, that she soon, as it were,thought herself intoFairyland, and began a regular journey of adventures therein.
Such a scene at such an hour is a source of gladsome, peaceful delight to the breast of man in every stage of life; but it is a source of unalloyed, bounding, exhilarating, romantic, unspeakable joy only in the years of childhood, when the mind looks hopefully forward, and before it has begun—as, alas! it must begin, sooner or later—to gaze regretfully back.
How long Ailie would have sat in motionless delight it is difficult to say. The man at the wheel having nothing to do, had forsaken his post, and was leaning over the stern, either lost in reverie, or in a vain effort to penetrate with his vision the blue abyss to the bottom. The members of the watch on deck were either similarly engaged or had stowed themselves away to sleep in quiet corners among blocks and cordage. No one seemed inclined to move or speak, and she would probably have sat there immovable for hours to come, had not a hand fallen gently on her shoulder, and by the magic of its simple contact scattered the bright dreams of Fairyland as the finger-touch destroys the splendour of the soap-bubble.
“Oh! Glynn,” exclaimed Ailie, looking round and heaving a deep sigh; “I’ve been away—far, far away—you can’t believe how far.”
“Away, Ailie! Where have you been?” asked Glynn, patting the child’s head as he leaned over the gunwale beside her.
“In Fairyland. Up in the clouds yonder. Out and in, and up and down. Oh, you’ve no idea. Just look.” She pointed eagerly to an immense towering cloud that rose like a conspicuous landmark in the centre of the landscape of the airy world above. “Do you see that mountain?”
“Yes, Ailie; the one in the middle, you mean, don’t you? Yes, well?”
“Well,” continued the child, eagerly and hurriedly, as if she feared to lose the thread of memory that formed the warp and woof of the delicate fabric she had been engaged in weaving; “well, I began there; I went in behind it, and I met a fairy—not really, you know, but I tried to think I met one, so I began to speak to her, and then I made her speak to me, and her voice was so small and soft and sweet. She had on silver wings, and a star—a bright star in her forehead—and she carried a wand with a star on the top of it too. So I asked her to take me to see her kingdom, and I made her say she would—and, do you know, Glynn, I really felt at last as if she didn’t wait for me to tell her what to say, but just went straight on, answering my questions, and putting questions to me in return. Wasn’t it funny?
“Well, we went on, and on, and on—the fairy and me—up one beautiful mountain of snow and down another, talking all the time so pleasantly, until we came to a great dark cave; so I made up my mind to make a lion come out of it; but the fairy said, ‘No, let it be a bear;’ and immediately a great bear came out. Wasn’t it strange? It really seemed as if the fairy had become real, and could do things of her own accord.”
The child paused at this point, and looking with an expression of awe into her companion’s face, said— “Do you think, Glynn, that people canthinkso hard that fairiesreallycome to them?”
Glynn looked perplexed.
“No, Ailie, I suspect they can’t—not because we can’t think hard enough, but because there are no fairies to come.”
“Oh, I’msosorry!” replied the child sadly.
“Why?” inquired Glynn.
“Because I love themsomuch—of course, I mean the good ones. I don’t like the bad ones—though they’re very useful, because they’re nice to kill, and punish, and make examples of, and all that, when the good ones catch them.”
“So they are,” said the youth, smiling. “I never thought of that before. But go on with your ramble in the clouds.”
“Well,” began Ailie; “but where was I?”
“Just going to be introduced to a bear.”
“Oh yes; well—the bear walked slowly away, and then the fairy called out an elephant, and after that a ’noceros—”
“A ’noceros!” interrupted Glynn; “what’s that?”
“Oh, you know very well. A beast with a thick skin hanging in folds, and a horn on its nose—”
“Ah, arhinoceros—I see. Well, go on, Ailie.”
“Then the fairy told a camel to appear, and after that a monkey, and then a hippopotamus, and they all came out one after another, and some of them went away, and others began to fight. But the strangest thing of all was, that every one of them wassolike the pictures of wild beasts that are hanging in my room at home! The elephant, too, I noticed, had his trunk broken exactly the same way as my toy elephant’s one was. Wasn’t it odd?”
“It was rather odd,” replied Glynn; “but where did you go after that?”
“Oh, then we went on, and on again, until we came to—”
“It’s your turn at the wheel, lad, ain’t it?” inquired Mr Millons, coming up at that moment, and putting an abrupt termination to the walk in Fairyland.
“It is, sir,” answered Glynn, springing quickly to the wheel, and relieving the man who had been engaged in penetrating the ocean’s depths.
The mate walked forward; the released sailor went below, and Ailie was again left to her solitary meditations;—for she was enough of a sailor now, in heart, to know that she ought not to talk too much to the steersman, even though the weather should be calm and there was no call for his undivided attention to the duties of his post.
While Nature was thus, as it were, asleep, and the watch on deck were more than half in the same condition, there was one individual in the ship whose faculties were in active play, whose “steam,” as he himself would have remarked, “was up.” This was the worthy cook, Nikel Sling, whose duties called him to his post at the galley-fire at an early hour each day.
We have often thought that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit. Besides the innumerable anxieties in reference to such important matters as boiling over and over-boiling, being done to a turn, or over-done, or singed or burned, or capsized, he has the diurnal misery of being the first human being in his little circle of life, to turn out of a morning, and must therefore experience the discomfort—the peculiar discomfort—of finding things asthey were leftthe night before. Any one who does not know what that discomfort is, has only to rise an hour before the servants of a household, whether at sea or on shore, to find out. Cook, too, has generally, if not always, to light the fire; and that, especially in frosty weather, is not agreeable. Moreover, cook roastshimselfto such an extent, and at meal-times, in nine cases out of ten, gets into such physical and mental perturbation, that he cannot possibly appreciate the luxuries he has been occupied all the day in concocting. Add to this, that he spends all the morning in preparing breakfast; all the forenoon in preparing dinner; all the afternoon in preparing tea and supper, and all the evening in clearing up, and perhaps all the night in dreaming of the meals of the following day, and mentally preparing breakfast, and we think that we have clearly proved the truth of the proposition with which we started—namely, that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit.
But this is by the way, and was merely suggested by the fact that, while all other creatures were enjoying either partial or complete repose, Nikel Sling was washing out pots and pans and kettles, and handling murderous-looking knives and two-pronged tormentors with a demoniacal activity that was quite appalling.
Beside him, on a little stool close to the galley-fire, sat Tim Rokens—not that Mr Rokens was cold—far from it. He was, to judge from appearances, much hotter than was agreeable. But Tim had come there and sat down to light his pipe, and being rather phlegmatic when not actively employed, he preferred to be partially roasted for a few minutes to getting up again.
“We ought,” remarked Tim Rokens, puffing at a little black pipe which seemed inclined to be obstinate, “we ought to be gittin’ among the fish by this time. Many’s the one I’ve seed in them ’ere seas.”
“I rather guess we should,” replied the cook, pausing the midst of his toils and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an immense bundle of greasy oakum. “But I’ve seed us keep dodgin’ about for weeks, I have, later in the year than this, without clappin’ eyes on a fin. What sort o’ baccy d’ye smoke, Rokens?”
“Dun know. Got it from a Spanish smuggler for an old clasp-knife. Why?”
“Cause it smells like rotten straw, an’ won’t improve the victuals. Guess you’d better take yourself off, old chap.”
“Wot a cross-grained crittur ye are,” said Rokens, as he rose to depart.
At that moment there was heard a cry that sent the blood tingling to the extremities of every one on board theRed Eric.
“Thar she blows! thar she blows!” shouted the man in the crow’s-nest.
The crow’s-nest is a sort of cask, or nest, fixed at the top of the mainmast of whale-ships, in which a man is stationed all day during the time the ships are on the fishing-ground, to look out for whales; and the cry, “Thar she blows,” announced the fact that the look-out had observed a whale rise to the surface and blow a spout of steamy water into the air.
No conceivable event—unless perhaps the blowing-up of the ship itself—could have more effectually and instantaneously dissipated the deep tranquillity to which we have more than once referred. Had an electric shock been communicated through the ship to each individual, the crew could not have been made to leap more vigorously and simultaneously. Many days before, they had begun to expect to see whales. Every one was therefore on thequi vive, so that when the well-known signal rang out like a startling peal in the midst of the universal stillness, every heart in the ship leaped in unison.
Had an observant man been seated at the time in the forecastle, he would have noticed that from out of the ten or fifteen hammocks that swung from the beams, there suddenly darted ten or fifteen pairs of legs which rose to the perpendicular position in order to obtain leverage to “fetch way.” Instantly thereafter the said legs descended, and where the feet had been, ten or fifteen heads appeared. Next moment the men were “tumbling up” the fore-hatch to the deck, where the watch had already sprung to the boat-tackles.
“Where away?” sang out Captain Dunning who was among the first on deck.
“Off the weather bow, sir, three points.”
“How far?”
“About two miles. Thar she blows!”
“Call all hands,” shouted the captain.
“Starboard watch, ahoy!” roared the mate, in that curious hoarse voice peculiar to boatswains of men-of-war. “Tumble up, lads, tumble up! Whale in sight! Bear a hand, my hearties!”
The summons was almost unnecessary. The “starboard watch” was—with the exception of one or two uncommonly heavy sleepers—already on deck pulling on its ducks and buckling its belts.
“Thar she breaches, thar she blows!” again came from the crow’s-nest in the voice of a Stentor.
“Well done, Dick Barnes, you’re the first to raise the oil,” remarked one of the men, implying by the remark that the said Dick was fortunate enough to be the first to sight a whale.
“Where away now?” roared the captain, who was in a state of intense excitement.
“A mile an’ a half to leeward, sir.”
“Clear away the boats,” shouted the captain.
“Masthead, ahoy! D’ye see that whale now?”
“Ay, ay, sir. Thar she blows!”
“Bear a hand, my hearties,” cried the captain, as the men sprang to the boats which were swinging at the davits. “Get your tubs in! Clear your falls! Look alive, lads! Stand-by to lower! All ready?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Thar she blows!” came again from the masthead with redoubled energy. “Sperm-whales, sir; there’s a school of ’em.”
“Aschoolof them!” whispered Ailie, who had left her post at the mizzen-shrouds, and now stood by her father’s side, looking on at the sudden hubbub in unspeakable amazement. “Do whales go to school?” she said, laughing.
“Out of the road, Ailie, my pet,” cried her father hastily. “You’ll get knocked over. Lower away, lads, lower away!”
Down went the starboard, larboard, and waist-boats as if the falls had been cut, and almost before you could wink the men literally tumbled over the side into them, took their places, and seized their oars.
“Here, Glynn, come with me, and I’ll show you a thing or two,” said the captain. “Jump in, lad; look sharp.”
Glynn instantly followed his commander into the starboard boat, and took the aft oar. Tim Rokens, being the harpooner of that boat, sat at the bow oar with his harpoons and lances beside him, and the whale-line coiled in a tub in the boat’s head. The captain steered.
And now commenced a race that taxed the boats’ crews to the utmost; for it is always a matter keenly contested by the different crews, who shall fix the first harpoon in the whale. The larboard boat was steered by Mr Millons, the first mate; the waist-boat by Mr Markham, the second mate—the latter an active man of about five-and-twenty, whose size and physical strength were herculean, and whose disposition was somewhat morose and gloomy.
“Now, lads, give way! That’s it! that’s the way. Bend your backs, now!dobend your backs,” cried the captain, as the three boats sprang from the ship’s side and made towards the nearest whale, with the white foam curling at their bow.
Several more whales appeared in sight spouting in all directions, and the men were wild with excitement.
“That’s it! Go it lads!” shouted Mr Millons, as the waist-boat began to creep ahead. “Lay it on! give way! What d’ye say, boys; shall we beat ’em?”
Captain Dunning stood in the stern-sheets of the starboard boat, almost dancing with excitement as he heard these words of encouragement.
“Give way, boys!” he cried. “They can’t do it! That whale’s ours—so it is. Only bend your backs! A steady pull! Pull like steam-tugs! That’s it! Bend the oars! Double ’em up! Smash ’em in bits,do!”
Without quite going the length of the captain’s last piece of advice, the men did their work nobly. They bent their strong backs with a will, and strained their sinewy arms to the utmost. Glynn, in particular, to whom the work was new, and therefore peculiarly exciting and interesting, almost tore the rowlocks out of the boat in his efforts to urge it on, and had the oar not been made of the toughest ash, there is no doubt that he would have obeyed the captain’s orders literally and have smashed it in bits.
On they flew like racehorses. Now one boat gained an inch on the others, then it lost ground again as the crew of another put forth additional energy, and the three danced over the glassy sea as if the inanimate planks had been suddenly endued with life, and inspired with the spirit that stirred the men.
A large sperm-whale lay about a quarter of a mile ahead, rolling lazily in the trough of the sea. Towards this the starboard boat now pulled with incredible speed, leaving the other two gradually astern. A number of whales rose in various directions. They had got into the midst of a shoal, or school of them, as the whale-men term it; and as several of these were nearer the other boats than the first whale was, they diverged towards them.
“There go flukes,” cried Rokens, as the whale raised its huge tail in the air and “sounded”—in other words, dived. For a few minutes the men lay on their oars, uncertain in what direction the whale would come up again; but their doubts were speedily removed by its rising within a few yards of the boat.
“Now, Rokens,” cried the captain; “now for it; give him the iron. Give way, lads; spring, boys. Softly now, softly.”
In another instant the boat’s bow was on the whale’s head, and Rokens buried a harpoon deep in its side.
“Stern all!” thundered the captain.
The men obeyed, and the boat was backed off the whale just in time to escape the blow of its tremendous flukes as it dived into the sea, the blue depths of which were instantly dyed red with the blood that flowed in torrents from the wound.
Down it went, carrying out the line at a rate that caused the chocks through which it passed to smoke. In a few minutes the line ceased to run out, and the whale returned to the surface. It had scarcely showed its nose, when the slack of the line was hauled in, and a second harpoon was fixed in its body.
Infuriated with pain, the mighty fish gave vent to a roar like a bull, rolled half over, and lashed the sea with his flukes, till, all round for many yards, it was churned into red slimy foam. Then he turned round, and dashed off with the speed of a locomotive engine, tearing the boat through the waves behind it, the water curling up like a white wall round the bows.
“She won’t stand that long,” muttered Glynn Proctor, as he rested on his oar, and looked over his shoulder at the straining line.
“That she will, boy,” said the captain; “and more than that, if need be. You’ll not be long of havin’ a chance of greasin’ your fingers, I’ll warrant.”
In a few minutes the speed began to slacken, and after a time they were able to haul in on the line. When the whale again came to the surface, a third harpoon was cleverly struck into it, and a spout of blood from its blow-hole showed that it was mortally wounded. In throwing the harpoon, Tim Rokens slipped his foot, and went down like a stone head-foremost into the sea. He came up again like a cork, and just as the boat flew past fortunately caught hold of Glynn Proctor’s hand. It was well that the grasp was a firm one, for the strain on their two arms was awful. In another minute Tim was in his place, ready with his lance to finish off the whale at its next rise.
Up it came again, foaming, breaching, and plunging from wave to wave, flinging torrents of blood and spray into the air. At one moment he reared his blunt gigantic head high above the sea; the next he buried his vast and quivering carcase deep in the gory brine, carrying down with him a perfect whirlpool of red foam. Then he rose again and made straight for the boat. Had he known his own power, he might have soon terminated the battle, and come off the victor, but fortunately he did not. Tim Rokens received his blunt nose on the point of his lance, and drove him back with mingled fury and terror. Another advance was made, and a successful lance-thrust delivered.
“That’s into his life,” cried the captain.
“So it is,” replied Rokens.
And so it was. A vital part had been struck. For some minutes the huge leviathan lashed and rolled and tossed in the trembling waves in his agony, while he spouted up gallons of blood with every throe; then he rolled over on his back, and lay extended a lifeless mass upon the waters.
“Now, lads; three cheers for our first whale. Hip! hip! hip!—”
The cheer that followed was given with all the energy and gusto inspired by a first victory, and it was repeated again and again, and over again, before the men felt themselves sufficiently relieved to commence the somewhat severe and tedious labour of towing the carcase to the ship.
It was a hard pull, for the whale had led them a long chase, and as the calm continued, those left aboard could not approach to meet the boats. The exhausted men were cheered, however, on getting aboard late that night, to find that the other boats had been equally successful, each of them having captured a sperm-whale.
Chapter Six.Disagreeable Changes—Sagacious Conversations, and a Terrible Accident.A striking and by no means a pleasant change took place in the general appearance of theRed Ericimmediately after the successful chase detailed in the last chapter.Before the arrival of the whales the decks had been beautifully clean and white, for Captain Dunning was proud of his ship, and fond of cleanliness and order. A few hours after the said arrival the decks were smeared with grease, oil, and blood, and everything from stem to stern became from that day filthy and dirty.This was a sad change to poor Ailie, who had not imagined it possible that so sudden and disagreeable an alteration could take place. But there was no help for it; the duties of the fishery in which they were engaged required that the whales should not only be caught, but cut up, boiled down to oil, and stowed away in the hold in casks.If the scene was changed for the worse a few hours after the cutting-up operations were begun, it became infinitely more so when thetry-workswere set going, and the melting-fires were lighted, and huge volumes of smoke begrimed the masts, and sails, and rigging. It was vain to think of clearing up; had they attempted that, the men would have been over-tasked without any good being accomplished. There was only one course open to those who didn’t like it, and that was—to “grin and bear it.”“Cutting out” and “trying in” are the terms used by whale-men to denote the processes of cutting off the flesh or “blubber” from the whale’s carcase, and reducing it to oil.At an early hour on the following morning the first of these operations was commenced.Ailie went about the decks, looking on with mingled wonder, interest, and disgust. She stepped about gingerly, as if afraid of coming in contact with slimy objects, and with her nose and mouth screwed up after the fashion of those who are obliged to endure bad smells. The expression of her face under the circumstances was amusing.As for the men, they went about their work with relish, and total indifference as to consequences.When the largest whale had been hauled alongside, ropes were attached to his head and tail, and the former was secured near the stern of the ship, while the latter was lashed to the bow; the cutting-tackle was then attached. This consisted of an arrangement of pulleys depending from the main-top, with a large blubber-hook at the end thereof. The cutting was commenced at the neck, and the hook attached; then the men hove on the windlass, and while the cutting was continued in a spiral direction round the whale’s body, the tackle raised the mass of flesh until it reached the fixed blocks above. This mass, when it could be hauled up no higher, was then cut off, and stowed away under the name of a “blanket-piece.” It weighed upwards of a ton. The hook being lowered and again attached, the process was continued until the whole was cut off. Afterwards, the head was severed from the body and hoisted on board, in order that the oil contained in the hollow of it might be baled out.From the head of the first whale ten barrels of oil were obtained. The blubber yielded about eighty barrels.When the “cutting out” was completed, and the remnants of bone and flesh were left to the sharks which swarmed round the vessel, revelling in their unusually rich banquet, the process of “trying in” commenced. “Trying in” is the term applied to the melting of the fat and the stowing of it away in barrels in the form of oil; and an uncommonly dirty process it is. The large “blanket-pieces” were cut into smaller portions, and put into the try-pots, which were kept in constant operation. At night the ship had all the appearance of a vessel on fire, and the scene on deck was particularly striking and unearthly.One night several of the men were grouped on and around the windlass, chatting, singing, and “spinning yarns.” Ailie Dunning stood near them, lost in wonder and admiration; for the ears and eyes of the child were assailed in a manner never before experienced or dreamed of even in the most romantic mood of cloud-wandering.It was a very dark night, darker than usual, and not a breath of wind ruffled the sea, which was like a sheet of undulating glass—for, be it remembered, there is no such thing at any time as absolute stillness in the ocean. At all times, even in the profoundest calm, the long, slow, gentle swell rises and sinks with unceasing regularity, like the bosom of a man in deep slumber.Dense clouds of black smoke and occasional lurid sheets of flame rose from the try-works, which were situated between the foremast and the main-hatch. The tops of the masts were lost in the curling smoke, and the black waves of the sea gleamed and flashed in the red light all round the ship. One man stood in front of the melting-pot, pitching in pieces of blubber with a two-pronged pitchfork. Two comrades stood by the pots, stirring up their contents, and throwing their figures into wild uncouth attitudes, while the fire glared in their greasy faces, and converted the front of their entire persons into deep vermilion.The oil was hissing in the try-pots; the rough weather-beaten faces of the men on the windlass were smeared, and their dirty-white ducks saturated, with oil. The decks were blood-stained; huge masses of flesh and blubber lay scattered about; sparks flew upwards in splendid showers as the men raked up the fires; the decks, bulwarks, railings, try-works, and windlass were covered with oil and slime, and glistening in the red glare. It was a terrible, murderous-looking scene, and filled Ailie’s mind with mingled feelings of wonder, disgust, and awe, as she leaned on a comparatively clean spot near the foremast, listening to the men and gazing at the rolling smoke and flames.“Ain’t it beautiful?” said a short, fat little seaman named Gurney, who sat swinging his legs on the end of the windlass, and pointed, as he spoke, with the head of his pipe to a more than usually brilliant burst of sparks and flame that issued that moment from the works.“Beautiful!” exclaimed a long-limbed, shambling fellow named Jim Scroggles, “why, that ain’t the word at all. Now, I calls it splendiferous.”Scroggles looked round at his comrades, as if to appeal to their judgment as to the fitness of the word, but not receiving any encouragement, he thrust down the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger, and reiterated the word “splendiferous” with marked emphasis.“Did ye ever see that word in Johnson?” inquired Gurney.“Who’s Johnson?” said Scroggles, contemptuously.“Wot, don’t ye know who Johnson is?” cried Gurney, in surprise.“In course I don’t; how should I?” retorted Scroggles. “There’s ever so many Johnsons in the world; which on ’em all do you mean?”“Why, I mean Johnson wot wrote the diksh’nary—the great lexikragofer.”“Oh, it’shimyou mean, is it? In course I’ve knowed him ever since I wos at school.”A general laugh interrupted the speaker.“At school!” cried Nickel Sling, who approached the group at that moment with a carving knife in his hand—he seldom went anywhere without an instrument of office in his hand—“At school! Wal now, that beats creation. If ye wos, I’m sartin ye only larned to forgit all ye orter to have remembered. I’d take a bet now, ye wosn’t at school as long as I’ve been settin’ on this here windlass.”“Yer about right, Sling, it ’ud be unpossible for me to be aslongas you anywhere, ’cause everybody knows I’m only five fut two, whereas you’re six fut four!”“Hear, hear!” shouted Dick Barnes—a man with a huge black beard, who the reader may perhaps remember was the first to “raise the oil.” “It’ll be long before you make another joke like that, Gurney. Come, now, give us a song, Gurney, do; there’s the cap’n’s darter standin’ by the foremast, a-waitin’ to hear ye. Give us ‘Long, long ago.’”“Ah! that’s it, give us a song,” cried the men. “Come, there’s a good fellow.”“Well, it’s so long ago since I sung that song, shipmates,” replied Gurney, “that I’ve bin and forgot it; but Tim Rokens knows it; where’s Rokens?”“He’s in the watch below.”In sea parlance, the men whose turn it is to take rest after their long watch on deck are somewhat facetiously said to belong to the “watch below.”“Ah! that’s a pity; so we can’t have that ’ere partickler song. But I’ll give ye another, if ye don’t object.”“No, no. All right; go ahead, Gurney! Is there a chorus to it?”“Ay, in course there is. Wot’s a song without a chorus? Wot’s plum-duff without the plums? Wot’s a ship without a ’elm? It’s my opinion, shipmates, that a song without a chorus is no better than it should be. It’s wus nor nothin’. It puts them wot listens in the blues an’ the man wot sings into the stews—an’ sarve him right. I wouldn’t, no, I wouldn’t give the fag-end o’ nothin’ mixed in bucket o’ salt water for a song without a chorus—that’s flat; so here goes.”Having delivered himself of these opinions in an extremely vigorous manner, and announced the fact that he was about to begin, Gurney cleared his throat and drew a number of violent puffs from his pipe in quick succession, in order to kindle that instrument into a glow which would last through the first verse and the commencement of the chorus. This he knew was sufficient, for the men, when once fairly started on the chorus, would infallibly go on to the end with or without his assistance, and would therefore afford him time for a few restorative whiffs.“It hain’t got no name, lads.”“Never mind, Gurney—all right—fire away.”“Oh, I once know’d a man as hadn’t got a nose,An’ this is how he come to hadn’t—One cold winter night he went and got it froze—By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.(Chorus.) Well-nigh madden’d,By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.“Next day it swoll up as big as my head,An’ it turn’d like a piece of putty;It kivered up his mouth, oh, yes, so it did,So he could not smoke his cutty.(Chorus.) Smoke his cutty,So he could not smoke his cutty.“Next day it grew black, and the next day blue,An’ tough as a junk of leather;(Oh! he yelled, so he did, fit to pierce ye through)—An’ then it fell off altogether!(Chorus.) Fell off altogether,An’ then it fell off altogether!“But the morial is wot you’ve now got to hear,An’ it’s good—as sure as a gun;An’ you’ll never forget it, my messmates dear,For this song it hain’t got none!(Chorus.) Hain’t got none,For this song it hain’t got none!”The applause that followed this song was most enthusiastic, and evidently gratifying to Gurney, who assumed a modest deprecatory air as he proceeded to light his pipe, which had been allowed to go out at the third verse, the performer having become so engrossed in his subject as to have forgotten the interlude of puffs at that point.“Well sung, Gurney. Who made it?” inquired Phil Briant, an Irishman, who, besides being a jack-of-all-trades and an able-bodied seaman, was at that time acting-assistant to the cook and steward, the latter—a half Spaniard and half negro, of Californian extraction—being unwell.“I’m bound not to tell,” replied Gurney, with a conscious air.“Ah, then, yer right, my boy, for it’s below the average entirely.”“Come, Phil, none o’ yer chaff,” cried Dick Barnes, “that song desarves somethin’ arter it. Suppose now, Phil, that you wos to go below and fetch the bread-kid.”“Couldn’t do it,” replied Phil, looking solemn, “on no account wotiver.”“Oh, nonsense, why not?”“’Cause its unpossible. Why, if I did, sure that surly compound o’ all sorts o’ human blood would pitch into me with the carvin’-knife.”“Who? Tarquin?” cried Dick Barnes, naming the steward.“Ay, sure enough that same—Tarquin’s his name, an it’s kuriously befittin’ the haythen, for of all the cross-grained mixtures o’ buffalo, bear, bandicoot, and crackadile I iver seed, he’s out o’ sight—”“Did I hear any one mention my name?” inquired the steward himself who came aft at that moment. He was a wild Spanish-like fellow, with a handsome-enough figure, and a swart countenance that might have been good-looking but for the thickish lips and nose and the bad temper that marked it. Since getting into the tropics, the sailors had modified their costumes considerably, and as each man had in some particular allowed himself a slight play of fancy, their appearance, when grouped together, was varied and picturesque. Most of them wore no shoes, and the caps of some were, to say the least, peculiar. Tarquin wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a conical crown, and a red silk sash tied round his waist.“Yes, Tarquin,” replied Barnes, “wewosengaged in makin’ free-an’-easy remarks on you; and Phil Briant there gave us to understand that you wouldn’t let us have the bread—kid up. Now, it’s my opinion you ain’t goin’ to be so hard on us as that; you will let us have it up to comfort our hearts on this fine night, won’t you?”The steward, whose green visage showed that he was too ill to enter into a dispute at that time, turned on his heel and walked aft, remarking that they might eat the bottom out o’ the ship, for all he cared.“There now, you misbemannered Patlander, go and get it, or we’ll throw you overboard,” cried Scroggles, twisting his long limbs awkwardly as he shifted his position on the windlass.“Now, then, shipmates, don’t go for to ax it,” said Briant, remaining immovable. “Don’t I know wot’s best for ye? Let me spaake to ye now. Did any of ye iver study midsin?”“No!” cried several with a laugh.“Sure I thought not,” continued Phil, with a patronising air, “or ye’d niver ask for the bread—kid out o’ saisin. Now I was in the medical way meself wance—ay, ye may laugh, but it’s thrue—I wos ’prentice to a ’pothecary, an’ I’ve mixed up more midsins than would pisen the whole popilation of owld Ireland—barrin’ the praists, av coorse. And didn’t I hear the convarse o’ all the doctors in the place? And wasn’t the word always—‘Be rigglar with yer mails—don’t ait, avic, more nor three times a day, and not too much, now. Be sparin’.’”“Hah! ye long-winded grampus,” interrupted Dick Barnes, impatiently. “An’ warn’t the doctors right? Three times a day for sick folk, and six times—or more—for them wot’s well.”“Hear, hear!” cried the others, while two of them seized Briant by the neck, and thrust him forcibly towards the after-hatch. “Bring up the kid, now; an’ if ye come without it, look out for squalls.”“Och! worse luck,” sighed the misused assistant, as he disappeared.In a few minutes Phil returned with the kid, which was a species of tray filled with broken sea-biscuit, which, when afloat, goes by the name of “bread.”This was eagerly seized, for the appetites of sailors are always sharp, except immediately after meals. A quantity of the broken biscuit was put into a strainer, and fried in whale-oil, and the men sat round the kid to enjoy their luxurious feast, and relate their adventures—all of which were more or less marvellous, and many of them undoubtedly true.The more one travels in this world of ours, and the more one reads of the adventures of travellers upon whose narratives we can place implicit confidence, the more we find that men do not now require, as they did of old, to draw upon their imaginations for marvellous tales of wild, romantic adventure, in days gone by, travellers were few; foreign lands were almost unknown. Not many books were written; and of the few that were, very few were believed. In the present day men of undoubted truthfulness have roamed far and wide over the whole world, their books are numbered by hundreds, and much that was related by ancient travellers, but not believed, has now been fully corroborated. More than that, it is now known that men have every where received, as true, statements which modern discovery has proved to be false, and on the other hand they have often refused to believe what is now ascertained to be literally true.We would suggest, in passing, that a lesson might be learned from this fact—namely, that we ought to receive a statement in regard to a foreign land, not according to the probability or the improbability of the statement itself, but according to the credibility of him who makes it. Ailie Dunning had a trustful disposition; she acted on neither of the above principles. She believed all she heard, poor thing, and therefore had a head pretty well stored with mingled fact and nonsense.While the men were engaged with their meal, Dr Hopley came on deck and found her leaning over the stern, looking down at the waves which shone with sparkling phosphorescent light. An almost imperceptible breeze had sprung up, and the way made by the vessel as she passed through the water was indicated by a stream of what appeared lambent blue flame.“Looking at the fish, Ailie, as usual?” said the doctor as he came up. “What are they saying to you to-night?”“I’m not looking at the fish,” answered Ailie; “I’m looking at the fire—no, not the fire; papa said it wasn’t fire, but it’s so like it, I can scarcely call it anything else. Whatisit, doctor?”“It is called phosphorescence,” replied the doctor, leaning over the bulwarks, and looking down at the fiery serpent that seemed as if it clung to the ship’s rudder. “But I dare say you don’t know what that means. You know what fire-flies and glow-worms are?”“Oh! yes; I’ve often caught them.”“Well, there are immense numbers of very small and very thin jelly-like creatures in the sea, so thin and so transparent that they can scarcely be observed in the water. These Medusae, as they are called, possess the power of emitting light similar to that of the fire-fly. In short, Ailie, they are the fire-flies and glow-worms of the ocean.”The child listened with wonder, and for some minutes remained silent. Before she could again speak, there occurred one of those incidents which are generally spoken of as “most unexpected” and sudden, but which, nevertheless, are the result of natural causes, and might have been prevented by means of a little care.The wind, as we have said, was light, so light that it did not distend the sails; the boom of the spanker-sail hung over the stern, and the spanker-braces lay slack along the seat on which Ailie and the doctor knelt. A little gust of wind came: it was not strong—a mere puff; but the man at the wheel was not attending to his duty: the puff, light as it was, caused the spanker to jibe—that is to fly over from one side of the ship to the other—the heavy boom passed close over the steersman’s head as he cried, “Look out!” The braces tautened, and in so doing they hurled Dr Hopley violently to the deck, and tossed Ailie Dunning over the bulwarks into the sea.It happened at that moment that Glynn Proctor chanced to step on deck.“Hallo! what’s wrong?” cried the youth, springing forward, catching the doctor by the coat, as he was about to spring overboard, and pulling him violently back, under the impression that he was deranged.The doctor pointed to the sea, and, with a look of horror, gasped the word “Ailie.”In an instant Glynn released his hold, plunged over the stern of the ship, and disappeared in the waves.
A striking and by no means a pleasant change took place in the general appearance of theRed Ericimmediately after the successful chase detailed in the last chapter.
Before the arrival of the whales the decks had been beautifully clean and white, for Captain Dunning was proud of his ship, and fond of cleanliness and order. A few hours after the said arrival the decks were smeared with grease, oil, and blood, and everything from stem to stern became from that day filthy and dirty.
This was a sad change to poor Ailie, who had not imagined it possible that so sudden and disagreeable an alteration could take place. But there was no help for it; the duties of the fishery in which they were engaged required that the whales should not only be caught, but cut up, boiled down to oil, and stowed away in the hold in casks.
If the scene was changed for the worse a few hours after the cutting-up operations were begun, it became infinitely more so when thetry-workswere set going, and the melting-fires were lighted, and huge volumes of smoke begrimed the masts, and sails, and rigging. It was vain to think of clearing up; had they attempted that, the men would have been over-tasked without any good being accomplished. There was only one course open to those who didn’t like it, and that was—to “grin and bear it.”
“Cutting out” and “trying in” are the terms used by whale-men to denote the processes of cutting off the flesh or “blubber” from the whale’s carcase, and reducing it to oil.
At an early hour on the following morning the first of these operations was commenced.
Ailie went about the decks, looking on with mingled wonder, interest, and disgust. She stepped about gingerly, as if afraid of coming in contact with slimy objects, and with her nose and mouth screwed up after the fashion of those who are obliged to endure bad smells. The expression of her face under the circumstances was amusing.
As for the men, they went about their work with relish, and total indifference as to consequences.
When the largest whale had been hauled alongside, ropes were attached to his head and tail, and the former was secured near the stern of the ship, while the latter was lashed to the bow; the cutting-tackle was then attached. This consisted of an arrangement of pulleys depending from the main-top, with a large blubber-hook at the end thereof. The cutting was commenced at the neck, and the hook attached; then the men hove on the windlass, and while the cutting was continued in a spiral direction round the whale’s body, the tackle raised the mass of flesh until it reached the fixed blocks above. This mass, when it could be hauled up no higher, was then cut off, and stowed away under the name of a “blanket-piece.” It weighed upwards of a ton. The hook being lowered and again attached, the process was continued until the whole was cut off. Afterwards, the head was severed from the body and hoisted on board, in order that the oil contained in the hollow of it might be baled out.
From the head of the first whale ten barrels of oil were obtained. The blubber yielded about eighty barrels.
When the “cutting out” was completed, and the remnants of bone and flesh were left to the sharks which swarmed round the vessel, revelling in their unusually rich banquet, the process of “trying in” commenced. “Trying in” is the term applied to the melting of the fat and the stowing of it away in barrels in the form of oil; and an uncommonly dirty process it is. The large “blanket-pieces” were cut into smaller portions, and put into the try-pots, which were kept in constant operation. At night the ship had all the appearance of a vessel on fire, and the scene on deck was particularly striking and unearthly.
One night several of the men were grouped on and around the windlass, chatting, singing, and “spinning yarns.” Ailie Dunning stood near them, lost in wonder and admiration; for the ears and eyes of the child were assailed in a manner never before experienced or dreamed of even in the most romantic mood of cloud-wandering.
It was a very dark night, darker than usual, and not a breath of wind ruffled the sea, which was like a sheet of undulating glass—for, be it remembered, there is no such thing at any time as absolute stillness in the ocean. At all times, even in the profoundest calm, the long, slow, gentle swell rises and sinks with unceasing regularity, like the bosom of a man in deep slumber.
Dense clouds of black smoke and occasional lurid sheets of flame rose from the try-works, which were situated between the foremast and the main-hatch. The tops of the masts were lost in the curling smoke, and the black waves of the sea gleamed and flashed in the red light all round the ship. One man stood in front of the melting-pot, pitching in pieces of blubber with a two-pronged pitchfork. Two comrades stood by the pots, stirring up their contents, and throwing their figures into wild uncouth attitudes, while the fire glared in their greasy faces, and converted the front of their entire persons into deep vermilion.
The oil was hissing in the try-pots; the rough weather-beaten faces of the men on the windlass were smeared, and their dirty-white ducks saturated, with oil. The decks were blood-stained; huge masses of flesh and blubber lay scattered about; sparks flew upwards in splendid showers as the men raked up the fires; the decks, bulwarks, railings, try-works, and windlass were covered with oil and slime, and glistening in the red glare. It was a terrible, murderous-looking scene, and filled Ailie’s mind with mingled feelings of wonder, disgust, and awe, as she leaned on a comparatively clean spot near the foremast, listening to the men and gazing at the rolling smoke and flames.
“Ain’t it beautiful?” said a short, fat little seaman named Gurney, who sat swinging his legs on the end of the windlass, and pointed, as he spoke, with the head of his pipe to a more than usually brilliant burst of sparks and flame that issued that moment from the works.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed a long-limbed, shambling fellow named Jim Scroggles, “why, that ain’t the word at all. Now, I calls it splendiferous.”
Scroggles looked round at his comrades, as if to appeal to their judgment as to the fitness of the word, but not receiving any encouragement, he thrust down the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger, and reiterated the word “splendiferous” with marked emphasis.
“Did ye ever see that word in Johnson?” inquired Gurney.
“Who’s Johnson?” said Scroggles, contemptuously.
“Wot, don’t ye know who Johnson is?” cried Gurney, in surprise.
“In course I don’t; how should I?” retorted Scroggles. “There’s ever so many Johnsons in the world; which on ’em all do you mean?”
“Why, I mean Johnson wot wrote the diksh’nary—the great lexikragofer.”
“Oh, it’shimyou mean, is it? In course I’ve knowed him ever since I wos at school.”
A general laugh interrupted the speaker.
“At school!” cried Nickel Sling, who approached the group at that moment with a carving knife in his hand—he seldom went anywhere without an instrument of office in his hand—“At school! Wal now, that beats creation. If ye wos, I’m sartin ye only larned to forgit all ye orter to have remembered. I’d take a bet now, ye wosn’t at school as long as I’ve been settin’ on this here windlass.”
“Yer about right, Sling, it ’ud be unpossible for me to be aslongas you anywhere, ’cause everybody knows I’m only five fut two, whereas you’re six fut four!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Dick Barnes—a man with a huge black beard, who the reader may perhaps remember was the first to “raise the oil.” “It’ll be long before you make another joke like that, Gurney. Come, now, give us a song, Gurney, do; there’s the cap’n’s darter standin’ by the foremast, a-waitin’ to hear ye. Give us ‘Long, long ago.’”
“Ah! that’s it, give us a song,” cried the men. “Come, there’s a good fellow.”
“Well, it’s so long ago since I sung that song, shipmates,” replied Gurney, “that I’ve bin and forgot it; but Tim Rokens knows it; where’s Rokens?”
“He’s in the watch below.”
In sea parlance, the men whose turn it is to take rest after their long watch on deck are somewhat facetiously said to belong to the “watch below.”
“Ah! that’s a pity; so we can’t have that ’ere partickler song. But I’ll give ye another, if ye don’t object.”
“No, no. All right; go ahead, Gurney! Is there a chorus to it?”
“Ay, in course there is. Wot’s a song without a chorus? Wot’s plum-duff without the plums? Wot’s a ship without a ’elm? It’s my opinion, shipmates, that a song without a chorus is no better than it should be. It’s wus nor nothin’. It puts them wot listens in the blues an’ the man wot sings into the stews—an’ sarve him right. I wouldn’t, no, I wouldn’t give the fag-end o’ nothin’ mixed in bucket o’ salt water for a song without a chorus—that’s flat; so here goes.”
Having delivered himself of these opinions in an extremely vigorous manner, and announced the fact that he was about to begin, Gurney cleared his throat and drew a number of violent puffs from his pipe in quick succession, in order to kindle that instrument into a glow which would last through the first verse and the commencement of the chorus. This he knew was sufficient, for the men, when once fairly started on the chorus, would infallibly go on to the end with or without his assistance, and would therefore afford him time for a few restorative whiffs.
“It hain’t got no name, lads.”
“Never mind, Gurney—all right—fire away.”
“Oh, I once know’d a man as hadn’t got a nose,An’ this is how he come to hadn’t—One cold winter night he went and got it froze—By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.(Chorus.) Well-nigh madden’d,By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.“Next day it swoll up as big as my head,An’ it turn’d like a piece of putty;It kivered up his mouth, oh, yes, so it did,So he could not smoke his cutty.(Chorus.) Smoke his cutty,So he could not smoke his cutty.“Next day it grew black, and the next day blue,An’ tough as a junk of leather;(Oh! he yelled, so he did, fit to pierce ye through)—An’ then it fell off altogether!(Chorus.) Fell off altogether,An’ then it fell off altogether!“But the morial is wot you’ve now got to hear,An’ it’s good—as sure as a gun;An’ you’ll never forget it, my messmates dear,For this song it hain’t got none!(Chorus.) Hain’t got none,For this song it hain’t got none!”
“Oh, I once know’d a man as hadn’t got a nose,An’ this is how he come to hadn’t—One cold winter night he went and got it froze—By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.(Chorus.) Well-nigh madden’d,By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.“Next day it swoll up as big as my head,An’ it turn’d like a piece of putty;It kivered up his mouth, oh, yes, so it did,So he could not smoke his cutty.(Chorus.) Smoke his cutty,So he could not smoke his cutty.“Next day it grew black, and the next day blue,An’ tough as a junk of leather;(Oh! he yelled, so he did, fit to pierce ye through)—An’ then it fell off altogether!(Chorus.) Fell off altogether,An’ then it fell off altogether!“But the morial is wot you’ve now got to hear,An’ it’s good—as sure as a gun;An’ you’ll never forget it, my messmates dear,For this song it hain’t got none!(Chorus.) Hain’t got none,For this song it hain’t got none!”
The applause that followed this song was most enthusiastic, and evidently gratifying to Gurney, who assumed a modest deprecatory air as he proceeded to light his pipe, which had been allowed to go out at the third verse, the performer having become so engrossed in his subject as to have forgotten the interlude of puffs at that point.
“Well sung, Gurney. Who made it?” inquired Phil Briant, an Irishman, who, besides being a jack-of-all-trades and an able-bodied seaman, was at that time acting-assistant to the cook and steward, the latter—a half Spaniard and half negro, of Californian extraction—being unwell.
“I’m bound not to tell,” replied Gurney, with a conscious air.
“Ah, then, yer right, my boy, for it’s below the average entirely.”
“Come, Phil, none o’ yer chaff,” cried Dick Barnes, “that song desarves somethin’ arter it. Suppose now, Phil, that you wos to go below and fetch the bread-kid.”
“Couldn’t do it,” replied Phil, looking solemn, “on no account wotiver.”
“Oh, nonsense, why not?”
“’Cause its unpossible. Why, if I did, sure that surly compound o’ all sorts o’ human blood would pitch into me with the carvin’-knife.”
“Who? Tarquin?” cried Dick Barnes, naming the steward.
“Ay, sure enough that same—Tarquin’s his name, an it’s kuriously befittin’ the haythen, for of all the cross-grained mixtures o’ buffalo, bear, bandicoot, and crackadile I iver seed, he’s out o’ sight—”
“Did I hear any one mention my name?” inquired the steward himself who came aft at that moment. He was a wild Spanish-like fellow, with a handsome-enough figure, and a swart countenance that might have been good-looking but for the thickish lips and nose and the bad temper that marked it. Since getting into the tropics, the sailors had modified their costumes considerably, and as each man had in some particular allowed himself a slight play of fancy, their appearance, when grouped together, was varied and picturesque. Most of them wore no shoes, and the caps of some were, to say the least, peculiar. Tarquin wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a conical crown, and a red silk sash tied round his waist.
“Yes, Tarquin,” replied Barnes, “wewosengaged in makin’ free-an’-easy remarks on you; and Phil Briant there gave us to understand that you wouldn’t let us have the bread—kid up. Now, it’s my opinion you ain’t goin’ to be so hard on us as that; you will let us have it up to comfort our hearts on this fine night, won’t you?”
The steward, whose green visage showed that he was too ill to enter into a dispute at that time, turned on his heel and walked aft, remarking that they might eat the bottom out o’ the ship, for all he cared.
“There now, you misbemannered Patlander, go and get it, or we’ll throw you overboard,” cried Scroggles, twisting his long limbs awkwardly as he shifted his position on the windlass.
“Now, then, shipmates, don’t go for to ax it,” said Briant, remaining immovable. “Don’t I know wot’s best for ye? Let me spaake to ye now. Did any of ye iver study midsin?”
“No!” cried several with a laugh.
“Sure I thought not,” continued Phil, with a patronising air, “or ye’d niver ask for the bread—kid out o’ saisin. Now I was in the medical way meself wance—ay, ye may laugh, but it’s thrue—I wos ’prentice to a ’pothecary, an’ I’ve mixed up more midsins than would pisen the whole popilation of owld Ireland—barrin’ the praists, av coorse. And didn’t I hear the convarse o’ all the doctors in the place? And wasn’t the word always—‘Be rigglar with yer mails—don’t ait, avic, more nor three times a day, and not too much, now. Be sparin’.’”
“Hah! ye long-winded grampus,” interrupted Dick Barnes, impatiently. “An’ warn’t the doctors right? Three times a day for sick folk, and six times—or more—for them wot’s well.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the others, while two of them seized Briant by the neck, and thrust him forcibly towards the after-hatch. “Bring up the kid, now; an’ if ye come without it, look out for squalls.”
“Och! worse luck,” sighed the misused assistant, as he disappeared.
In a few minutes Phil returned with the kid, which was a species of tray filled with broken sea-biscuit, which, when afloat, goes by the name of “bread.”
This was eagerly seized, for the appetites of sailors are always sharp, except immediately after meals. A quantity of the broken biscuit was put into a strainer, and fried in whale-oil, and the men sat round the kid to enjoy their luxurious feast, and relate their adventures—all of which were more or less marvellous, and many of them undoubtedly true.
The more one travels in this world of ours, and the more one reads of the adventures of travellers upon whose narratives we can place implicit confidence, the more we find that men do not now require, as they did of old, to draw upon their imaginations for marvellous tales of wild, romantic adventure, in days gone by, travellers were few; foreign lands were almost unknown. Not many books were written; and of the few that were, very few were believed. In the present day men of undoubted truthfulness have roamed far and wide over the whole world, their books are numbered by hundreds, and much that was related by ancient travellers, but not believed, has now been fully corroborated. More than that, it is now known that men have every where received, as true, statements which modern discovery has proved to be false, and on the other hand they have often refused to believe what is now ascertained to be literally true.
We would suggest, in passing, that a lesson might be learned from this fact—namely, that we ought to receive a statement in regard to a foreign land, not according to the probability or the improbability of the statement itself, but according to the credibility of him who makes it. Ailie Dunning had a trustful disposition; she acted on neither of the above principles. She believed all she heard, poor thing, and therefore had a head pretty well stored with mingled fact and nonsense.
While the men were engaged with their meal, Dr Hopley came on deck and found her leaning over the stern, looking down at the waves which shone with sparkling phosphorescent light. An almost imperceptible breeze had sprung up, and the way made by the vessel as she passed through the water was indicated by a stream of what appeared lambent blue flame.
“Looking at the fish, Ailie, as usual?” said the doctor as he came up. “What are they saying to you to-night?”
“I’m not looking at the fish,” answered Ailie; “I’m looking at the fire—no, not the fire; papa said it wasn’t fire, but it’s so like it, I can scarcely call it anything else. Whatisit, doctor?”
“It is called phosphorescence,” replied the doctor, leaning over the bulwarks, and looking down at the fiery serpent that seemed as if it clung to the ship’s rudder. “But I dare say you don’t know what that means. You know what fire-flies and glow-worms are?”
“Oh! yes; I’ve often caught them.”
“Well, there are immense numbers of very small and very thin jelly-like creatures in the sea, so thin and so transparent that they can scarcely be observed in the water. These Medusae, as they are called, possess the power of emitting light similar to that of the fire-fly. In short, Ailie, they are the fire-flies and glow-worms of the ocean.”
The child listened with wonder, and for some minutes remained silent. Before she could again speak, there occurred one of those incidents which are generally spoken of as “most unexpected” and sudden, but which, nevertheless, are the result of natural causes, and might have been prevented by means of a little care.
The wind, as we have said, was light, so light that it did not distend the sails; the boom of the spanker-sail hung over the stern, and the spanker-braces lay slack along the seat on which Ailie and the doctor knelt. A little gust of wind came: it was not strong—a mere puff; but the man at the wheel was not attending to his duty: the puff, light as it was, caused the spanker to jibe—that is to fly over from one side of the ship to the other—the heavy boom passed close over the steersman’s head as he cried, “Look out!” The braces tautened, and in so doing they hurled Dr Hopley violently to the deck, and tossed Ailie Dunning over the bulwarks into the sea.
It happened at that moment that Glynn Proctor chanced to step on deck.
“Hallo! what’s wrong?” cried the youth, springing forward, catching the doctor by the coat, as he was about to spring overboard, and pulling him violently back, under the impression that he was deranged.
The doctor pointed to the sea, and, with a look of horror, gasped the word “Ailie.”
In an instant Glynn released his hold, plunged over the stern of the ship, and disappeared in the waves.