Courage, True Hearts: Sailing in Search of Fortune
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Title: Courage, True Hearts: Sailing in Search of Fortune
Creator: Gordon Stables
Illustrator: W. S. Stacey
Release date: May 18, 2012 [eBook #39729]
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COURAGE, TRUE HEARTS: SAILING IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE ***
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[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: WITH IT FELL CONAL! _Page_ 162]
Courage, True Hearts
Sailing in Search of Fortune
BY
GORDON STABLES
Author of "The Naval Cadet" "For Life and Liberty"
"To Greenland and the Pole" &c.
"I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through many a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The love of life's young day."
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
The Peak Library
_Books in this Series_
Overdue. Harry Collingwood.
The Dampier Boys. E. M. Green.
The King's Knight. G. I. Whitham.
Their London Cousins. Lady Middleton.
The White Witch of Rosel. E. E. Cowper.
Freda's Great Adventure. Alice Massie.
Courage, True Hearts! Gordon Stables.
Stephen goes to Sea. A. O. Cooke.
Under the Chilian Flag. Harry Collingwood.
The Islanders. Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Margery finds Herself. Doris A. Pocock.
Cousins in Camp. Theodora Wilson Wilson.
Far the sake of his Chum. Walter C. Rhoades.
An Ocean Outlaw. Hugh St. Leger.
Boys of the Priory School. F. Coombe.
Jane in Command. E. E. Cowper.
Adventures of Two. May Wynne.
The Secret of the Old House. E. Everett Green.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS.
CHAP.
I. Hope told a Flattering Tale
II. Hurrah for "Merrie England"!
III. The Boys' Life in London
IV. Wild Sports on Moorland and Ice
V. A Highland Blizzard--The Lost Sheep and Shepherd
VI. "The breath of God was over all the land"
VII. The Parting comes at last
BOOK II.
THE CRUISE OF THE _FLORA M'VAYNE_.
I. The Terrors of the Ocean
II. A Fearful Experience
III. Bound for Southern Seas of Ice
IV. On the Wings of the Wind
V. Johnnie Shingles and Old Mr. Pen
VI. "Back water all! For life, boys, for life!"
VII. "Here's to the loved ones at home"
VIII. Captain Talbot spins a Yarn
IX. Tongues of Lurid Fire--Blue, Green, and Deepest Crimson
X. So poor Conal must Perish!
XI. Thus Hand in Hand the Brothers Sleep
XII. Winter Life in an Antarctic Pack
XIII. A Chaos of Rolling and Dashing Ice
XIV. "Heave, and she goes! Hurrah!"
XV. The Isles of Desolation
BOOK III.
IN THE LAND OF THE NUGGET AND DIAMOND.
I. Shipwreck on a Lonely Isle
II. A Weary Time
III. Children of the Sky
IV. Treasure-hunters. The Forest
V. Fighting the Gorillas
VI. An Invading Army--Victory!
VII. The Mysterious Stone
VIII. The Battle at the Ford
IX. The very Identical Bird
X. The Welcome Home
BOOK I
IN SCOTTISH WILDS AND LONDON STREETS
CHAPTER I--HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE
Had you been in the beautiful and wild forest of Glenvoie on that bright
and blue-skied September morning--on one of its hills, let us say--and
heard the music of those two boys' voices swelling up towards you,
nothing that I know of could have prevented you from joining in. So
joyous, so full of hope were they withal, that the very tune itself, to
say nothing of the words, would have sent sorrow right straight away
from your heart, if there had been any to send.
"Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way;
Hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the dangers of to-day."
There was a pause just here, and from your elevated situation on that
rocky pap, looking down, you would have rested your eyes on one of the
prettiest rolling woodland scenes in all broad Scotland.
It was a great waving ocean of foliage, and the sunset of autumn was
over it all, lying here and there in patches of crimson, brown, and
yellow, which the solemn black of pine-trees, and the funereal green of
dark spruces only served to intensify.
Flap-flap-flap! huge wood-pigeons arise in the air and go sailing over
the woods. They are frightened, as well they may be, for a moment
afterwards two guns ring out almost simultaneously, and so still is the
air that you can hear the dull thud of fallen game.
"Hurrah, Conal! Why, that was a splendid shot! I saw you take aim."
"No, Duncan, no; the bird is yours. You fired first."
"Only at random, brother. But come, let us look at him. What a
splendid creature! Do you know, Conal, I could almost cry for having
killed him."
"Oh! so could I, Duncan, for that matter, but the capercailzie[1] is
game, mind, and won't father be pleased. Why do they call it a wild
turkey?"
[1] The letter "z" not pronounced in Scotch.
"Because it isn't a turkey. That is quite sufficient reason for a
gamekeeper. The capercailzie is the biggest grouse there is, you know,
and sometimes weighs very many pounds."
"And didn't we find the nest of one in a spruce tree last spring."
"Ay, and six eggs that we didn't touch; and I've never put any faith
again in that ignoramus of a book, that would have us believe the birds
always build on the bare ground."
"Written by an Englishman, no doubt, Duncan, who had never placed a foot
on our native heath. But now let us get back to breakfast. I wonder
where our little sister Flora is."
"I heard her gun about ten minutes ago; she can't be far off. Besides
Viking is with her, so she is safe enough. Give the curlew's scream and
she'll soon appear."
"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."
Duncan threw down his gun beside the dead game, and, placing his fingers
in his mouth, gave a perfect imitation of this strange bird's cry:
"Who-o-o-eet, who-o-o-eet (these in long-drawn notes, then quicker and
quicker), who-eet, who-eet, wheet, wheet, wheet, wheet, who-ee!"
The boys did not have long to wait for an answer. For Duncan, the elder,
who was about sixteen, with a stalwart well-knit frame, and even a
budding moustachelet, had hardly finished, when far down in a dark
spruce thicket sounded the barking of a dog, which could only belong to
one of a very large breed.
He entered the glade in which the brothers stood not many seconds after.
He entered with a joyous bound and bark, his great shaggy coat, black as
the raven's wing, afloat on his shoulders and back; his white teeth
flashing; and a yard or two, more or less, of a red ribbon of a tongue
hanging out of his mouth.
Need I say he was a noble Newfoundland.
He stopped short and looked at the 'cailzie, then snuffed at it, and
immediately after licked his master's cheek. To do so he had to put a
paw on each of Duncan's shoulders, and his weight nearly bore him to the
ground.
But see, here comes little Flora herself--she is only twelve; her
brothers are both dressed in the kilt of hill tartan, and Flora's frock
is but a short one, showing to advantage a pair of batten legs encased
in galligaskins; fair hair, streaming like a shower of gold over her
shoulders; blue eyes, and a lively very pretty face. But across that
independent wee nose of hers is quite a bridge of freckles, which
extends half-way across her cheeks.
Now a child of her tender years would, in many parts of England, be
treated quite as a child. It was quite the reverse at Glenvoie. Flora
was in reality a little model of wisdom, and many a bit of good advice
she gave her brothers--not that they bothered taking it, though both
loved her dearly.
Flora carried a little gun--a present from her father, who was very
proud of her exploits and worldly wisdom, and across her shoulders was
slung a bag, which appeared to be well filled.
"Hillo, Siss!" cried Duncan. "Any cheer?"
"Oh, yes, three wild pigeons! But what a lovely great wild turkey! I'm
sure, Duncan, it was a pity to kill him!"
"Sport, Sissie, sport!" said Duncan.
Yet as he looked at the splendidly plumaged bird which his gun had laid
low in death, he smothered a sigh. He half repented now having killed
the 'cailzie.
Homeward next, for all were hungry, and in the old-fashioned hall of the
house of Glenvoie breakfast would be waiting for them. Through the
forest dark and deep, across a wide and clear brown stream by
stepping-stones, a stream that in England would be called a river, then
on to a broad heathy moorland, with here and there a cottage and little
croft.
Poor enough these were in all conscience, but they afforded meal and
milk to the owners and their children. Chubby-cheeked hardy little chaps
these were. They ran to gate or doorway to greet our young heroes with
cheers shrill and many, and Flora smiled her sweetest on them. Neither
stockings nor shoes nor caps had they, winter or summer, and when they
grew up many of them would join the army, and be first in every bayonet
charge where tartans would wave and bonnets nod.
Laird M'Vayne himself came to the porch to meet his children. These
were all he had, and their mother was an invalid.
An excellent specimen of the Highland laird was this Chief M'Vayne. As
sturdy and strong in limb as a Hercules, broad in shoulder, and though
sixty years and over, as straight as an arrow. His was a fearless face,
but handsome withal, and he never looked better than when he smiled.
Smiling was natural to him, and came straight from the heart, lighting
up his whole face as morning sunshine lights the sea.
"Better late than never, boys. What ho! a capercailzie!"
Then he placed his hand so kindly on Duncan's shoulder.
"It was a good shot, I can see," he said, "and now we won't kill any
more of these splendid birds. I want the woods to swarm with them."
"No, father," said Duncan, "this is the last, and I shall send to
Glasgow for eyes, and stuff and set him up myself."
Then the Laird hoisted Flora, gun, game-bag and all, right on top of his
broad left shoulder and carried her inside, while Viking, enjoying the
fun, made house and "hallan" ring with his gladsome barking.
Ever see or partake of a real Highland breakfast, reader? A pleasure
you have before you, I trust. And had you been at Glenvoie House on this
particular morning, the very sight of that meal would have given you an
appetite, while partaking of it would have made you feel a man.
That was real porridge to begin with, a little lake of butter in the
centre of each plate and creamy milk to flank it. Different indeed from
the clammy, saltless saucers of poultice Englishmen shiver over of a
morning at hotels, making themselves believe they are partaking of
Scotia's own _own_ dish.
All did justice to the porridge, and Viking had a double allowance.
There was beautiful mountain trout to follow, cold game, and fresh
herrings with potatoes. Marmalade and honey with real oat-cakes
finished the banquet.
About this time, gazing across the lawn from the great window, Duncan
could see the runner bringing the post-bag. Runner he might well be
called. He had come twenty miles that morning with the mails, trotting
all the way.
Duncan threw open the window, and with a smile and order for postie to
go round to the kitchen for a "piece" and a "drink", he received the
bag.
The arrival of the runner was always one of the chief events of the day,
for the Laird "let" his shootings every season, and had friends in every
part of the kingdom.
So had the boys.
"Ah!" said their father, opening a letter which he had reserved to the
last. "Here is one from our distant relative, Colonel Trelawney."
"Oh! do read it out," cried Flora impulsively.
Her father obeyed, as all dutiful fathers do when they receive a command
from juvenile daughters.
"_Maida Vale, London._
"_My dear 42nd cousin,--I think that is about our relationship. Well, I
was never good at counting kin, so we must let it stand at that.
Heigho! That is my 42nd sigh since breakfast time, and it isn't the
luncheon hour yet. But I couldn't quite tell you what I am sighing for;
I think it must be for the Highland moors around you, on which I enjoyed
so glorious a time in August. Heigho! (43rd). Your hills must still
be clad in the crimson and purple glory of heath and heather whence
scattered coveys or whirring wings spring skywards (Poetry!)._
"_Well now, I've got something to propose. Since his poor mother died,
my boy Frank--fifteen next birthday, you know--has not seemed to thrive
well. He is a capital scholar, and is of a very inventive turn of mind.
He delights in the country, and when he and I bike away down into the
greenery of fields and woods he always looks better and happier. But at
home he has nothing to look at that is natural--a few misshapen trees
only, a shaven lawn, evergreens, and twittering sparrows._
"_He is lively enough, and plays the fiddle charmingly. He is only a
London lad after all, and his pale face bears witness to the fact._
"_Well, cousin, fair exchange is no robbery. Send me your two boys up
here to spend the winter, and then I'll send the whole three down to you
to put in the spring and summer. Expected results? Is that what you
ask, cousin mine? Well, they are these. A little insight into London
life will assist in toning down the fiery Highland exuberance of your
brave lads, and will help to make them young men of the world. While a
spell among your Highland hills shall put more life-blood into my boy,
and make him stronger, braver, and heartier._"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duncan. "He is going to civilize us, is he, daddy
dear? We'll have to wear frock-coats, long hats and long faces, and
carry umbrellas. What do you think of that, Conal?"
"Why," said Conal disdainfully, "umbrellas are only for old wives and
Sassenachs. The plaid for me."
"And me!"
"Well, but listen," said the Laird laughing.
"_Your boys,_" says the colonel, "_must come to us dressed in their
hill-tartan kilts, and have dress tartans to wear at evening parties.
The English are fond of chaffing the Scot, but, mind you, they love him
all the same, and can quite appreciate all the deeds of derring-do he
accomplishes on the field of battle, as well as his
long-business-headedness on the Stock Exchange. Heigho! (sigh the
44th), had I been a Scot I'd have been a richer man to-day instead of
having to maintain a constant fight to keep the wolf from the door. But
you, dear cousin, must be fairly wealthy._"
It was Laird M'Vayne's turn to sigh now, for alas! he was far indeed
from rich, and, young as they were, both his boys knew it. And between
you and me and the binnacle, reader, the lads used to pray every night,
that Heaven might enable them when they came to man's estate, or even
before, to do something for the parents who had been so good to them.
"_Well,_" the letter ran on, "_I sha'n't say any more, only you will let
the laddies (that is Scotch, isn't it?) come, won't you, cousin? and if
we can only find out the time of the boat's arrival, Frank and I shall
be at the dock waiting for them._"
"Hurrah!" cried Duncan,
"Hurrah!" cried Conal.
"And you won't be sorry to leave me and the old home, will you?" said
M'Vayne.
"Oh, indeed, indeed we will, daddy," cried Duncan, "and we'll think
about you all and pray for you too, every day and night. Won't we,
Conal?"
"Of course we will."
Then the younger lad went and threw his arms round his father's neck,
leaned his cheek against his breast, in truly Celtic fashion, and there
were tears in his eyes.
"Besides," said Duncan, "the change will do us such a heap of good, and
by all we read London must be the grandest place in the whole wide
world."
"Streets paved with gold, eh? Houses tiled with sheets of solid silver
that glitter daily in the noonday sun. No poverty, no vice, no crime in
London. Is that your notion of London, my son?"
"Well," replied Duncan laughing, "it may not be quite so bright as all
that, daddy, but I am sure of one thing."
"Yes?"
"If the streets are not paved with gold, nor the houses tiled with
silver, there is money to be made in the city by any honest business
Scot who cares to work and wants to win."
"Bravo, Duncan!
"In the lexicon of youth which fate reserves
For a bright manhood, there is no such word as Fail."
----
For the next two or three weeks, although the boys with their plucky
little sister went every day either to the hill or woods to shoot, or to
the burn to fish, there was very little talked about except the coming
excursion to the great city of London.
Mrs. M'Vayne was at present confined to her room, and, being nervous,
the thought of losing her boys even for a short four or five months made
her heart feel sad indeed, and it took them all their time to reassure
her.
"No, no, lads," she would cry almost petulantly; "I cannot be happy
until I see you in the glen once more, safe and sound!"
Two weeks passed--oh, ever so quickly--away, and the last week was to be
devoted wholly and solely to the packing of trunks, a very pleasurable
and hopeful employment indeed.
Duncan was _facile princeps_ at this work, and he kept a note-book
always near, so that whenever he thought about anything he might need,
he wrote it down--just as if it had not been possible to get every
article he might require in great London, from a needle to an anchor.
Only, as he told his brother Conal, "It is far better to be sure than
sorry."
Well, the last day--the last sad day--came round at last and farewells
had to be said on both sides.
Mrs. M'Vayne kept up as well as she could, and so did the boys.
_Noblesse oblige_, you know, for although their father was but a
Highland laird, and poor at that, he was connected by blood with the
chiefs of the best clans in Scotland.
Poor honest Viking had watched the packing with the very greatest of
interest, and so sad did he appear that Duncan and Conal made up their
minds to take him with them. And when they told him so, there really
was not a much happier dog in all the British islands. For Viking was
wise beyond compare, and there was very little, indeed, that he did not
understand.
But Florie's grief at the loss of her brothers was beyond control, and
she made no attempt to hide her tears.
Yes, the laird himself journeyed with his boys as far as Leith, and saw
them safe on board.
When the good ship steamed away at last, he waved them a silent adieu,
then turned and walked quickly away.
CHAPTER II.--HURRAH FOR "MERRIE ENGLAND"!
Neither Duncan nor Conal was a bad sailor, for, their father's estate
being near the western sea, many a long summer's day they spent in open
boats, and they sometimes went out with the herring-fishers and were
heard of no more for clays.
But this was to be a voyage of more than ordinary rigours, for, as bad
luck would have it, a gale of wind arose, with tremendous seas, soon
after they passed Berwick.
The waves made a clean breach over the unfortunate ship, and at
midnight, when the storm was at its worst, the boys were suddenly
awakened by the strange rolling motion of the steamer, and they knew at
once that some terrible accident had happened.
The engines had stopped, for the shaft was broken; and high over the
roaring of the terrible wind they could hear the captain shouting:
"All hands on deck!"
"Hands make sail!"
It was but little sail she could carry, indeed, and that only
fore-and-afters, jib and stay-sails.
The boys had a cabin all to themselves, and the companionship of honest
Viking, the Newfoundland. The poor dog did not know what to make of his
situation. If he thought at all, and no doubt dogs do think, he must
have wondered why his masters should have forsaken their beautiful home,
their wanderings over the hills still clad in crimson heather, or
through the forests deep and dark, for a life like this; but to the
lower animals the ways of mankind are inscrutable, just as those of a
higher power are to us. We are gods to the pets we cherish, and they
are content to believe in and trust us, never doubting that all is for
the best. Alas! we ourselves hardly put the same trust in the good God
who made us, and cares for us, as our innocent dogs do in those who own
them.
"Well, Conal," said Duncan, "this is, indeed, a wild night. I wonder if
we are going to Davie Jones's locker, as sailors call it?"
"I don't think so. The captain is a long-headed fellow. I guess he
knows what he is up to."
"I shall light the candles anyhow. I don't like to lie awake in the
dark. Do you?"
"Not much. If I was to be drowned I think I would like it to come off
in good daylight."
After a scramble, during which he was pitched three times on the deck,
once right on top of the dog, Duncan succeeded in lighting the candles.
These were hung in gimbals, so that the motion of the ship did not
affect them.
It was more cheerful now; so, having little desire to go to sleep,
knowing that the ship must really be in danger, they lay and talked to
each other. Talked of home, of course, but more about the great and
wondrous city of London, which, if God spared the ship, they soon should
see.
Presently a bigger wave than any that had come before it struck the
ship, and seemed to heel her over right on her beam-ends, so that Duncan
almost tumbled out of his berth.
A deep silence followed, broken only by the rush of water into the boys'
cabin.
Viking sprang right into Conal's berth, and crouched, shaking and
quivering in terror, at his feet.
There was half a foot of water on the cabin deck.
The worst seemed to be over, however, for presently sail was got on her,
and though the wind continued to rave and howl through the rigging, she
was on a more even keel and much steadier.
Presently the captain himself had a peep into the lads' state-room.
He had a bronzed but cheerful face, and was clad in oil-skins from his
sou'-wester hat to his boots.
"Not afraid, are you, boys? No? Well, that's right. We have broken
down, and it will be many days before we get into London; but we'll
manage all right, and I think the wind is just a little easier already."
"So we won't go to Davie Jones's to-night, will we, captain?"
"Not if I know it, lad. Now, my advice is this: go to sleep,
and--er--well, there can be no harm if you say your prayers before you
do drop off."
The boys took his advice, and were soon fast in the arms of Morpheus.
So, too, was honest Viking. He was one of those dogs who know when they
are well off, so he preferred remaining in Conal's bunk to descending to
the wet deck again. To show his sympathy, he gave the boy one of his
huge paws to hold, and so hand-in-hand they fell asleep.
The wind was still blowing when they sat down to breakfast with the
captain and first mate, for there was not another passenger on board
save themselves. The old saying, "The more the merrier", does not apply
to coasting steamers in early winter. The fewer the easier--that is
more truthful.
The gale was a gale no longer, but a steady breeze. The ship was given a
good offing, for the wind blew from the north-east, and to be too close
to a lee shore is at all times dangerous.
But how very snug and cosy the saloon looked, when they were all
gathered around the brightly-burning stove that night.
The skipper could tell many a good story, and the first mate also could
spin a yarn or two, for they had both been far away at sea in distant
climes, and both hoped to get ocean-going ships again.
So there they sat and chatted--ship-master and man, with their tumblers
of hot grog on the top of the stove--till six bells in the middle watch.
Then the boys and Viking retired.
"I say, Conal," said Duncan that evening, just before turning in, "I
think I should like to be a sailor."
"Well," replied Conal, "I should like to visit far-away countries, where
hardly anybody had ever been before, and try to make some money just to
be able to help father in his difficulties."
"Poor father, yes. Well, young fellows have made money before now."
"Ay," said Conal, who was wise beyond his years; "but, brother, they had
a nest-egg to begin with. Now, we have nothing."
"Nonsense, Conal; we have clear heads, we have a good education, and we
have a pair of willing hands each. That makes a good outfit, Conal, and
many a one has conquered fate with far less."
The voyage to London was a long and tedious one, for they had to
struggle for days against head-winds, and tack and half tack isn't the
quickest way to a port.
But long before they reached the mouth of the Thames, and were taken in
tow by a tug-boat, the boys had cemented quite a friendship with Captain
Talbot and his mate Morgan. They promised to correspond, and the honest
skipper told them that he had a great project on, and that if it came to
a head, he would be willing to take them both to sea with him as
apprentices, if their father would let them go. This was real good news
for our young heroes, and they parted from Talbot happy and hopeful.
Morgan, the mate, put them up to the ropes as to getting to Colonel
Trelawney's residence, and a good thing it was that he did so, else
assuredly they would have lost themselves. A bargain was made with a
cabman, and he agreed for a certain sum to drive them all the way.
It was a damp and miserable day, the streets were inches deep in slimy
mud, the houses all gray and dismal.
No wonder that the hearts of these two boys, accustomed to the green
grandeur of forests and crimson-clad Highland hills, sank within them,
as they gazed from the windows of their cab.
Was this the beautiful London they had heard tell of and expected to
see? Nothing but discomfort and misery met their eyes at first, and
when the conveyance stopped now and then, blocked by carts and wagons,
they found they could scarcely understand a word of the jargon that fell
on their ears from every side.
"Moaning piper!" cried a ragged urchin, shoving a newspaper right under
Duncan's nose.
Duncan bought this morning paper.
"Did you notice what he said, Conal?"
"Yes; he said 'Moaning piper'. There must be something about a battle
in it, and a Scotch piper must have been wounded. No wonder he moaned
if he was shot through the chest or legs--eh, Duncan?"
"No indeed, that would make anybody moan."
But much to the boys' disgust there was nothing about a battle in the
paper, nor about pipers, nor even about soldiers at all. So the
newspaper was thrown down, and they contented themselves by looking from
the windows at the crowds of people that were hurrying along the
pavement, everyone intent only on his own business, and taking not the
slightest notice of his neighbour. They had now got into a better part
of the town. There were fewer guttersnipes and badly-dressed men and
women here, less apparent poverty, in fact, with the exception of the
poor, white-faced, hungry-looking girls and women who were selling
flowers. During a block one of these came to the window near which
Duncan sat, and he made the lassie happy by buying two button-holes, and
giving her sixpence for them.
The 'buses were objects of curiosity for our heroes.
The drivers were ideal in their own way, and of a class not to be met
with anywhere out of London.
The boys criticised them unmercifully.
"Oh, Duncan, did ever you see such faces, or such slow-looking men!"
"Faces just like hams, Conal--and, why, they seem to be wearing about
twenty coats! So solemn too--I wonder if ever those fellows smiled
except over a pint of beer!"
"And look at those huge wooden umbrellas!"
"Yes, that is for fear a drop of rain should fall upon John Guttle, and
he should catch cold."
"Shouldn't I like to see one of these John Guttles trudging over a
moor!"
"He wouldn't trudge far, Conal; he would tumble down and gasp like an
over-fed ox."
"I say, Duncan, I haven't seen anybody with a plaid yet."
"No, and you won't. Top-coats--nothing else--and tobacco-pipes. No
wonder most of those male creatures on the tops of the 'buses are
watery-nebbit or red-nosed."
Now, however, private carriages began to mingle with the traffic, and
the boys had more to wonder at. But inside these they caught glimpses of
fashionable ladies, some young, charmingly dressed, and of a cast of
beauty truly English and refined. What astonished Duncan and his
brother most was the coachman and flunkeys on the dickey, so severely
and stupidly aristocratic did they look.
"Oh, Duncan," cried Conal laughing, "did ever you see such frights! and
they've got on ladies' fur tippets!"
"Yes, that is to keep their poor shivery bodies warm, Conal."
"And they look just as if they owned all London, don't they?"
"Yes, that is one of the peculiarities of the flunkey tribe. What's the
odds, Conal, so long as they are happy?"
The cab seemed to have reached the suburbs at last. Here were many a
pleasant villa, and many a lordly mansion too, with splendid balconies,
which were in reality gardens in the sky. There were trees, too, though
now almost bare, and green lawns and bushes and flowers.
But none of these latter appealed to our young heroes because they were
all so artificial.
Hillo! the cab stops; and the driver, radiant in the expectation of a
tip, throws open the door.
"'Ere we are at last, young gents. 'Appy to drink yer 'ealth. Thousand
thanks! Hain't seen a 'alf-crown before for a month. Nobuddy needn't
say to me as the Scots ain't liberal."
One of the handsomest villas the boys had yet seen, and in the porch
thereof stood Colonel Trelawney himself to welcome his guests.
"Right welcome to the Limes," he cried heartily. "Frank is out, but
he'll be home to luncheon. Why, what tall hardy chaps you are, to be
sure, and I'm right glad you came in your native dress. I wonder how my
boy would look in the kilt. It's a matter of legs, I believe."
"Oh, sir," said Duncan, "he'll soon get legs when he comes to the
Highlands, and climbs the hills and walks the moors for a few months."
"Well, come in, boys. James, here, will show you your room. We've put
you both in the same, as I know young fellows like to talk before
turning in."
The room was plainly, yet comfortably, furnished, and the window gave a
pleasant view of gardens, shrubberies, and a cloudland of trees to which
the autumn foliage still was clinging.
"'Ot watah, young gents."
"Thank you, James."
Duncan and Conal made haste to wash and dress.
James had opened their boxes, and was acting as valet to them in every
way. But they were not used to this, and so they told James. God had
given them hands and arms, and so they liked to make use of them.
Hark! footsteps on the stairs. Hurried ones, too; two steps, one
stride!
Next moment the door was thrown open, and Frank himself stood before
them, with both hands extended to bid them welcome.
CHAPTER III.--THE BOYS' LIFE IN LONDON.
"Cousin Frank!"
"That's me. And how are you, cousins Conal and Duncan? We're only
far-off cousins, but that doesn't matter, does it? I'm jolly glad to
see you, anyhow. You'll bring some life into this dull old hole; and
I'll find some fun for you, you bet."
"Did you ask if we betted?" said Duncan, smiling, but serious. "We
wouldn't be allowed to."
"No, no. 'You bet' is just an expression; for, mind you, everybody
speaks slang nowadays in town. Oh, I don't bet--as a rule, though I did
have a pony on the Oxford and Cambridge last race."
"And did the pony win?" asked Conal, naively.
"Eh? What? Ha, ha, ha! Why, it's a boat race, and a pony is a fiver.
I'd saved the cash for a year, and like a fool I blewed it at last."
Well, if Frank Trelawney was not very much to look at as regards body,
he was frank and open, with a handsome English face, all too pale,
however, and he seemed to have more worldly wisdom in his noddle than
Duncan, Conal, and Viking all put together.
After talking a little longer to our Highland heroes Frank knelt down
and threw his arms around the great dog's neck, and Viking condescended
to lick his cheek.
"I'm so glad that old Vike takes to you, Frank," said Duncan. "It isn't
everybody he likes."
"Of course," said Frank, "'old' is merely a term of endearment, as
father would say."
"That's it. He is only a year and six months old, but already there is
nothing scarcely that he does not know, in country life, I mean, though
I suppose he will be rather strange in town for a time."
"Sure to be. But here comes James. Luncheon served, James, eh?"
"Luncheon all ready, Master Frank."
They found the Colonel walking up and down the well-lighted hall smoking
a cigarette. He was really a most inveterate smoker. He smoked before
breakfast, after breakfast, all the forenoon, and all day long. Rolled
his own cigarettes, too, so that his fore and middle fingers were
indelibly stained yellow with the tobacco.
"Horrid habit!" he always told boys, "but I've become a slave to it.
Don't you ever smoke."
Though some years over sixty, Trelawney was as straight as a telephone
pole, handsome, and soldierly in face and bearing. The only thing that
detracted from his facial appearance was a slight degree of bagginess
betwixt the lower eyelids and the cheek bones. This was brought on, his
doctor had told him often and often, by weakness of the heart caused by
tobacco and wine. But Trelawney would not punish himself by leaving
either off.
The boys took to Mrs. Trelawney from the very first. She must have been
fully twenty years younger than the Colonel, and had a sweet, even
beautiful, face, and was altogether winning.
Well, that was a luncheon of what might be called elegant kickshaws,
artistically cooked and served, but eminently unsatisfactory from a
Scotch point of view.
The dinner in the evening was much the same, and really when these
Highland lads got up from the table they almost longed for the honest,
"sonsy" fleshpots of Glenvoie.
Walnuts and wine for dessert! But they did not drink wine, and would
have preferred a cocoa-nut or two to the walnuts. There would have been
some satisfaction in that.
A private box for the theatre!
"Oh," cried Duncan, "that will be nice!"
"You have often been at the theatre, dear, haven't you?"
This from Mrs. Trelawney, as she placed her very much be-ringed fingers
on Conal's shoulder.
"No, auntie," replied Conal; "only just once, with Duncan there. It was
in Glasgow. They were playing 'Rob Roy', and I shall never forget it.
Never, never, never!"
But to-night it was a play of quite a different class, a kind of musical
comedy. Plenty of action and go in it, plenty of the most ordinary and
musicless singing, which pleased the gallery immensely, and frequent
spells of idiotic dancing. There were no serious situations at all,
however, and no thread of narrative woven into the play.
Moreover, both Scotch boys were placed at a disadvantage owing to their
inability to follow the English patois, which on the whole was
thoroughly Cockney, the letter "R" being dead and buried, and the "H"
being silent after a "W", so that the lads did not enjoy themselves
quite as much as they had expected to.
Every now and then the colonel excused himself. He told our heroes he
was going to see a man. That really meant lounging into the buffet to
smoke a cigarette, and moisten a constitutionally dry throat.
A few days after this, however, the colonel, who, by some means or other
known only to himself, was behind the scenes (virtually speaking) of all
the best theatres, managed to get a box for the Lyceum.
That truly great tragedian, Irving, was playing in "The Bells", and the
young M'Vaynes were struck dumb with astonishment; they were thrilled
and awed with the terrible realism of the grand actor, and when the
curtain fell at last both boys thanked the colonel most heartily.
"That is real acting, a real play!" cried Duncan enthusiastically. "I'm
sure neither Conal nor I want to sit and listen to Cockney buffoonery
after that."
Dear Mrs. Trelawney, as both boys called her, had evidently made up her
mind to give the lads as pleasant a time as possible. Every fine day,
and there were now many, she took them all for a drive.
"We sha'n't be back for luncheon, Tree," she always told her husband.
"You must eat in solitary state and grandeur for one day."
"Indeed," she smilingly informed Duncan, "I don't care much to lunch at
home. I like to be free, and not have extreme gentility and servants
pottering about behind your chair, and listening to every word you say.
I hate the proprieties."
Duncan and Conal both smiled. They felt just that way themselves.
After a drive in the park, Mrs. Trelawney would go shopping, and those
two brown-faced, brown-kneed Highland boys created a good deal of
sensation, though they seemed quite unaware of the fact.
Ah! but after the shopping came luncheon. And the colonel's wife knew
where to go to. A charming hotel, not a million of miles from the
Thames embankment. And that was a luncheon, too, or, as Frank called
it, a spread!
It was a square meal at all events, and Mrs. Trelawney seemed delighted
at seeing the boys thoroughly enjoying it.
"Now you lads must eat, you know, because you've got to grow many, many
inches yet. And this is liberty hall anyhow. Isn't it delightfully
free and easy?"
It was. This the boys admitted.
The more they were with Mrs. Trelawney the more they liked her. And the
young M'Vaynes might have said the same of Frank. He was a charming
companion. Moreover, he had many accomplishments that his 42nd cousins
could not boast of. He could sing with a sweet girl-voice, and he played
the violin charmingly, his mother accompanying him on the piano.
She, too, could sing, and in the evenings she often electrified her
guests by her renderings of dramatic pieces. Everybody who visited at
the Trelawneys' house knew that the colonel had married a young and
beautiful actress, and that here she was--far more a woman of the world,
and a more perfect lady than anyone at her table.
And the boys were a great attraction. They were so outspoken, yet so
innocent, that conversation with them was full of amusement. They
always donned their belts and dress tartans for dinner, and were a good
deal admired. Moreover, they soon got to be asked frequently out to
dinners, or to dances. These they very much enjoyed.
Well, a whole month passed away, and Duncan and his brother were now
able to endure London and London life, though they never could love it.
Many a long walk did Frank take them. The carriage would drive them as
far as the Strand, then the journey was continued on foot citywards.
Everything here was new--I can't say fresh, for there is precious little
freshness about London streets--to the Scotch lads. They could have
wished, however, that the pavements had been less crowded, that the
people had been less lazy-looking, and that the vendors of penny wares
had not thrust their unsavoury hands so often right under their noses.
Frank seemed determined to show his 42nd cousins every phase of London
life. He even took them into a corner drink-palace, and there ordered
lemonade, just that they might see a little of the dark side of city
life.
They were horrified to behold those gin-sodden men and women, many
leaning almost helplessly against the counter; the patched and
semi-dropsical faces of the females, the maudlin idiotic looks of the
males, Duncan thought he never could forget.
He shuddered, and felt relieved when out once more in the crowded
streets.
One day Frank thought he would give his cousins a special treat, so he
took them to the Zoo.
Both were much interested in beholding the larger wild beasts, the lions
of Africa, the splendid tigers of India, the sulky hippopotami, and
ill-natured-looking rhinoceroses. But it was a sad sight after all, for
these half-starved-looking beasts were deprived of the freedom of forest
and plains, and confined here in filthy dens, all for the pleasure of a
gaping crowd of ignorant Cockneys.
But when they came upon the birds of prey, and their eyes caught sight
of a poor puny specimen of the Scottish eagle, chained to a post, and
almost destitute of feathers, Duncan's heart melted with shame and
sorrow, and he turned hurriedly away.
As far as the Zoo was concerned, Frank's best intentions had failed to
give his guests pleasure. But they were too polite to say so.
----
Duncan and Conal had now been two months in London, and could understand
even what the street boys said. On the whole they had enjoyed the
wonderful sights of this wonderful city, for these really seemed
unending.
Then came Christmas.
Christmas and the pantomime.
They enjoyed Drury Lane far more even than the parties or even the
dances they were invited to. The scenery and scenes were exquisitely
lovely. No dream of fairyland ever equalled these.
The boys gave themselves wholly up to amusement throughout all the
festive season. But to their credit be it said, they did not gorge on
goose, turkey, or pudding as everybody else did.
"No wonder," thought Duncan, "that the Englishman is called John Guttle
in many parts of Scotland." For he had never seen such eating or
drinking in his life before.
Then after the festivities of the festive week came dulness and
dreariness extreme. The people had spent all their money, and
wretchedness abounded on every pavement of the sleet-swept streets of
the city. Yes, and the misery even overflowed into the west-end suburbs.
It was about this time that Duncan made a discovery.
Frank had told him, frankly enough, that his father was not over-well
off, but it was evident to him now that Colonel Trelawney was simply
struggling to keep up appearances, and that, in all probability, he was
deeply in debt.
Mrs. Trelawney, or "dear Auntie", as the Scotch lads called her, was
ever the same. Nothing seemed to trouble or worry her.
But the colonel at breakfast used to take up his letters, one by one,
and eye them with some degree of suspicion before opening them.
The waste-paper basket was close to him, and was wonderfully handy.
"The first application," he would say with a smile as he tore up a bill
and summarily disposed of the fragments.
"Second application"--that too was torn up.
Letter from a friend--put aside to be read at leisure.
A long blue letter--suspicious--disposed of without reading.
"Ha! Amy, love, here is Sweater & Co.'s fourth letter. Threatens us
with--ah, you know."
"Well, dear," says Mrs. Trelawney with her sweetest smile, "just let
them sweat!"
"Give 'em a bill, I suppose," the colonel says, as if speaking to
himself.
And the letter is put aside.
So one way or another Trelawney got through his pile at last, and
settled down to serious eating, that is, he made a hearty meal from a
Londoner's point of view. Then he lit a cigarette.
Well the month of January was raw and disagreeable, and seldom was there
a day without a fog either white or yellow.
Is it any wonder that, brought up in a clear transparent atmosphere
among breezes that blew over heathy hills, and were laden with the
balsamic odour of the pine-trees, Duncan and Conal began to languish and
long for home.
With great candour they told "Auntie" they wanted to get home to enjoy
skating, tobogganing, and white-hare shooting; and she promised to speak
to the colonel.
"We will be so sorry to leave you, auntie, for you've been so good to
us."
"And I shall miss you, boys, sadly."
"Yes, I hope so. It will give Conal and me pleasure to think that you
like us. And of course Frank comes with us."
"I fear it is too cold for Frank."
"Oh no, auntie dear. One never feels cold in Scotland, the air is so
bracing, you know."
So that very day it was all arranged, and Laird M'Vayne had a letter to
that effect.
The parting was somewhat sorrowful, but the boys did not say "Farewell!"
only "_Au revoir_", because both hoped to return, and by that time they
declared that Frank would be as hardy as--as--well, as hardy as
Highlanders usually are.
The last things that the boys bought in London were skates. Of course
they could have got those in Edinburgh, but not so cheaply, and for this
reason: there did not seem to be the ghost of a chance of any skating
for the Londoners this season, and so they got the skates for an old
song.
They went by sea to Edinburgh. The _Queen_ was at present all but a
cargo-boat, and besides the three lads and Vike, there was only one
other passenger, an old minister of the Church of Scotland.
The same skipper and the same mate, and delighted they were to see the
boys again, and they gave Frank a right hearty welcome on their account.
But Frank had that with him which secured him a welcome wherever he
went--his fiddle, and when after dinner he played them some sad and
plaintive old Scottish airs, all were delighted, and the minister got up
from his chair, and, grasping the boy's hand, thanked him most
effusively.
"Dear lad," he said, "you have brought the moisture to my eyes, although
I had thought my fountain of tears had dried up many and many a long
year ago."
Now here is something strange; although, when once fairly out of the
Thames' mouth and at sea, it was blowing a head wind, with waves houses
high, Frank was not even squeamish. I have seen many cases like this,
though I must confess they are somewhat rare.
Nor was the minister ill; but then, like the Scotch boys, he was
sea-fast, having done quite a deal of coasting.
"How goes the project you have in view?" asked Duncan that evening of
the skipper.
"Well," was the reply, "it is not what the French call a _fait accompli_
just yet, but it is bound to be so before very long."
"Well, my 42nd cousin Frank here would like to go to sea also. Could
you do with the three of us?"
"Yes. You must be prepared to rough it a bit, and we'll be rather
cramped for room, but we shall manage. Eh, mate?"
"I'm sure we shall, and this young gentleman must take his fiddle."
"And I'll take the bagpipes," said Duncan, laughing.
"Hurrah!" cried the mate. "Won't we astonish the king of the Cannibal
Islands? Eh?"
It was Frank's turn to cry "Hurrah!"
"But," he added, "will there be real live cannibals, sir?"
"Certainly. What good would dead ones be?"
"And is there a chance of being caught and killed and eaten, and all the
like of that?"
"Ay, though it isn't pleasant to look forward to. Only mind this: I may
tell you for your comfort that although, after being knocked on the head
with a nullah, your Highland cousin would be trussed at once and hung up
in front of a clear fire until done to a turn, you yourself would be
kept alive for weeks. Penned up, you know, like a chicken."
"But why?"
"Oh, they always do that with London boys, because they are generally
too lean for decent cooking, and need too much basting. You would be
penned up and fattened with rice and bananas."
"Humph!" said Frank, and after a pause of thoughtfulness, "Well, I
suppose there is some consolation in being kept alive a bit; but bother
it all, I don't half like the idea of being a side dish."
The weather was more favourable during this voyage, and though bitterly
cold, all the boys took plenty of exercise on the quarter-deck, and so
kept warm. So, too, did the old minister, who was really a jolly fellow,
and did not preach at them nor dilate on the follies of youth.
Moreover, this son of the Auld Kirk enjoyed a hearty glass of toddy
before turning in.
Leith at last!
And yonder, waiting anxiously on the quay, was Laird M'Vayne himself.
His broad smile grew broader when his boys waved their hands to him, and
soon they were united once again.
CHAPTER IV.--WILD SPORTS ON MOORLAND AND ICE.
Pretty little Flora M'Vayne was half afraid of the London boy at first.
The violin won her heart, however, and before retiring for the night,
when shaking hands with Frank, she nodded seriously as she told him:
"I'm not sure I sha'n't love you soon; Viking likes you, so you must be
good."
Well, Frank was an impressionable boy, and he was very much struck by
the child's innocent ways and beauty.
"I'm not sure," he said in reply, "that we won't be sweethearts before I
leave. How would you like that?"
She shook her head. "No, no," she said, "you are very nice, but you are
only an English boy. Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
I do not think that any two boys were ever more glad to find themselves
back once more, safely under the parental roof-tree, than Duncan and
Conal. They had made many friends in London, it is true, and spent many
a happy evening therein, and these they could look back to with pleasure
and with a sigh; but the city and town itself, with all its strange
ways, the ignorance of its lower classes, its murdered twangy English,
its filth and its festering iniquities--they positively shuddered when
they thought of.
God seemed nowhere in London. Here in this wild and beautiful land He
appeared to be everywhere.
The pure and virgin snow that clad the moors and mountains was a carpet
on which angels might tread; the tiny budlets already appearing on the
trees were scattered there by His own hand; yea, and the very wind that
sighed and moaned through the forest was the breath of heaven.
And when the sun had gone down behind the waves of the western ocean did
not
"The moon take up the wondrous tale
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeat the story of her birth,
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn
Confirm the story as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole".
Yes, in wild and silent lands, God seems very near. It was in a country
like this that the immortal poet Lord Byron wrote much of his best
poetry. And no bolder song did he ever pen than Loch-na-garr. Near
here many of his ancestors--the Gordons--were laid to rest after the
fatal field of Culloden. In one verse he says--
"Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?
Ah! were ye then destined to die at Culloden,
Though victory crown'd not your fall with applause.
Still were ye happy in death's earthly slumbers,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar,
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud numbers
Your deeds to the echoes of wild Loch-na-garr."
No wonder that, wandering amidst such soul-enthralling scenery, arrayed
in the tartan of his clan, or thinking of the happy days of his boyhood,
years and years afterwards he said as he sighed--
"England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roam'd on the mountains afar!
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-garr."
But Frank Trelawney was a guest at Glenvoie, and, imbued with that
spirit of hospitality for which Highlanders are so famous, the boys
M'Vayne would have bitten their tongue through and through rather than
say one disparaging word about England.
Nor was there any need, for tame and domestic though its scenery is, the
whole history of the country, even before the Union, teems with deeds of
derring-do, done by her brave sons, on many and many a blood-drenched
field of battle.
As for Frank himself, he seemed not only to settle down to his life in
the wilds in less than a week, but to become quite enthusiastic over
"Scotland's hills and Scotland's dells"; and he was not slow in
reminding his 42nd cousins that he too had a drop of real Highland blood
in his veins.
"We'll soon make a man of you, dear boy," said the Laird one evening.
"Now, myself, and my lads, with Vike and a setter, are going after the
white hares to-morrow, and if you think yourself strong enough, we shall
take you."
"Oh, I feel strong enough now for anything," replied Frank laughing.
"Mind it is terribly hard work; but there is a little snow on the
ground, and we'll be able to track the hares easily."
"I don't think that Frank should go, Ronald," put in Mrs. M'Vayne; "the
boy is far indeed from hardy, and it may exhaust him quite. You'll stay
at home with me, won't you, Frank?"
"Yes, aunt, if you bid me, but--" He hesitated.
"Oh!" cried Duncan, "that 'but' turns the scale, mother. Don't you ask
him to stay, mother. All Englishmen have pluck if they haven't all
strength. So Frank is coming."
The morning was very bright and beautiful, with just a slight "scriffen"
of snow on the ground, and the sun rose over the eastern hills in a
blue-gray haze, like a ball of crimson fire, and intimated his intention
of shining all day long.
Duncan and Conal were up betimes, and had got everything in readiness
long before Frank came down.
A sturdy keeper would carry the bags and the luncheon they should
partake of on the hill.
But the young Englishman was full of life and go. After a hearty
breakfast they started; Flora standing in the porch waving her hand to
them, but with tears of sorrow in her eyes because she too was not
allowed to go.
Viking was daft with joy, feathering round and round in wide circles,
and now and then turning Dash, the Gordon setter, over on his back in
the snow.
They passed the forest, now leafless and bare, and taking to the right,
the ground soon began to rise.
The sheep under the charge of a plaided shepherd and his dog, were busy
scratching away the snow to feed on grass and succulent mosses--a cold
kind of breakfast, to say the least of it.
The ground rose and rose.
The dogs were kept well to heel, for indeed their services were but
little needed.
Ha! here are hare-tracks!
"Take the front, Frank," said the laird; "you are the guest, and must
have the first blood."
Frank's heart beat high with excitement, and he carried the gun low with
a finger on the trigger.
"Hurrah! there she tips!"
Bang! and a white hare that had essayed crossing from one broom-bush to
another, was tumbled; then off darted Viking and brought her in.
"Capital shot!" said Duncan. "Now we'll spread, and it will be every
one for himself, and Viking and Dash for us all."
They lay out in skirmishing order, and marched on and up.
But soon they had to force their way through heather that came up even
to the laird's and the tall keeper's waists, and all but buried little
Frank.
He held his gun aloft, however, and struggled bravely on.
In about a quarter of an hour they had emerged, and the boys were
shaking the snow from their kilts.
On and up. Why, it was always on and up.
They marched all that forenoon, sometimes around rocky spurs and paps of
the mountains, sometimes along bare and barren glens, sometimes along
the edges of fearful precipices, where a single slip or false step would
have meant a terrible accident.
By the time they had reached the cliffy shelter of a very high hill,
they had bagged eight white hares in all.
And now it was noon, and though the frost was fairly hard, the exercise
had warmed their life-blood, and they felt no cold.
Hunger, though? Ah! yes, but that could speedily be appeased.
Plaids were spread on the ground, and down they all sat, the dogs not
far off, and I'm sure that the keeper, sturdy chiel though he was, felt
glad to be lightened of his load.
What a jolly meal that was to be sure! With her own lady fingers the
laird's wife had made that splendid pie. Pie for five and almost enough
for fifty. But then, of course, there were the honest dogs to be
considered, and they easily disposed of all that was left.
Bread--that is, real oatcakes--cheese, and butter followed.
The boys washed all down with a flagon of milk, but in the interests of
truth, I must add that the laird and his keeper had a modest glass or
two of Highland whisky.
And now, after yarning for about half an hour, sport was resumed.
Farther up the hillsides they still went, and so on and on for two whole
hours.
It had been a grand day, but as the sun was now declining towards the
blue blue ocean, the laird called a halt.
"I think, boys," he said, "we've done enough, and as we are nearly ten
miles from home we had better be retracing our steps. Donald has as
many hares as he can carry. Haven't you, Donald?"
"Och! well, it's nothing," was the reply. "And it's all down-hill now
you'll mind, sir."
"Yes. Well, lead the way, Donald."
Donald did.
For one of the party, and that was Frank, the journey was a terrible
one. On the upward march there was all the excitement of the sport to
keep him up. But now he had no such stimulant to stir his English blood.
When still three miles from Glenvoie mansion-house, Duncan observed that
he was very pale and limped most painfully. In fact the poor boy's
ankles were swollen, and his toes felt like whitlows; but although so
tired that he could hardly carry his gun, that indomitable English
courage of his kept him from complaining.
He confessed, however, feeling just a little tired, so the laird poured
a small quantity of whisky into a measure, mixed it with snow, and made
him swallow it.
After this he felt better.
When they arrived at the top of the very lower-most and lost hill, the
house being but half a mile distant, they sat down for a short time to
rest and gaze across the sea.
The sun's lower limb had just touched the wester-most wave, and red and
fiery gleamed his beams 'twixt horizon and shore. It was a beautiful
sight.
Many flocks of rooks were winging their way northwards to the shelter of
the great forest, and now and then a string of wild ducks were seen in
full flight towards the tall reeds that bordered an ice-bound lake.
Slowly sank the sun, the waves seemed to wash up across its blood-red
surface, and gradually, so gradually, engulfed the whole.
"And the sun's last rosy rays did fade
Into twilight soft and dim."
----
Frank Trelawney was indeed glad when he found himself once more in his
own room. The man brought water, and with Highland courtesy insisted on
bathing his feet.
He next hurried away for a cup of delicious coffee, after swallowing
which Frank felt like a giant refreshed, and soon went down into the
drawing-room.
He was still pale, however, for the terrible fatigue had temporarily
affected the heart.
Little Flora was not slow to note this.
"Oh, cousin," she said, "how white and tired-looking you are! You
shouldn't have gone. You're only a poor little English boy, you know."
Frank liked the child's sympathy, but he certainly did not feel
flattered by the last sentence.
"That's all," he mustered courage to say. "I'm only a poor Cockney lad,
and I think, Flora, I've had enough white-hare shooting to last me for a
very long time. When next your father and brothers go after game of this
sort, I'll stay at home and make love to you."
Frank, however, was as well as could be next day, and after a cold bath
went hungrily down to breakfast.
The day was as still and bright as ever, and it was to be spent upon the
loch.
Curling--which might be called a kind of gigantic game of billiards on
the ice--was to be engaged in. A party was coming from a neighbouring
parish, and a strong club was to meet them.
At this most splendid "roaring" game there is no class distinction; lord
and laird, parson and peasant, all play side by side, all are equal, and
all feed together, ay, and partake of Highland usquebaugh together also.
Well, the laird's party were victorious, and all were invited up to
Glenvoie house, to partake of an excellent dinner, laid out in the barn.
But the barn was beautifully clean, and along its wall, among
evergreens, was placed many a bright cluster of candles.
The silver and crystal sparkled on the snow-white table-cloth, and that
huge joint of hot corn-beef and carrots--the curlers' dinner _par
excellence_--was partaken of with great gusto.
Bread and cheese and whisky followed this, then the minister returned
thanks, and this was followed by more whisky, with song after song.
"Roof and rafters a' did dirl."
It was not till near to the "wee short 'oor ayont the twal" that the
party broke up, and all departed for their distant homes, on horseback
or in traps.
Did I say "all departed"? What an awkward thing it is to be possessed
of a conscience! I have one which, whenever I deviate in the slightest
degree from the straight lines of truth, brings me up with a round turn.
Well, _all_ did not depart, for the corn-beef--let us say--had flown to
the legs and to the heads of half a dozen jolly fellows at least, and
they determined that they wouldn't go home till morning.
So they had some more toddy, sang "Auld Lang Syne", and then retreating
to the rear of the barn, curled up amongst the straw and were soon fast
asleep.
So ended the great curling match of Glenvoie.
CHAPTER V.--A HIGHLAND BLIZZARD--THE LOST SHEEP AND SHEPHERD.
It must not be supposed for a single moment that although the boys
M'Vayne liked fun and adventure in their own wild land, just as you or I
or any other boys do, reader, their education was neglected. Quite the
reverse, in fact. For at the time our tale commences, both had just
returned from the High School of Edinburgh, where they had studied with
honour, and carried off many prizes.
One of Duncan's pet studies had been and still was--navigation. Not
only of a theoretical kind, but thoroughly practical.
He had long since made up his mind to become a sailor, and he had left
no stone unturned to learn the noble art of seamanship.
For this purpose he had prevailed upon his father to let him take
several cruises in a barque plying between Leith and Hull. So earnest
was Duncan, and so willing was both skipper and mate of this craft to
teach him, that in a very short time he was not only up to every rope
and stay, but could take both the latitude and longitude as well as
could be desired.
He did all he could to put his brother up to the ropes also.
They were very fond of each other, these two lads, and it was the
earnest desire of both that they should not be parted.
Well, all the stories they read were of the "ocean wild and wide", and
all the poetry they loved had the sound of the sea in it.
Such poetry and such tales Duncan would often read to his brother and
winsome wee Florie sitting high on a hilltop, perhaps, on some fine
summer's day with the great Atlantic spreading away and away from the
shore beneath them to the distant horizon.
Dibdin's splendid and racy songs, redolent as they are of the brine and
the breeze, were great favourites.
But I do think there is a thread of romance in the life of every sailor.
Nay, more, I believe that it is this very romance that first induces
young fellows to tempt the billows, although they are but little likely
to find a life on the ocean wave quite all that their fancy painted.
Talking personally, I am of opinion that it was _Tom Cringle's Log_ that
first gave me an idea of going to sea. Well, I do not regret it.
Byron's _Corsair_ was a great favourite with the boys. Indeed, I rather
think that they both would have liked to become corsairs or dashing
pirates. And little Flora would gladly have gone with them.
"Heigho!" she sighed one day when Duncan had closed the book. "Heigho!
I wish I had been a boy. I think it was very foolish of the Good Man to
make me a girl, when he knew well enough I wanted to be a boy."
The poor child did not know how irreverent was such talk.
Honest Vike used to lie by Duncan's side while he was reading, with one
huge heavy paw placed over the boy's knee.
But it must have been monotonous for him; and often his head fell on the
extended foot, and he went off to sleep outright.
No sooner was the reading ended, however, than Vike awoke, as full of
life as a spring-born kitten. Then his game began. He used to loosen a
huge boulder and send it rolling down the hill. As it gained force, it
split up into twenty pieces or more, and bombarded everything it came
across. Vike just stood and barked. But once, when a flying piece of
the boulder killed a hare, the noble Newfoundland dashed down the hill
at tremendous speed, and seized his quarry.
He came slowly up with it, and laid it solemnly down at Duncan's feet.
This was all very well; but one day, when the boys and Flora sat down
about half-way up a hill, Viking, tired of the reading, found his way to
the hilltop, and, as usual, loosened a boulder, and started it.
Thump, thump, rattle, rattle, rush! Fully a dozen great stones came
down on our heroes in a cloud of dust, and with the force of an
avalanche. The danger was certainly great, but it was all over before
they could fully realize it.
Duncan hastily drew his whistle, and at its call the innocent dog
instantly ceased working at another boulder he was busily engaged
loosening, and came galloping down the hill.
Poor fellow! I dare say he deserved a scolding, but so full of life and
happiness was he, that Duncan had not the heart to speak harshly to him.
Only care was taken after this that Vike never got higher up the hill
than the reading party.
Frank had been nearly three weeks at Glenvoie, before he became
initiated into the mysteries of a real Highland snow-storm. Many of my
readers have doubtless been out in such a blizzard, but the majority
have not, and can have but little idea of the fierceness and danger of
it.
The morning of the 10th of February, 18--, was mild and beautiful. Both
Duncan and his brother had been early astir, and had taken their bath
long before sunrise.
They went downstairs on tiptoe, as they had no desire to awake their
guest.
"English boys need a lot of sleep," said Conal. "They're not like you or
me, Duncan."
"N-no," said his brother; "but I could have done with another hour
myself to-day. But we are Scotsmen, and must show an example. Noblesse
oblige. Well," he added, "we'll have time to run up the hill anyhow, and
see the sun rise."
So off they went, Vike making all the rocks and braes resound with his
barking.
It was, indeed, a glorious and beautiful morning, and from their
elevated situation they could see all the wild and romantic country on
every side of them, for daylight was already broadening in the east. To
the west the gray Atlantic ocean, the horizon buried in mist, away to
the south woods and forests. Forests to the north also, while behind
them hills on hills successive rose.
But the eastern sky was already aglow with clouds of crimson fire and
gold. What artist could paint, what poet describe, such glory?
Then low towards a wood shines forth a brighter, more fiery gleam than
all, and even at this distance the boys can see the branches, aye, and
even the twigs, of the trees silhouetted against it.
And that is the sun itself struggling up behind the radiant clouds.
They stayed but little longer, for by this time breakfast would be
ready, and Frank himself getting up.
After this meal was discussed, as a light breeze, sufficient to ripple
the stream, had sprung up, the young folks determined to go fishing.
They took luncheon with them, and spent the whole forenoon on the banks
of the bonnie wimpling burn.
But so well engaged were they that they did not at first observe that
the sky was becoming rapidly overcast, and that the wind had begun to
wail and moan in the trees of the adjoining forest. It had turned
terribly cold too.
Duncan became fully alive to his danger now, however, especially when
the tiny millet-seed snow began to fall.
"Our nearest way is through the wood," said the boy. Duncan was always
pioneer in every danger and in every pleasure.
"And there is no time to lose," he added. "Florie, I wish you hadn't
come. I suppose Conal and I will have to carry you."
"I won't be carried," replied the stout-hearted little Scots maiden. "I
daresay you think I'm a child."
Fishing-tackle was by this time made up, and off they started.
It was terribly dark and gloomy under the great black-foliaged
pine-trees, but Duncan knew every foot of the way.
They got through the forest, and out on to the wide moorland, just as
the snow began to fall in earnest.
This moor was for the most part covered with heather, with broom and
with whins, but dotted over with Scottish pine-trees. These last had
been planted, or rather sown, by the rooks, for the black corbies turn
many a heathery upland in Scotland into waving woods or forests. They
bear the cones away to pick the seeds therefrom on the quiet moors.
Some of these seeds are dropped, and in a short time trees spring up.
Duncan now took from his pocket a small compass, and studied it for a
moment.
"We sha'n't be able to see the length of a fishing-rod before us soon,"
he said. "Now, I propose steering due south till we strike the old turf
dike[1] that leads across the mountains. By following this downwards we
will be guided straight to the pine-wood rookery behind our house."
[] Dike (_Scottice_), a low fence of stone or turf.
They commenced to struggle on now in earnest--I might almost say for
dear life's sake--for wilder and wilder blew the blizzard, increasing in
force every minute, and thicker fell the snow. But I was wrong in
saying it fell, for it was carried horizontally along on the wings of
the wind. Not a flake would lie on the hills or bare slopes, but every
dingle and dell and gully, and every rock-side facing westward, was
filled and blocked.
Duncan held Flora firmly by the hand, for if she got out of sight in
this choking drift, even for a few seconds, her fate would, in all
probability, be that of sweet Lucy Gray--she might ne'er be seen alive
again.
Frank and Conal were arm-in-arm, their heads well down as they struggled
on and on.
"Let us keep well together, boys," cried Duncan, as he looked at his
little compass once again. "Cheerily does it, as sailors say."
Now and then they stopped for breath when they came to a clump of pines.
Here the noise of the wind overhead was terrific. At its lightest it was
precisely like the roar of a great waterfall. But ever and anon it
would come on in furious squalls, that had in them all the force of a
hurricane, which swept the tree-tops straight out to one side and bent
their giant stems as if they had been but fishing-rods. At every gust
such as this the flakes were broken into ice-dust, with a suffocating
snow fog that, had they not buried their faces in their plaids, would
have choked the party one and all.
Many of these pines were carried away by the board, snapped near to the
ground, and hurled earthwards with the force of the blast.
Long before they reached the fence of turf, called in Scotland, as I
have said, a dike, Flora was completely exhausted, and had to submit to
be carried on Duncan's sturdy back.
Frank was but little better off, but he would not give in.
At last they reached the dike.
"Heaven be praised!" cried Duncan. "And now we shall rest just a short
time and then start on and down. Cheer up, lads, we will manage now."
Flora descended from her brother's back, and he sat down on the turf,
and took her on his knee.
But where was Vike?
Surely he had not deserted them!
No, for a dog of this breed is faithful unto death.
But now a strange kind of somnolence began to take possession of the
boys.
Duncan himself could not resist its power, far less his companions.
"Let us be going, lads," he cried more than once, but he did not move.
He seemed to be unable to lift a limb, and at last he heard the howling
of the wind only like sunlit waves breaking on a far-off sandy beach.
He nodded--his chin fell on his breast--he was dreaming.
Ah! but it is from a sleep like this that men, overtaken in a
snow-storm, never, never arise. They simply
"Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking".
In a few minutes, however, Duncan starts. The sound of a dog's voice
falls on his ear. Ah! there is no bark in all broad Scotland so
sonorous and so sincere as that of honest Vike.
Wowff! Wowff! Wowff!!
There is joy in it, too, for he has found the boys--ah! more than that,
he has brought relief, and here are the sturdy kilted keeper and two
farm hands, ready to help them safely home. The keeper has a flask, and
all must taste--even Florie, who is hardly yet awake.
How pleasant looked the fire in the fine old dining-hall when, after
dressing, the boys came below.
And Glenvoie himself was laughing now, and as he shook Frank's hand, he
could not help saying:
"Well, my lad, and how do you like a Highland snow-storm?"
"Ah!" said Frank, laughing in turn, "a little of it goes a long way. I
don't want any more Highland snow-storm, thank you--not for Frank!"
The gale seemed to be increasing rather than abating, and it kept on all
that night, and for two nights and two days more.
Then it fell calm.
"I trust in Heaven," said M'Vayne, "that Sandie, our shepherd, has
reached the shelter of some hut, but I fear the worst. The sheep may be
buried, but they will survive; but without food poor Sandie cannot have
withstood the brunt of that awful blizzard.
"Boys," he continued, "I shall start at once on a search, and the keeper
will come with me."
"And we too."
"Wowff! wowff!" barked Vike, as much as to say, "You'd be poorly off
without my assistance."
It was a lovely forenoon now, with a clear sky, but not as much wind as
would suffice to lift one feathery flake.
They meant to find the shepherd, but it was his hard-frozen corpse they
expected to dig out of a snow-drift.
CHAPTER VI.--"THE BREATH OF GOD WAS OVER ALL THE LAND."
There were two huts on the moorland, one in the open, another close
against a ridge of rocks, and in one or other poor Sandie would surely
have found shelter.
So to the first they bent their footsteps. It stood with its back to
the east, and on the west it was entirely covered with great banks of
snow, some of them shaped like waves on the sea-shore, that are just on
the eve of breaking.
It took the keeper and two men nearly an hour to break through the
barrier and find the doorway.
They could see nothing when they opened it, for all were partially
snow-blind.
But they groped around, and called the shepherd by name; then convinced
that he was not there, dead or alive, they came sadly away, and joined
the group outside.
There was still the other hut to be examined, and this was a good mile
higher up the hill.
Thither, therefore, the party now wended their way, but so completely
covered up did they find it, that another long hour of hard work was
spent in reaching the doorway.
Like the last which they had explored, it was cold, dark, and deserted.
No one had any hope now of finding Sandie alive, but after a hurried
luncheon they spread themselves out across the hill and moor somewhat
after the fashion of skirmishers, and the ground was thoroughly
searched.
But all in vain.
No frozen corpse was found.
They were about to return now sorrowfully homewards, when high up the
hill and at the foot of a semi-lunar patch of rocks--an upheaval that
had taken place probably millions of years ago--Vike was noticed, and
his movements attracted the attention of all.
He was yap-yapping as if in great grief, tearing up the snow at the foot
of a mighty drift and casting it behind him and over him.
A pure white dog was the Newfoundland at present, so laden was his coat
with the powdery drift.
"Come on, men, come on," cried Glenvoie, "there yet is hope! The good
dog scents something in spite or the snow. It may only be sheep, and
yet poor dead frozen Sandie may be amongst them."
It took them but a few minutes to reach the cliff and the huge snowdrift
that covered its western side. It was then that Duncan remembered
something about these rocks.
"Why, father," he said, "now that I think of it, this is Prince
Charlie's cave."
"You are right, lad, and my hopes are certainly in the ascendant."
"Conal and I have often been inside, and there is room enough inside to
shelter a flock of sheep, or a regiment of soldiers."
"Now then, lads," cried the laird, "work away with a will. I'll take
care you don't lose by it."
He handed them his flask as he spoke, and thus refreshed by the wine of
their native land, they did work, and with a will too.
But hard work it was, from the fact that the snow was loose and powdery.
But at long, long last they reached the mouth of the cave.
And now a curious spectacle was witnessed, for to the number of at least
a hundred, and headed by a huge curly-horned ram, with a chorus of
baa-a-ing, out rushed the imprisoned sheep, kicking and leaping with joy
to see once more the light of day.
Behind them came the shepherd's bawsont-faced collie Korran. But after
licking Vike's ear he rushed back once more into the cave, and the
rescuers quickly lighting a fire with some withered grass, found the
body of the shepherd with Korran standing over it. Was he dead?
That had yet to be seen. They carried him out, and placing him on
plaids, began to rub his face with snow and chafe his cold, hard hands.
In less than ten minutes Sandie opened his wondering eyes.
He could swallow now, and a restorative was administered.
I need scarcely say that this restorative was Highland whisky.
After about half an hour Sandie was able not only to eat and talk but to
walk.
His story was a very brief one. He had, with the assistance of Korran,
driven the sheep into the cave, and never dreaming that he would be
snowed up, and remained with them for a time. Alas! it was a long time
for the poor fellow and his faithful dog!
Two days and two nights without food and only snow to keep body and soul
together. And the cold--oh, so intense!
"How did you feel?" asked Frank.
The shepherd hadn't "a much English", as he phrased it, but he answered
as best he could.
"Och, and och! then, my laddie, she was glad the koorich (sheep) was
safe, and she didna thinkit a much aboot hersel. But she prayed and she
prayed, and then she joost fell asleep, and the Lord of Hosts tookit a
care of her."
Well, this honest shepherd was certainly imbued with the sincere and
beautiful faith of the early Covenanters, but, after all, who shall dare
to say that there is no efficacy in real prayer. Not in the prayers
that are said, but in the prayers that are prayed.
----
Well, spring returned at last. Soft blew the winds from off the western
sea; all the hills were clad in green; the woods burst into bud and
leaf; in their darkest thickets the wild doves' croodle was heard,
droning a kind of bass to the mad, merry lilt of the chaffie, the daft
song of the mavis, or low sweet fluting of the mellow-voiced blackbird.
But abroad on the moors the orange-scented thorny whins, resplendent,
hugged the ground, and here the rose-linnets built and sang, while high
above, fluttering against some fleecy cloudlet, laverocks (larks)
innumerable could be heard and dimly seen.
Oh it was a beautiful time, and the breath of God seemed over all the
land.
Frank Trelawney had adopted, not only all the methods of life of his
Scots 42nd cousins, but even their diet.
Almost from the date of his arrival he had taken a shower-bath or
sponge-bath before breakfast, and this breakfast was for the most part
good oatmeal porridge, with the sweetest of butter and freshest of milk.
Now that spring had really come, he went every morning with Duncan and
Conal to a big brown pool in the woodland stream. So deep was it that
they could take headers without the slightest danger of knocking a hole
in the gravel bottom of the "pot". Having towelled down and dressed
rapidly, they ran all the way home.
This new and healthful plan of living soon told for good on the
constitution of the London lad. His muscles grew harder and stronger,
roses came on his cheeks, and he was as happy and gay as Viking himself,
and that is saying a deal.
Many a long ramble did he and little Flora now take together through the
woods and wilds, for he did not care to go boating or sea-fishing with
the others every day.
Vike always accompanied the two. This certainly was not because he
disliked the sea. On the contrary, he loved it. Whenever the boat came
within a quarter of a mile of the beach he always sprang overboard and
swam the rest of the way.
Arrived on shore he shook gallons of water out of his coat. If you had
been standing between the dog and the sun, you would have seen him
enveloped in bright little rainbows, which were very pretty; but if
anywhere alongside of him, then you would have required to go straight
home and change your clothing, for Viking would have drenched you to the
skin if not quite through it.
But I suppose that this grand and wise Newfoundland thought the London
boy and little Flo had more need of his protection.
Ah! many and many a day and night after this, when far away at sea or
wandering in wild lands, did Frank think of these delightful rambles
with his little companion. Think of them, ay, and dream of them too.
Often they were protracted till--
... "The moonbeams were bright
O'er river and forest, o'er mountain and lea".
Some poet of olden times--I forget his name--tells us that "pity is akin
to love". Well, Flora began by pitying this "poor little London boy",
as she always called him, even to his face, but quite sympathizingly,
and she ended, ere yet the summer was in its prime, by liking him very
much indeed. To say that she loved him would, of course, be a phrase
misapplied, for Flora was only a child.
----
With June, and all its floral and sylvan joys, came shoals of herring
from the far north, and busy indeed were the boatmen catching them.
Glenvoie lay some distance back from a great sweep of a bay, at each end
of which was a bold and rocky headland.
Few of the herring boats really belonged to this bay, but they all used
often to run in here, and after arranging their nets, they set sail for
their mighty draughts of fishes.
Duncan and Conal were always welcome, because they assisted right
willingly and merrily at the work.
The boats were very large, and all open in the centre--the well, this
space was called--and with a cuddy, or small living and cooking room,
both fore and aft.
It used to be rough work, this herring fishing, and not over cleanly,
but the boys always put on the oldest clothes they had, with waterproof
leggings, oil-skin hats, and sou'westers.
They would be out sometimes for two days and nights.
The beauty of the scenery, looking towards the land at the sunset hour,
it would be impossible for pen or pencil to do justice to. The smooth
sea, with its patches of crimson, opal, or orange, the white sands of
the bay, the dark, frowning headlands, the dark greenery of the shaggy
woods and forests, and the rugged hills towering high against the
eastern horizon; the whole made a picture that a Turner only could have
conveyed to canvas.
The dolphin is--from a poet's point of view--a very interesting animal,
with an air of romance about him. Dolphins are said to be of a very
joyous temperament. Well, perhaps; but they are, nevertheless, about the
worst enemies those hardy, northern, herring-fishery men have to
encounter.
They come in shoals after the herrings, and go "slick" through the nets,
carrying great pieces away on their ungainly bodies. And the boatmen
can do nothing to protect their silvery harvest.
Once, while our young heroes were on board one of the largest and best
of the boats, it came on to blow off the land--not simply a gale of
wind, but something near akin to a hurricane. They were driven out to
sea about sundown, and Duncan and Conal could never forget the
sufferings of that fearful night.
After trying in vain to beat to windward, they put up the helm--narrowly
escaping broaching-to--and ran before it.
But all through the darkness, and until the gray and uncertain light of
day broke slowly over the storm-tossed ocean, the seas were continually
breaking over the sturdy boat, and everyone was drenched to the skin.
It might have been said, with truth, that she was swamped, so full of
water was the well.
The great waves were now visible enough, each with its yellow sides and
its foaming mane. It seemed, indeed, that the ocean was stirred up to
its very bottom, and when down in the trough of the seas, with those
"combers" threatening far above, with truth might it have been said that
the waves were mountains high.
All the nets were lost, but no lives.
About noon the wind veered round to the west, and all sail was set, and
the boat steered for land; but so far into the Atlantic had they been
driven that it was sunrise next morning before they succeeded in
reaching the bay.
And there sad news awaited them.
There would be mourning widows and weeping children, for two bonnie
boats had perished with all their brave crews.
Well, there is danger in every calling, but far more, I think, in that
of the northern fisherman than in any other.
But how doubly dear to him is life on shore, when he reaches his little
white-washed cottage, after a successful run, and meets his smiling wife
and happy children, who run to greet their daddy home from sea.
----
Summer was already on the wane, and July nights were getting longer.
Frank must soon seek once more his London home.
But he was healthier, stronger, happier now, by far and away, than when
he first arrived at Glenvoie.
Ah! but the parting with everyone, but especially with bonnie young
Flora, would be sad and sad indeed.
One morning, about a week before Frank was to leave for the south,
Duncan came into his room.
"You and I and Conal are going up the hill to-day," he said, "all by
ourselves, and I have something to propose which I feel sure you will be
glad to approve of."
"All right!" said Frank.
So after breakfast the three boys slipped away to the hills, without
telling anyone what they were after.
A council was to be held.
CHAPTER VII.--THE PARTING COMES AT LAST.
If Duncan M'Vayne were a mere imaginary hero, I should not take credit
for any virtue that in him lay, but I don't mind telling you, reader,
that very few of the heroes of my stories are altogether creations of my
fairly fertile brain. Like most sailor-men who have seen a vast deal of
the world, I have so much truth to tell that it would be downright
foolish to fall back upon fiction for some time yet.
And so I am not ashamed to say that Duncan was one of those _rara
aves_--boys who think. I do not care to study the characters of boys
who are not just a little bit out of the common run. Ordinary boys are
as common as sand-martins in an old gravel-pit, and they are not worth
writing about.
Well brought up as he had been, so far away in the lonesome wilds of the
Scottish Highlands, and having few companions save his brother and
parents, it is but little wonder that he dearly loved his father and
mother. To tell the whole truth, the affection felt by Scottish boys
towards their parents is very real and sincere indeed. It is a love
that most assuredly passes the knowledge of southerners, and in saying
so I am most sincere.
Well, neither he, Duncan, nor Conal either could help knowing that of
late years circumstances connected with the estate of Glenvoie had
become rather straitened, and although obliged to keep up a good show,
as I may term it, his father was far indeed from being wealthy at the
present time. The estate was not a large one certainly, but it would
have been big enough to live well upon, had the shootings let as well as
they did long ago.
Is it any wonder that talking together about their future, as they
frequently did before going to sleep, Duncan and Conal used often to ask
each other the question, "How best can we be of some use to Daddy?" And
it was indeed a difficult one to answer.
Both lads had already all the "schooling" they needed to enable them to
make a sturdy fight with or against the world, but the idea of going as
clerks or shopmen to a city like Glasgow or even Edinburgh was utterly
repulsive to their feelings.
They were sons of a proud Highland chief, although a poor one. Alas!
how often poverty and pride are to be seen, arm in arm, in bonnie
Scotland. But anyhow, they were M'Vaynes. Besides, the wild country in
which they had spent most of their lives until now, had imbued them with
romance.
Is that to be wondered at? Did not romance dwell everywhere around
them? Did they not breathe it in the very air that blew from off the
mountains, and over the heathery moorlands? Did it not live in the dark
waving pine forests, and in the very cliffs that overhung the leaden
lakes, cliffs whereon the eagle had his eyry? Was it not heard in the
roar of the cataract, and seen in the foaming rapids of streams that
chafed its every boulder obstructing their passage to yonder ocean wild
and wide? Yes, and Duncan was proud of that romance, and proud too,
with a pride that is unknown in England of the grand story of his
never-conquered country.
And so we cannot be astonished to find the three lads sitting together,
in solemn conclave, on a bright summer's forenoon, far away on a green
brae that overlooked Glenvoie.
Indeed, they had come here seriously to discuss their future.
Viking was lying close to Duncan with his great loving lump of a head on
the boy's lap.
"You see," Duncan was saying, "it is precious hard for lads like us, who
haven't any money to get a kind of a start in the world. If we could
only get a beginning, I feel certain we should need no more. But our
father is poor, Frank!"
"Heigho!" sighed Frank, "and so, alas! is mine."
"I know," continued Duncan, "that he would scrape the needful together
somehow if we asked him. He could not sell any portion of the estate,
because it is entailed, but I know that father would try hard to raise
enough money to send Conal and me to sea as apprentices."
"And you really think you'll go to sea?" said Frank.
"As certain as sunrise, Frank. Mind I don't expect to find things quite
so rosy as books paint them, but to sea I go for all that, and so will
Conal."
"And so will I," cried Frank determinedly. "For my father is poorer far
than yours. But I won't go before the mast, as I think you mean to."
"No?"
"No! because I have an uncle who has already promised to give me a
little lift in life, and I haven't got so much Highland pride as you, so
I'll ask him to apprentice me.
"I wonder," he added, "if dear old Captain Talbot would have me?"
"Oh," cried Duncan, "I had entirely forgotten. I have a letter from
Talbot. He has given up the coasting trade, and is now in the
Mediterranean, sailing betwixt London and Italy, a merchant ship, and
I'm sure he will be glad to take you. He'll be back at the port of
London in September. Why, Frank, old man, you're in luck.
"And as for Conal and I, we shall go before the mast."
"I'm sorry for you, boys."
"But you needn't be. Not the slightest wee bit. Many an officer in the
merchant service, ay, and in the Royal Navy as well, has entered through
the hawsehole."
"That means risen from the ranks, doesn't it?"
"Something very like it."
"Well," said Conal, "is it all arranged?"
"I think so," replied Duncan. "And the sooner we set about putting our
resolves into force the better, I think."
Then he sighed as he bent down and gave poor Vike's honest head a good
hug, and I'm not sure there wasn't a tear in his eye as he said:
"Poor Vike! your master is going away where he can't take you. But
you'll be good, won't you, till we come back again, and look well after
your little mistress, Flora. I know you will, doggie."
If ever grief was depicted in a dog's looks, and we know it often is,
you might have seen it in Viking's now. I do not mean to say that he
knew all his master said. He was too young for that, but he could tell
from the mere intonation of Duncan's voice that grief was in store for
all.
----
Chief M'Vayne was much averse at first to his sons becoming mere boys
before the mast, but Duncan and Conal were determined, and so he came
round at last and gave his consent.
I am going to say just as little as I can about the parting. Partings
are painful to write about.
Not only the boys but M'Vayne himself were heroic. It does not do for
clansmen to show weakness, but the mother's tears fell thick and fast,
and poor Flora was to be pitied.
It was the first cloud of sorrow that had fallen upon her young life,
and she felt desolate in the extreme. She believed she would never
survive it. She would have no pleasure or joy now in wandering over the
hills and through the forests dark and wild.
"I will pray for you both." These were about the last words she said.
"And for me too, Florie," said Frank sadly.
"Oh, yes, and for you."
Then he kissed her.
For the first time--wondering to himself, if it would be the last.
He had gotten a pretty little ring for her, with blue stones and an
anchor on it. And of this she was very proud.
"Mind," he said, "you're a sailor's sweetheart now."
Then they mounted the trap that was to drive them to the nearest
station, and away they went, waving hands and handkerchiefs, of course,
until a bend in the road and a few pine-trees shut the dear old home
from their view.
BOOK II.
THE CRUISE OF THE _FLORA M'VAYNE._
CHAPTER I.--THE TERRORS OF THE OCEAN.
Long months have passed away since that sad parting at Glenvoie; a
parting that seemed to raise our young heroes at once from the careless
happiness of boyhood to the serious earnestness of man's estate.
They had stayed in town until Captain Talbot arrived. He was just the
same brave and jolly sailor that Duncan had first known.
Would he take Frank as his apprentice?
Why, he would be glad to have the whole three. They were so bold and
bright, there was not the least fear of their not getting on.
Wouldn't they come? His present ship was not so large as he would like
it to be, but he would make shift somehow.
But Duncan, while he thanked him, was firm.
"Well," said Talbot, "I'll tell you what I'll do for you, for somehow I
have acquired a liking for you all Frank here, then, shall come with me,
not as an apprentice belonging to the owners, but as a friend who wishes
to get well up in seamanship and eventually pass even for
master-mariner. You see, Frank, you will be rated as apprentice to me,
and not to the company, else they would hold you to the same ship for
years. And my reason is this: in about a year or a little over, I
shall, please God, have a ship of my own. It is to be a great project,
but I am promised assistance, and many of the savants in London say the
project is well worthy of the greatest success. I shall voyage first to
the Antarctic regions, and come home with a paying voyage of oil and
skins of the sea-elephants, and this shall smooth my way to exploring
further south than any ship has yet reached.
"So you see, Duncan, as you and your brother will not be bound to any
tie as regards apprenticeship, you can both sail with me to the South
Pole, and who knows but you may yet become the Nansens of the
Antarctic."
"Too good to be true," said Duncan laughing; "but I'm just determined to
do my best, and no one can do more."
"Bravo, lad!" cried the colonel, laying his hand on Duncan's shoulder.
"And you remember what the poet says:
"''T is not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more...; we'll deserve it'"
"Brave words, Colonel Trelawney," cried Talbot. "Why, sir, scraps of
heroic verse have helped me along all through life. I'm a ship-master
now, with a bit in bank. But my first voyage was to the Arctic and I
had hardly clothes enough to keep out the terrible weather. My mother
was a poor widow in Dundee, and I--being determined to go to sea--became
a stowaway. I hid in a coal-bunker, and it came on to blow, so that I
was very nearly killed with the shifting coals that cannonaded against
my ribs.
"Luckily the storm did not last long, but when they hauled me out at
last I was as black as a chimney-sweep and covered with blood.
"I was too ill to be lifted and landed at Lerwick. The doctor said I was
dying. The first mate, who was never sober, said, 'Serve the young
beggar right!' But, boys, I knew better. Dundee boys don't die worth
shucks, and so I was on deck in ten days' time. There were two dogs on
board, and my duty was to feed and look after them, and also to assist
the cook.
"I roughed it, I can tell you, lads; but, Lord bless you, it did me a
power of good. We were out for six months, and by that time I was as
strong as a young mule. How old was I? Oh, not more than sixteen. But
I felt a man. And I could reef and steer now, and splice a rope, and do
all sorts of things. For the bo's'n had taken me in hand, and right
kind he was.
"Ah! but that rascally mate! A long black, red-cheeked chap he was, and
not a bit like a sailor, but he kept up his spite against me, and, when
half-seas over--which he always was when not completely drunk--he would
let fly at me with a belaying-pin, a marling-spike, or anything else he
could lay his hands on.
"'Why don't you land him one," said the bo's'n one day, 'right from the
shoulder?'
"'That would be mutiny, wouldn't it?' said I.
"'Nonsense, lad, the skipper likes you, and he wouldn't log you for it.'
"I determined to take the bo's'n's advice next time the drunken mate hit
me.
"Well, I hadn't long to wait. You see I had come to really love the
dogs under my charge. So one day the mate kicked one of them rather
roughly out of his way.
"'Don't you dare kick that dog,' I cried; 'they are both in my charge.'
"How well do I remember that forenoon. We were on the return voyage,
running before a light breeze, with every scrap of canvas set, low and
aloft, and the sun shining bonnie and warm.
"But the mate grew purple with rage when I checked him. He could hardly
speak. He could only stutter.
"'You, you beggar's brat,' he shouted, 'I'll give you a lesson.'
"He rushed to pull out a belaying-pin.
"I tossed off my jacket and threw it on the top of the capstan.
"I twisted the belaying-pin out of his hands before you could have said
'knife'.
"'Fight fair, you drunken scamp!' I cried.
"Pistols and rifles lay ready loaded in boxes at the top of the cabin
companion, and he made a stride or two as if to take one out.
"'Mutiny!' he muttered, 'rank mutiny!'
"I sprang between him and the box, and dealt him a square left-hander
that made him reel. I followed this up with a rib-starter, then with
one on the nose.
"Down he went, and he actually prayed for mercy.
"That bulbous nose of his was well tapped, and there was no fear of him
taking apoplexy for a while anyhow.
"But when I let him up he seemed to lose control of his senses, for the
demon drink was now in the ascendant. He faced me no longer, however,
but rushed for poor, faithful Collie, and before I could prevent it, had
seized and pitched him overboard.
"The men, untold, rushed to haul the foreyard aback and to lower a boat.
"But he checked them.
"'What! lower a boat for a dog?' he cried.
"'Lower a boat for a man then,' I shouted, 'and just as I was I leapt
upon the bulwark and dived off it. Next minute I was alongside Collie.
Ay, lads, and alongside something else. A huge shark sailed past us,
and passed us so near I could almost have touched him. He must have
been fully fifteen feet long.[1] I knew that nothing but splashing and
shouting could keep him at bay, and I did both as well as I knew how
to.'"
[1] The _Scymnus borealis_, or Greenland shark, is often eighteen to
twenty feet in length.
"But the boat came quickly to our rescue, and we were soon safe on
board. The skipper liked me, and did not log my mutinous conduct. In
fact he became my friend, and I was apprenticed to his very ship. So I
had many and many a voyage to the Sea of Ice after this.
"There is a glamour about this weird and wonderful frozen ocean, boys,
that none can resist who have ever been under its bewitching spell. It
is on me now, and this it is which has determined me to seek soon for
adventures in the Antarctic, which very few have ever sought to explore.
"Now, Duncan and Conal, I'll tell you what I shall do with you. There
is a big Australian ship to sail from Southampton in about a month. The
captain is a personal friend of mine, and will do anything for you. I
shall give you a letter.
"Mind this, he is strict service, and if you do your duty, as I'm sure
you will, you'll soon have a friend on the quarter-deck."
Captain Talbot--or Master-mariner Talbot as he liked best to be
called--had been as good as his word, and now our young heroes were far
away at sea.
The _Ocean's Pride_ was a full-rigged Aberdeen clipper-built vessel, and
could show a pair of clean heels to almost any other ship in the trade.
The skipper and his two mates were all thorough sailors, and gentlemen
at heart. The skipper, whose name was Wilson, soon began to take an
interest in Duncan and Conal, and knowing that they were studying in
their idle moments, invited them to come daily to his own cabin, and
there for a whole hour he used to teach them all he could.
Duncan could soon be trusted to take sights, and even "lunars", and gave
every evidence of possessing the steadiness and grit that goes so far to
make a thorough British sailor.
They touched at the Cape in due time, and Conal acted as clerk or
"tally-boy" while cargo was being landed and fresh stock taken on board.
The boys found time to have a look at the town. They went with one of
the mates who had been often here before.
Well, the hills all around, clad in their summer coats of dazzling
heaths and geraniums, were quite a sight to see. But the town itself
they voted dismally slow, and so I myself have found it, there being so
many heavy-headed Dutchmen therein.
They were not a bit sorry, therefore, when they found themselves once
more on the heaving billows.
And the billows around the Cape of Good Hope do heave too with a
vengeance.
Such mountain waves Duncan could not have believed existed anywhere.
Tall and raking though she was, the _Ocean's Pride_ was all but buried
when down in the trough of the waves.
There was but a six-knot breeze when they started to stretch away and
away across that seemingly illimitable ocean betwixt the Cape and
Australia. Oh such a lonesome sea it is, reader! Six thousand miles of
water, water, water, and often never a sign of life in the sky above or
in the sea below.
There was, as I have said, but a light wind to begin with, and it was
dead astern, so that stunsails were set, and the great ship looked like
some wonderful bird of the main, as she sailed, with her wings
out-spread, eastward and eastward ho!
But before noon the sky in the west began to darken, and great
rock-shaped or castellated clouds rolled up from the horizon.
Snow-white were they on top, where the sun's rays struck them, but dark
and black below.
"Snug ship!" was the order now.
In came the stunsails, the men working right merrily, and singing as
they worked. In came royals and top-gallant sails, and close-reefed
were the topsails. The captain was no coward, but right well he knew
that the storm coming quickly up astern would be no child's play.
Nor was it.
A vivid flash of lightning and great-gun thunder first indicated the
approach of the gale.
Then away in the west a long line of foam was seen approaching. In an
inconceivably short space of time it struck the ship with fearful
violence, and though she sprung forward like a frightened deer and
dipped her prow into a huge wave, she seemed engulfed in raging seas.
The skipper had battened down, but so much water had been taken on board
that the good clipper could not for a time shake herself clear. Perhaps
the shivered bulwarks helped to save the ship.
In a few minutes she was rushing before the wind at a good twelve knots
an hour.
"What a blessing it is," said Captain Wilson, "that we got snug in
time!"
"Yes, sir," said the mate, "and it's an ill wind that blows nobody good.
Why, this gale is all in our favour, and will help us along."
Our heroes had far from a pleasant time, however, for the next few days.
Then wind and sea went down, and peace reigned once more on the decks,
and in the rigging of the good ship _Ocean's Pride_.
The splendid cities they visited when the vessel at last arrived in
Australia quite dazzled our boys. And as the English language was
spoken everywhere they felt quite at home.
Captain Wilson seemed to take a pride in having Duncan and Conal with
him, and he introduced them as friends wherever he went.
Both lads were handsome, and in the city of Melbourne a rumour got
abroad that they were of noble birth, and were serving before the mast
for the mere romance of the thing. Well, even the Earl of Aberdeen was
once found in the guise of an ordinary seaman; but there was something
more than romance in our heroes' situation. However, the report, which
they always contradicted, did them no harm, and they were invited to
more houses than one, being asked, moreover, to come in their sailor's
clothes.
The boys obeyed. In fact they had none other, but they had a kind of
best suit, and very well the broad blue collar and black
sailor's-knotted handkerchief became their handsome young faces.
I don't think I am far wrong in saying that some of the Australian
ladies fell in love with them.
But that is a mere detail.
Now, having reached Australia, Duncan had about half a mind, more or
less, to try his luck at the gold diggings.
He broached the subject to Captain Wilson.
"Well," replied the skipper, "mind, though I should be grieved to part
with you, I would rather put another spoke in your wheel than hinder
you, if I thought there was the ghost of a chance of your making your
fortune. But I don't think there is."
"Then we shall be advised by you," said Duncan.
So after a very pleasant time spent in Australia the _Ocean's Pride_
spread her wings once more to the breeze and sailed for distant Japan.
Thence homewards round stormy Cape Horn. It took them six weeks to
weather the Cape, so close was the ice.
But worse was to befall them, alas! than this.
They were now bearing up for home. Right cheerily too, for they had
caught the trades, and finally fell into the doldrums in crossing the
equator.
Here they tumbled about for no less than three weeks, not a breath of
wind blowing all this time to help them along.
But it came at last, and they were free.
CHAPTER II.--A FEARFUL EXPERIENCE.
Once more the _Ocean's Pride_ was spanking along before a delightful
breeze with the dark blue sea sparkling in the sunlight around her, and
Mother Carey's chickens, as sailors call the stormy petrels, flitting
past and re-past her stern.
Seamen say these birds are always the forerunners of storm and tempest.
This is not so, but in this case the prophecy turned out to be a correct
one. A fearful hurricane or tornado struck the ship, and raged for days
and days.
There was no such thing as battling against it. So it ended in their
being driven far away to the west into unknown or little frequented
seas. I am wrong in saying it ended. For the end was of a far more
terrible nature than anything I ever heard of before, or ever
experienced.
On the fourth day the tempest seemed almost played out, and the sky was
brightening somewhat in the east.
The skipper was rubbing his hands and saying to his mate:
"I think we shall be able to shake a reef out before long."
"So do I," was the cheery answer.
Both the young fellows M'Vayne were below at present, and the vessel was
battened down.
"Oh, look, look!" cried the mate, seizing the skipper by the arm and
pointing fearfully towards the east.
"Good Lord preserve us!" said Captain Wilson in terror.
And well he might be so, for yonder, quite blotting out the clear strip
of sky, a huge wave or bore had arisen. It was of semi-lunar shape, and
must have been fifty feet high at the very least. The top all along was
one mass of foam.
Nearer and nearer it came!
The sailor men crouched in fear, or hastened to make themselves fast by
ropes' ends to rigging or shroud.
And now the fine vessel is struck--is wallowing in the midst of that
hurricane-tossed turmoil of waters--is on her beam-ends, without any
apparent hope of recovery.
But recover she did after a time, and the ocean wave swept on.
What a wreck! The half-drowned men, or those who were left alive,
gasped for breath as they stared wildly around. Two masts gone by the
boards, only the pitiful foremast left standing; every boat staved and
washed away, bulwarks gaping like sheep hurdles, and the poop crushed
in.
And the officers where were they? Gone!
Yes--and my story is told from the life and the death--not only bold
Captain Wilson himself but both his mates had been swept overboard and
drowned.
Five men were missing; nor had all escaped down below. The cook was
severely injured, and but for the presence of mind and speed of two
ordinary seamen, the ship would have caught fire, for the blazing coals
had been dashed out of the range and ignited ropes and twine that lay
not far off.
And poor Duncan! He had been dashed to leeward and so stunned that his
brother and a sailor who had picked him up, believed him to be dead.
For three days he lay unconscious, but in two more days he was to all
appearance himself again.
Although suffering from a bad scalp wound, he was able to go on deck.
And sad indeed was the sight he now beheld. With the binnacle washed
away, without an officer to guide or direct the vessel; and the men, in
almost hourly expectation of death should the wind spring up again once
more, had allowed the ship to drift with the current. They were
helpless, ay, and hopeless.
And I am sorry to add that many of them had found their way to the
spirit room, and were lying on deck drunk and asleep.
Duncan now proved himself the right man--or boy, for he was but little
over seventeen--in the right place.
He called the hands aft.
"Men," he said, "we cannot continue in this state; some effort must be
made to save our lives and the valuable cargo."
"Ah! young sir," said the bo's'n sadly, "all our officers are dead.
There is no one to guide or navigate the ship. We must drift on till we
strike reef or rock and so go to pieces.
"Never fear, sir, we'll die like true-born Britons."
"But," cried Duncan, "there need be no dying about it. I myself can
navigate the ship, if sextant and chronometer still are safe."
They crowded round this brave though youthful navigator and shook him by
the hand, while tears of joy streamed down many a sea-browned
weather-beaten cheek.
"Can you, sir? Oh, can you? Then take charge and we will obey."
Luckily the rudder and wheel were uninjured, and as soon as he had taken
sights and found out where he was, he had a jib and new foresails set,
the helm was put up, and slowly the _Ocean's Pride_ began to sail for
the nearest land.
This was one of the Azores. Very far away indeed, but still Duncan
hoped to reach it ere long and in safety.
The young fellow's orders followed each other quickly enough, and were
obeyed with great alacrity.
The spirit-room was locked, and an armed sentry placed over it. He was
to bludgeon any man who should dare to approach it with intent.
Several of the worst cases of drunkards he put in irons.
Then all hands were told off to temporarily repair the ship.
The poop was mended and made water-tight, and the bulwarks roughly seen
to. This occupied a whole day, and as soon as daylight succeeded
darkness the busy crew were at work once more.
There were several spare spars on board, and the men now set about
rigging a couple of jury-masts, which, though only carrying fore-and-aft
sails, would greatly add to the good ship's speed.
But more than this had to be done, for she had shipped quite a deal of
water, and the donkey-engine had to be repaired and rigged to get clear
of it.
While work was going on cheerily enough a poor drink-demented wretch,
who had escaped from below, rushed wildly up, and sprang with a shriek,
that none who heard it ever forgot, right into the sea.
There was not a boat to lower, and small use would it have been anyhow,
for those who looked fearfully over the bulwarks saw but a red circle on
the waves, and rising bubbles. It was the poor man's blood and breath,
for he had been torn down by a shark.
The other cases recovered, and begged of Duncan not to log them.
The young acting-commander promised he would not, and they returned to
duty.
It was a long and a tedious voyage to the Azores, but every one was for
the most part happy now, although still sad when they thought of the
awful catastrophe which had caused such loss of life.
At the town where the _Ocean's Pride_ at last lay at anchor, additional
repairs were made, and in due time Duncan sailed with a fair wind for
England's shore.
It was the month of July when the ship was once more lying alongside the
quay, and hearing of her terrible adventures the people crowded down in
hundreds, and would have crowded on board, too, had not Duncan given
strict orders that no one should cross the gangway, except on business.
This did not prevent reporters from getting over the side, however, and
although Duncan was very reticent, the whole town was soon ringing with
his praise.
But the owners were still more delighted. The cargo was valued at fully
five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and the young navigator had saved it
all.
A meeting was held at which it was unanimously agreed to present Duncan
with the very handsome sum of one thousand, and his brother, who had
been but little less active than himself, with five hundred.
Duncan was indeed a happy young fellow now. But his good luck did not
end here, for on the fourth day of the arrival of the _Ocean's Pride_,
who should step on board but jolly Captain Talbot himself, and, neatly
dressed in the uniform of a ship's apprentice, Frank walked alongside of
him--on his port beam in fact.
That was a real happy meeting, as a Yankee would say.
Surely Frank never looked better nor more manly. He had lost all the
looks of the "tender-foot", and was well coloured and hardy.
And Talbot himself was as usual bronzed and jolly. The honest grip that
he gave Duncan's hand showed, too, that he was hearty and strong as
ever. It was not a few fingers that this bold sailor presented to a
friend, but the whole hand.
"And how are you, my brick of a boy? But I needn't ask when I look into
those bright eyes of yours. Ay, and I've heard of your clever doings
too. Do you see the papers?"
"I haven't much time just at present," replied Duncan, "nor has Conal
here either."
"Ah, Conal, right glad to see you! But do you know that your brother is
a hero? Why, all the newspapers from Land's End to John o' Groats are
singing his praises!"
"It won't make a bit of difference to Duncan, sir," said Conal, somewhat
proudly.
"But really, Captain Talbot"--this from Duncan himself--"I don't know
what I should have done without Conal. But come into the saloon, sir,
such as it is, for we were terribly knocked about."
"Yes, and it surprises me that you have got things so ship-shape again
as you have. You've heard from your daddy?"
"Ay, and Florie too, and I'm going to run down for a spell as soon as I
can get paid off."
"And I'll go with you, and Frank here as well. Won't you, lad?"
"Like a hundredweight of gunpowder, sir, with a spark put to it."
"And now, sir, sit down; I have half an hour to spare. Steward, bring
the wine and biscuits. And how goes the project, Captain Talbot?"
"Getting on splendidly. I've formed a company, and nearly all the
shares are sold, but really 'twixt you and me and the binnacle, boys,
I've kept the most myself."
"Well," cried Conal laughing, "I and my brother are men of vast wealth
now--ahem!--we shall have all that is left."
"No, you mustn't part with all your doubloons. Just half. The other
shall be put in a bank as a kind of nest-egg, don't you see?"
"Very well," said Duncan, "we always did take your advice, and so we
will now."
"That's right! Old Ben Talbot never gave a boy bad counsel yet."
"And the ship, sir?"
"Well, the ship's a barque, and a beauty she is. About eight hundred
tons, and although not quite a clipper, she'll make up in strength what
she'll lack in speed.
"A whaler she was," he continued, "but we have given her a rare
cleaning. She's as sweet now as a nut. Double-skinned is she, and the
bows all between the bends are solid teak, shod in front with iron. But
you shall see her as soon as we haul out of dock."
"I'm taking two mates; both have passed and own certificates. You,
Duncan, shall be acting third mate, and Conal I'll rate as auxiliary.
You haven't neglected your studies, have you?"
"No, sir, and both myself and Conal mean to go in for our first exam, as
soon as we get to London."
"Bravo! But I won't hinder you longer. Frank shall stay on with you a
bit, and I expect you all to come and dine with me to-night at my hotel.
Can you?"
"All but me," said Conal. This wasn't quite grammatical, but it was
truth. "One of us must be ship-keeper."
"That's right. Never shirk your duty for anyone or anything. Do you
remember the eulogy on Tom Bowling--when stark and stiff?"
And the pure and manly voice in which Talbot sang a verse of Dibdin's
celebrated song, proved that, though this true sailor was over fifty, he
was as hale and strong and hearty as many young fellows of twenty. Ay,
and ten times more so, for at the present time thousands of lads ruin
their health at schools--_and not from study either_.
"His form was of the manliest beauty;
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft."
Talbot was going, and Duncan was seeing him across the gangway.
"Oh, by the by," he said, still retaining his old friend's hand, "I'm a
perfect fool."
"No, no, Duncan; there are other folks' opinions to be taken on that
subject."
"But I was actually going to let you away without even asking the name
of your ship."
"Say our ship, my lad."
"Well, our ship."
"And you'd never guess her name, but your dear wee tot of a sister
christened her, and the barque's name is the _Flora M'Vayne_."
"Well, I am pleased."
"To-night, then; six o'clock to a tick."
And away went the jolly skipper.
CHAPTER III.--BOUND FOR SOUTHERN SEAS OF ICE.
Frank and Duncan spent a very happy evening indeed with their friend
Talbot.
Without the aid of wine either, which no one with youth on his side
should require to make him gay. But I do not mind telling you that the
old skipper himself had a drop of the "rosy" as he called it. And the
"rosy" meant rum, aromatic, and of great age.
Well, there was quite a deal to talk about; they told each other their
adventures, and they spoke also of their future prospects, and the
cruise of the _Flora M'Vayne_.
"She will be furnished and fitted complete," the captain said. "We
shall make sure enough of the sea elephants, but I'm going to tap a
whale or two also, if I don't find elephants enough. And, bother me,
Conal," he added, "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't write a book
about our cruise."
It was long past ten before the merry little meeting broke up. This
isn't late for land-lubbers, but with sailors it is different. "Early
to bed when on shore" is their motto.
----
It was early in August--only the first week, in fact--when the boys and
their captain found themselves back once more at Glenvoie. The colonel
had expressed a wish to run down with them, but he had to defer it,
owing to the surly way in which his liver asserted itself.
They found everything very much in the same state as when they left it,
only Florie was now fourteen, and far more demure.
It is Burns who says:
"In Heaven itself I'll ask nae mair,
Than just a Highland welcome".
And a true Highland welcome they had. There were no tears shed except
some of joy, which trickled over the somewhat pale cheeks of Mrs.
M'Vayne herself when she noted how manly her boys had grown.
Frank hadn't grown an inch. Nor did he want to. You do not require very
tall or leggy men as sailors. But the young fellow's heart was in the
right place, and he was even more full of genuine fun and humour than
ever.
But if we talk about a Highland welcome, what shall I term that which
poor Vike accorded to Duncan and Conal, and in a lesser degree to Frank.
Lucky it was that the meeting took place out-of-doors.
Had it been inside, this splendid Newfoundland would undoubtedly have
knocked down tables, and demolished crockery in his mad glee.
As it was, he contented himself with knocking first Duncan and then
Conal down, and licking their faces and hair as they lay, helpless, on
their backs.
Then, laughing down both sides, as it seemed, with white teeth flashing
and hair afloat behind him, he set out for a circular spin by way of
getting rid of his superfluous feelings. For the time being indeed he
had really resolved himself into a kind of hairy hurricane or tornado.
But he gradually became calmer, and when he entered the house at last,
where dinner was already laid, he threw himself down by Duncan's side
with a sort of sixty-pounder sigh, as much as to say:
"I'm the happiest dog in Scotland, for I thought I'd never, never see my
master again. And now that I have got him I mean to stick to him."
And he kept to that determination too, for nowhere would he sleep that
night except in the boys' room.
----
All the dear old rambles over moorland and mountain and through the dark
depths of the forest, were resumed next day, and kept up for over a
week. I do not mean to describe these happy days, for soon indeed must
we sail far, far away to wilder scenes, and our adventures will be more
exciting than any that ever our heroes had in the romantic Highlands.
Florie was still Frank's innocent little sweetheart. So he told her, at
all events, as he made her a present of a lovely locket with his own
portrait in it and a copy also of hers.
Not that Frank was proud of his phiz. Oh, no; for in fact no one would
have called him a real beauty, nor say his features were altogether
regular.
But he had eyes that sparkled with the radiance of health, and his face
changed in expression with almost every sentence he uttered.
He would have made an excellent actor. He had been told so more than
once, and his answer was: "Well, I shall turn an actor when all the seas
run dry".
And now having bidden farewell to Glenvoie, our heroes had to lie at
Dundee for a whole week finishing the fitting-out of the good ship
_Flora M'Vayne_. It was really a tiresome time, for the constant
arrivals of visitors to see the ship and the crew that were about to
embark on so long and so perilous a voyage was incessant all day long.
Nobody, therefore, was sorry to hear the last cheer that arose from an
assembled multitude, although it was a right kindly one, and though
prayers and blessings followed the barque.
That same evening they were far away from the eastern coast, for this
was a lee shore, and they were wise to have a good offing before making
direct for the south.
The barque might have been called somewhat clumsy, but nevertheless she
carried a splendid spread of canvas, and sailed remarkably close to the
wind.
Captain Talbot had told Duncan that he had made the _Flora M'Vayne_ as
sweet as a nut, and certainly he had done so. No one to walk her decks
could ever have guessed she had been a greasy, grimy blubber-hunter not
so long ago.
Why, everything on deck looked as bright and as clean as a brand-new
sovereign. The quarter-deck was as white as wheaten straw, the binnacle
was an ornament, that would have looked excellently well in the best of
drawing-rooms. The brass and hard-wood work were as bright as silver,
every rope's end was coiled on deck, as if the barque had been an
old-fashioned man-o'-war, and the men were all suitably dressed and
tidy. The bo's'n was a most particular man, and, although some men
chewed tobacco, to have expectorated anywhere on deck, would have been
an offence for which a rope's-ending would be well merited.
The galley was of the newest type; so, too, was the donkey engine, and
this would be used at sea when very far from land for the purpose of
condensing water.
All told, the mustered crew were eight-and-thirty. The men forward had
been picked by Talbot himself, and every one of them had been to the
Arctic regions more than once.
They were therefore good ice-men, and neither frost nor cold was likely
to have any terrors for them. Nor the great green waves of far southern
lands, that somehow always sing in the frosty air as they sweep past a
vessel's sides.
But there was something else on board which I should draw especial
attention to, and this was nothing less than a huge balloon. It was not
filled, of course, but the means to inflate it were all on board, and
having reached the great Antarctic ice-wall or barrier, the captain
meant to make an aerial voyage of discovery, farther to the south than
any traveller had ever been before.
There is nothing I love better than acts of daring and wild adventure,
and Talbot was certainly to be commended on this score.
His balloon was certainly not anything like the size of Andree's, yet it
was capable of rising and floating for an indefinite period with three
men, and provisions for as many months.
A special house had been built for this great uninflated balloon between
the fore and main masts, and on each side, bottom upwards, lay the
whalers, or boats with bows at each end, and steered by an oar only.
These were to be used in the fishery.
The ship's ballast was water-filled tanks, and tanks laden with coals.
But Talbot hoped to return to Scottish or English shores with ballast of
quite a different sort, and better paying--oil, to wit.
The _Flora M'Vayne_ was to touch nowhere on her voyage out until she
reached the Cape. That at least was the good skipper's intention, but
circumstances alter cases, as will presently be seen.
They had fine weather all the way till far past the dreaded Bay of
Biscay. On this occasion two boys in a dinghy might have crossed it.
But it is not to be supposed that they could go on for a very long time
without encountering what Jack calls dirty weather. And so when, in
about the latitude of Lisbon, and to the east of the Azores, it came on
to blow, no one was a bit surprised.
"We'll have a gale, mate," said the captain; "but though abeam, or
rather on the bow, we have plenty of sea-room; and on the whole I
sha'n't be sorry, for I really want to see how the _Flora_ behaves."
The wind, even as he spoke, began to roar more wildly through the
rigging, but in gusts or squalls, that at times rose for a few minutes
to almost hurricane pitch.
Before the storm had come on many beautiful gulls had been screaming
around the barque and diving for morsels of food that Frank was throwing
to them, but now they disappeared. Back they flew to the rocks that
frown over the waters of their sea-girt homes. Little dark chips of
stormy petrels, however, continued to dash from wave-top to wave-top,
and for once in a way, they brought tempest.
But the ship was now eased, for the lurid sun was setting, and a dark
and moonless night must follow. The men were hardly down from aloft when
the storm seemed to increase, but it blew more steadily, so she was kept
away a point or two, and now went dancing over the heavy seas as if she
imagined she was the best clipper ever built.
A little heavy-headed she proved, however, so that she shipped a good
deal of water over the bows, otherwise the thumping, thudding, buffeting
waves seemed to make not the slightest impression on her.
The chief cabin or dining-saloon was down below, there being no poop,
but a flush-deck all along. Both Frank and Duncan were off duty, and,
seated in this small but comfortable saloon, the former could not help
remarking on the strange feeling and sound of each heavy wave that
struck the ship abeam. She appeared to be hit by a huge, soft
boxing-glove, about a thousand times as large as any we ever use.
Immediately after there was the whishing sound of water on the deck, but
although the vessel was heeled over somewhat by every awful blow, she
took no other notice.
"Batter away, old Neptune," the barque seemed to say; "it amuses you,
and it doesn't hurt me in the slightest."
About two bells in the first watch, Talbot came below, and supper was
ordered.
His face was radiant, but shining with wet. The steward, however,
assisted him out of his oil-skins and sou'wester, then, having wiped his
face with his pocket-handkerchief, he sat down.
"Well," said Duncan, "Frank and I are waiting to hear the verdict."
"Why, it is this," said the skipper. "The barque is a duck, and well
deserves the name of _Flora M'Vayne_. I don't believe a hurricane could
hurt her, and she'll chuck the small icebergs on one side of her as I
should chuck a cricket-ball. And ain't I hungry just. Sit in, boys.
It's all night in with you lads, isn't it?"
"Not quite," said Duncan. "I kept the last dog-watch, and don't go on
again till four."
Viking got up and seated himself by his well-beloved master's side.
He licked Duncan's hand, as much as to say, "When you go on deck so
shall I."
But his master seemed to divine his thoughts.
"No, my good dog," he said, "you must stay below to-night, else the seas
would sweep you off, and what should I do then?"
After supper Frank got out his fiddle and played for fully half an hour,
then he and Duncan, who both occupied the same state-room, retired.
As a sailor always sleeps most soundly when the wind blows high, and he
is really "rock'd in the cradle of the deep", it is almost unnecessary
to say that these lads dropped soundly off almost as soon as their heads
touched the pillows.
Nor did they awake until eight bells at the end of the darksome middle
watch, when Conal came down to call them.
"Oil-skins, Conal?"
"Ay, Duncan, and you'll need them too. Better lock Vike in your cabin."
"That is what I mean to do."
Poor Viking did not half like it though. There is no dog in the world
makes a better sailor's companion when far away at sea than a
Newfoundland, and I speak from experience. But such dogs do not
appreciate danger sufficiently high, nor have they good enough sea-legs
to face a storm and walk the deck of a heaving ship. Therefore they
often get washed into the lee scuppers.
On the present occasion Vike made up his mind to be as naughty a dog as
he could.
"I shall wake the skipper," he told Duncan, speaking through the
key-hole as it were. "Wowff!" he barked. "Wowff! wowff! What do you
think of that?"
Well, the sound could certainly be heard high over the roaring of the
wind and the dash of angry waves.
The captain heard it in his dreams; but it takes more than the barking
of a dog to awake a sailor born. So Talbot just hitched himself round,
and went off to sleep on the other tack.
By breakfast time both wind and sea had gone down, and there was every
expectation of fine weather once again.
"No damage done is there, mate?" said Talbot to Morgan.
"No, sir, nothing worth speaking about. Some of the coal tanks got a
drop o' water in them, that's all."
"Well, that will make them last the longer. But, mind you, Morgan, I'm
rather pleased than otherwise that we've had that blow."
"So am I."
"It just shows what the barque can do."
"That's it. If she is as good against the ice as she is against a
sea-way, then, by my song, sir, she'll take us safely to the Antarctic,
and just as safely back home again. Pass the sugar, sir."
CHAPTER IV.--ON THE WINGS OF THE WIND.
"Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching." So runs a line of the old
Yankee war-song.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys (Duncan and Frank) were treading the deck
that forenoon, talking, as sailors do, about anything or everything that
suggested itself. And two subjects that always came to the front on such
occasions were home life and their life on the ocean wave.
"So you thoroughly like the sea?" said Duncan.
"Well, Duncan, I never thoroughly liked anything, you know, but I think
I love a sea-life better than most sorts of existence, with the
exception, of course, of wandering over the hills of old Glenvoie;
bird-nesting in the forests, or fishing in its beautiful streams. Only
the sea has its drawbacks."
"Yes."
"Yes, for I do think it a nuisance to have to get up at all hours of the
night to keep watch--blowing or calm. I always feel I should be willing
to give five years of my life for another two hours' sleep, when the
fellow shakes me by the shoulder and says, 'Eight bells, sir, if you
please'. Just as if it would not be eight bells whether I pleased or
not. Then, neither the tommy nor tack is quite up to shore standard,
and one could do well enough without cockroaches about a foot and a half
long--more or less--between his sheets, weevils in his biscuits, and
spiders roasted and ground up with his coffee. The tea is always
sea-sick too, and hens' milk[1] isn't the best, especially if the eggs
be old and decrepit. But I won't grumble, Duncan."
[1] An egg or two beaten up with water. Used at sea when no milk is to
be had.
"No, I wouldn't, if I were you. Sailors never do."
"And now you're laughing at me."
"That's nothing, Frank; one may live a long time after being laughed
at."
"Well, come along below, and I'll play you something that will make the
tear-drops trickle down that old-fashioned Scotch nose of yours."
"Wouldn't you rather hear the wild and martial strains of the bagpipes,
my little Cockney cousin?"
"Oh, yes," answered Frank punnily, but standing well beyond the reach of
Duncan's swinger of an arm. "I dearly love the bagpipes when--"
He hesitated.
"When what?" cried Duncan.
"When they're o'er the hills and far awa'."
Then Frank made a bolt for the companion-ladder.
It was high time, too.
Well, when Frank Trelawney had that fiddle of his under his bit of a
Cockney chin, all his troubles, if, indeed, he had any that could be
called real, were forgotten, including weevils, hard tack, cockroaches,
and all. For the time being, indeed, there was no one else in the world
save he himself and the violin. And what worlds of romance and love and
beauty were thus conjured up before him!
But even at the risk of differing from Frank, I think a sailor's
pleasures, if he is one who calls at many and different ports, far
outbalance any grievances he may have to growl about--short of
shipwreck. What though the biscuit be hard, and one's bed like the
biscuit! The wholesome healthy appetite one possesses, both for biscuit
and sleep, makes up for all that; and one ought to be happy if he isn't.
But one chief enjoyment in a sailor's existence lies in visiting so many
different lands, and seeing life in every form and shape. He cannot
help being an anthropologist, and studying mankind. Not, mind you, that
he lays himself out for that sort of thing; for sailors, especially
young fellows, take the world as it comes, the rough with the smooth, or
rather alternately, only always forgetting the rough while they revel in
the smooth. But there must always be an element of comedy in Jack's
delights, and when he goes on shore, take my word for it, "Jack's alive,
and full of fun".
I am happy to say that drinking is much in the decrease both in the
royal navy and merchant service. Why, even since I myself can
remember--and I'm not a very aged individual--our blue-jackets were like
babies, and if not in charge of an officer when on shore, would forget
themselves, and come on board limp enough, with black eyes and broken
heads, and garments drenched in gore.
Jack in those days really paid for his pint in more ways than one, for
if he escaped the dangers of the shore, riot and wretchedness, the
thieves and the female harpies who lay in wait to cheat and rob him, the
day after coming off was for him a day of sadness and mourning.
If able to stand, he had to go on duty. Perhaps he had no more brains
than a frozen turnip; perhaps his head felt so big that he borrowed a
shoe-horn to put on his hat, nevertheless he was drilled on deck just
all the same, and it took him four days probably to recover his appetite
and equilibrium.
----
There was every appearance now that the _Flora M'Vayne_ would have a
pleasant voyage.
Talbot was kind to his fellows, and a rattling good crew they made. So,
although they passed Madeira and the Canary Islands to the west, they
looked in at Santiago, one of the largest in the group of Cape de Verde
Islands.
Three days were spent here, and they managed to secure some really good
water. It was only the distilled they used at sea, and this, to say the
least of it, is always somewhat vapourish.
The men had leave, and behaved fairly well, returning sober and with
many curios, which they hoped to take home to their sweethearts and
wives, and also laden with fruit of many kinds, all of which is good for
the health of the sailor.
Plenty of fruit was also secured for the saloon, so they put to sea
again in capital heart and spirits.
One little incident is perhaps worth noting. A huge bunch of bananas
was hung up to ripen against the saloon bulkhead. That was right
enough; but when a venomous little snake--slender in form and about the
colour of hedge-sparrow's egg--popped out his head and neck, and
whispered angrily at Conal, then Conal called his comrades, and a court
of inquiry was held. It was believed to be the best plan to take the
bunch of bananas on deck by means of a blacksmith's tongs, and shake it
over the sea.
But that beautiful green demon of the jungle thought perhaps that he did
not merit the honour of a sailor's grave, so he popped out and skipped
gaily into Duncan's cabin.
"Here's a pretty go," said Conal; "and I should be sorry to sleep in
that state-room until the reptile is found."
So a search was instituted instanter, and a dangerous one it was. But
wherever it had taken refuge that snake could not be found.
The young fellows took rugs on deck that night, and slept on the planks.
Theirs was the forenoon watch, and when turning out to keep it, lo! that
little green demon glided quietly out from Conal's very bosom, and went
leaping and rolling along the deck, aft, finally tumbling down the
skylight and on to the table where the captain was lingering over his
breakfast.
For more than a week that snake--known to be one of the most poisonous
there is--was the terror of the ship. He was in entire command fore and
aft, and the skipper was nowhere. The awful, though lovely thing,
appeared in so many places, moreover, that it was believed to be
ubiquitous. Sometimes it would glide out of a sea-boot or a sou'wester
hat. It was twice found in the sleeve of an oilskin-jacket, once it
curled up for the night with Viking, and once in the pocket of the man
at the wheel.
This sailor had dived his hand into the outside pocket of his coat to
find his "baccy", when, instead of this, he felt the cold
wriggling-wriggling thing; he gave a whoop like a Somali Indian with six
inches of square-0 gin in his stomach! The scream started the snake
from his lair, and he went girdling along the deck and disappeared below
as usual.
But he was smashed at last and heaved far into the sea.
Strange to say, Mr. Snakey, as he was called, appeared again all alive
and beautiful next morning.
"He's the d--l for sartin," said a blue-jacket. "Dead one day and
squirming around the next. Yes, Bill--what else can he be but the d--l,
and maybe just the same bloomin' old snake as tempted Mother Heve in the
Garding of Heden!"
But this snake was killed next, and there was no more trouble after
this.
Captain Talbot, however, issued an order that before bananas were again
brought on board the bunches were to be well examined. Or, in doctor's
parlance, when taken, they must be well shaken.
----
Ascension was their next place of call. It is generally called a rock
in mid-ocean. It is somewhat more than that, being over seven miles in
length and fully six broad. It is hilly, its chief peak being about
three thousand feet in height.
Well, the _Flora M'Vayne_ was enabled to get coals here anyhow, and they
found the place what I might call semi-garrisoned. Moreover a gun-boat
lay here. The officers of the _Flora_ visited her, and were hospitably
received, and invited to dinner, everyone both afloat and on shore being
anxious to receive news from England, while the papers the _Flora_ had
brought were a sort of godsend.
The beautiful island of St. Helena did not lie in their direct route,
but Tristan d'Acunha--more than a thousand miles directly south--did,
and here they determined to cast anchor for a spell, and give the
islanders a treat.
(I have given the ordinary name to this lonesome isle of the ocean, but
correctly, I believe it should be Tristan Da Cunha--pronounced Coon'ya.
It is really a group of three, the chief being about twenty-one miles in
circumference, and having in its centre a very lofty mountain peak more
nearly 8000 feet than 7000 in height.)
They found about one hundred souls living on this isle. The settlement,
or glen in which they have their habitat, is fairly fertile, and the
ubiquitous Scot is so much in evidence here that the village is called
New Edinburgh.
It is in reality a republic, and the oldest man is chief or governor.
The cattle and sheep number about two thousand, and belong, of course,
all in common. Well, they are happy enough, and crime is unknown, the
chief reason of this being perhaps that drink is also unknown.
There were some really very pretty girls here, but when they were
assembled an evening or two after the _Flora's_ arrival in a barn to
listen to the strains of Frank's fiddle, recitations, and songs, those
girls looked laughably quaint in their strange old-fashioned dresses.
The concert was a great success, and really the skirl of Duncan's
Highland bagpipe as he strode back and fore on the rude stage, quite
brought down the house, to use theatrical parlance. It almost brought
down the barn too, so thrilling and loud was it. Never mind, Duncan
received no less than three hearty encores, and surely that was enough
to please anyone.
"What a lonely life to lead!" said Conal next day at breakfast.
"Yes," said Morgan, "and I shouldn't care to get spliced and settle down
here all my life, pretty and all as the girls are."
"Well, you would live long and be healthy anyhow if you did," said
Captain Talbot.
The mate laughed as he helped himself to another huge slice of
barracouta.
"Never mind that, sir. I wouldn't marry and live in Tristan if they
gave me three wives."
"But aren't these girls shy?" said Frank. "Why, I asked one innocently
enough to give me a kiss, and she blushed like a blood orange."
"Did she give you the kiss?" asked Morgan mischievously.
"No, that she didn't, but--I took it."
The _Flora M'Vayne_ lay here for a whole week, fishing and curing each
catch.
This was a rare holiday for the islanders, who were the gayest of the
gay all the time.
One morning a sailor of the crew sought an interview with Captain Talbot
on the quarter-deck.
"Well, my man?"
"Well, sir, it's like this. I've fallen in love here with the
slickest-lookin' bit of a lass I ever clapped eyes upon 'twix' here,
sir, and San Domingo; and if you please, capting, I wants to stay here
and marry her right away, and live happy hever arterwards."
The captain laughed.
"My good fellow," he said, "I am truly sorry to disappoint you; but you
signed articles for all the cruise, you know, and I fear I can't let you
go. I'd be one hand short, you see."
"That you would not, sir, for there is Billy Ibsen, as good a seaman, I
believe, as ever 'auled taut a lee main brace, and he'll be 'appy to
exchange."
"Well then, Smith, if that's the case, and the substitute is suitable, I
mustn't throw any obstacles in your way."
And so all ended well. Ibsen proved fit, and Smith went on shore. When
the _Flora_ sailed away he was the last man visible, standing on an
eminence waving a red bandanna, with the girl of his choice standing
modestly by his side.
Little did this island lassie think when the ship hove in sight that it
was bringing her a lover and a husband.
But although rare at Tristan Da Cunha, the young ladies of that solitary
rock, in the midst of the Atlantic broad and wild, do sometimes count
upon the possibility of such an event, and may be heard singing:
"He's coming from the north that will marry me,
He's coming from the north, and oh happy I will be,
With a broad-sword by his side and a buckle on his knee,
And I know it, oh, I know it, that he'll marry me".
But the Tristan Da Cunha people are moral and good, and although they
have no parson on board they have services on Sunday. As to
marriage--well, the governor does the splicing, and it is considered
quite as binding as if the ceremony had been performed by the Archbishop
of Canterbury.
Southward now they sailed away in a delightful breeze, and when the sun
was slowly sinking towards the western sea, the weird wee island of
Tristan appeared but as a hazy cloud far away on the northern horizon.
So strange a place our young heroes had never visited before, and for
many days it seemed but an island of dreamland.
But that island, readers, is still there amidst its waste of waters, and
it is within the kaleidoscope of events, that some of you may yet visit
its iron-bound and surf-beaten shores.
Who knows?
CHAPTER V.--JOHNNIE SHINGLES AND OLD MR. PEN.
South, straight south. South as the bird flies. And with a fair and
spanking breeze too. As for birds--once past the rocky and volcanic
island of Diego Alvarez, few indeed bore them company. I believe
anybody might have this rocky place who had a mind to. They found it to
be the home of myriads--clouds, in fact--of gulls of every sort,
including the well-known Cape pigeon, the puffin, the penguin, and
albatross, to say nothing of the cormorant, and that strange, strange
creature on its wondrous wings, that lives in the sky most of its time,
and even goes to sleep as it soars high above the clouds--the
frigate-bird.
They went near enough to the island to witness one of the strangest
sights in nature--the bird-laden rocks. There was little chance of
landing on the island itself, owing to the terrible surf that beats for
ever and aye around the cliffs; but Ibsen, who turned out to be a real
handy fellow, had been here before, and pointed out to the captain some
rocks in the lee of which a boat could land, and--this being spring in
these regions--soon find enough eggs to keep the crew in food for a
month. His knowledge was taken advantage of, and a boat under his
guidance called away.
In it went Duncan and Frank.
What a scene! It beats imagination. Tier after tier on the rocky
cliffs sat those birds watching their nests and eggs.
They found a little cove in the tiny islet, and at the head of this the
boat was beached on the dark sand. The ground was everywhere so crowded
with nests that it was with difficulty they could walk amongst them
without doing damage.
How beautiful they were too! Of every shade of blue and green, with the
strangest of jet-black markings, were most of them.
But the king penguins did not cohabit with any of the gull families.
They thought themselves far too aristocratic for this, and here, as on
other lonely isles of the great southern ocean, they dwelt in a colony
all by themselves, which must have numbered about one thousand all told.
This colony had footpaths leading down to the shallowest parts of the
shore, whence these droll birds could easily take to the water.
They are really droll, whether walking, standing, running, or swimming.
They stand quite erect on their sturdy legs, so that a line dropped from
their beaks would almost fall between their broad webbed feet. Wings
they have none, a pair of broad flappers doing duty for these, which
seems to aid considerably their progress in running. But these flappers
are really paddles or oars in the water, and I know of few birds that
can swim so fast or turn so quickly in the sea.
On the arrival of the boat's crew there was a general panic among this
community. As regards the male birds, tall as they were, they did not
show a very great amount of courage.
_Sauve qui peut_ was their motto, and let the females take care of
themselves. Like the pigs in New Testament times, when the cast-out
devils got leave to go into them, they ran headlong down a steep place
into the sea. Their motions as they waddled and scurried along,
oftentimes tumbling over a stone or a tussock heap, were grotesque in
the extreme, and everyone roared with laughter.
With the exception of little Johnnie Shingles. I'm sure I cannot tell
you how he came to be called Johnnie Shingles, for pet names grow on
board ship just as they do on shore. Johnnie was picked up somewhere
abroad, and was looked upon as part and parcel of the good barque _Flora
M'Vayne_. He was a nigger of purest, blackest breed, probably four feet
four inches high, and in age something between nine and nineteen. Nobody
knew and nobody cared. Johnnie Shingles was just Johnnie Shingles, no
more and no less. Well, he couldn't have been much less. He was very
funny, however, and consequently a favourite with everybody on board,
from Mate Morgan to the monkey. His duty on board was really to be at
the beck and call of all hands, and to clean and feed the pets,
including Viking, the red-tailed gray parrot, and Jim the ape.
Well, you see, Johnnie was never allowed to land from the boat like any
of the crew, but as soon as he came within reasonable distance of the
shore he was simply thrown overboard, and left to struggle in through
the surf as best he could.
But Johnnie didn't mind the surf much, and he didn't mind the sharks.
Nor do I think the sharks minded Johnnie. In fact, my knowledge of
sharks generally causes me to come to the conclusion, that they are
somewhat particular in their tastes, and much prefer a white man to a
black.
Well, at this islet, Johnnie Shingles was as usual pitched ceremoniously
into the water, when about seventy yards from the landing-place. But as
ill-luck would have it he met the whole shoal of male penguins putting
out to sea. These birds are extremely bold and audacious in the water.
"Hillo!" one of the foremost shouted or seemed to shout, "here goes
another o' them. Let us all pitch into him!"
And suiting the action to the word they seized poor Johnnie by the seat
of his white ducks and dived with him under the water. Johnnie got up,
but only to be seized by another, while half a dozen at least dabbed and
pecked at him, till, had he been a white boy, he would have been black
and blue.
I believe that if, in answer to his shrieks the boat had not put back,
and laid those penguins dead with their oars right and left, poor
Johnnie Shingles would have lost the number of his mess. Even after the
angry king penguins had been routed nothing could for a time be seen of
the little nigger boy. But presently up popped a penguin, and close
behind it up popped Johnnie.
He came up smiling, as prize-fighters say, but he had got that penguin
by the hind-leg all the same, and kick as it would Johnnie held fast
till he and it were landed all alive in the boat.
Now, I do not know whether that king penguin had a wife and a family of
eggs or not, but if he had he very soon forgot them and settled down to
ship life as if he had been to the manner born. In fact, he became a
general favourite on board owing to his grave and peculiar gait.
Old Pen, as he was called, became specially attached to Johnnie
Shingles, and stuck to him as Johnnie had clung to him before they were
hauled into the boat.
As to the penguin's eggs: they lay but two, a big and a bigger. They
are good to eat--scrambled. But I am unable to say whether the king
bird or cock comes out of the big shell, and the hen out of the smaller,
or _vice versa_.
This particular king had very intelligent eyes, with which he would
stare at one fixedly for a minute at a time with his head on one side.
Indeed, he was always, to all appearance, seeking for information
everywhere, and there was not much on deck that he did not examine.
The coiled ropes were a source of great amusement to him, and after
unravelling one end he would seize it, and walk straight off with it as
men do with a hawser. When the men were washing down decks, before the
weather got very cold he was never tired examining their naked toes. He
used to straddle quietly up and separate them with his beak as a
starling would.
If the men jumped and cried "Oh-h!" Old Pen held back his head and
chuckled quietly to himself.
"I only wanted to know if you were web-footed," he appeared to say.
Well, if old Pen was grotesque and amusing when dressed only in his own
feathers, he was infinitely more droll when the men dressed him up as a
funny old girl with a black bonnet, a short dark skirt, a shawl, a pair
of frilled white trousers, and a gingham umbrella.
Old Pen didn't care. If everyone else laughed he only nodded his head
and seemed all the prouder.
I don't know whether Johnnie or he was the taller, only the grinning wee
nigger used to give the singular old lady an arm, and together they used
to walk up and down the deck in the most comical way imaginable.
But this was not all, for Johnnie taught her to waltz.
On board the _Flora_ was a man who could play the clarionet, while
another could bring very sweet music indeed from the guitar. This
really was all the band, with, of course, Frank's fiddle. But very far
indeed was it from bad, and dressed in their Sunday's best, the sailors
used to be invited aft, and during that long, long voyage to the
southern fields and floes of ice, many an evening concert beguiled the
time.
But if the sailor musicians went aft, Frank often went forward, and it
was on these occasions that old Mrs. Pen, as she was often called, was
trotted out by the curly-polled nigger-boy. It is a misappropriation of
a term to say "trotted out", for certainly there was very little trot
about the quaint old dame. But waltzing just suited her flat feet.
Yes, and there is no doubt that she liked it too. She might be down
below half-asleep before the galley fire, when the fiddle and guitar
began getting into tune with the clarionet; but she now pricked up her
ears at once and presently prepared to negotiate the broad companion
steps or stairs that led to the upper deck. This was always a very
serious matter for the great king penguin. Sometimes he tried to stride
from one step to another, a foot at a time. But this plan was
invariably a failure, so he found it more convenient on the whole to
hop, and his lower limbs were wondrously strong.
Arrived on deck, Johnnie Shingles was there to meet him, and dress him
as Susie. Then the _he_ became a _she_.
But the men would be at it by this time, dancing the daftest and wildest
of hornpipes. No chance of their catching cold when so engaged, nor
after, for as soon as they had finished a spell that
"Put life and mettle in their heels",
they threw on their heavy jumpers and walked around defiant, enjoying
the daft capers of their shipmates.
Then Susie and Shingles would appear on the scene arm in arm, the boy
with his round face, his laughing eyes, and his two rows of alabaster
teeth, looking a picture of radiant fun and good humour.
"Now, Massa Frank," he might cry, "gib me and my ole mudder a nice
d'eamy valtz."
"A dreamy waltz, eh? Well, you must have it."
"I must foh shuah, sah. My mudder hab got a soft co'n, and rheumatiz,
and all sorts ob tings."
There was no laughing about Susie. She took everything in grim earnest,
but, with her chin resting on black Johnnie's shoulder, she evidently
enjoyed both the movement and the melody, sometimes even closing her
eyes.
Her partner, like herself, was barefooted even in the coldest of
weather; but when once he tramped on Susie's toes, the old lady rewarded
him with a dig on the cheek that made Johnnie howl, and taught him
caution for all time to come.
Well, what with laughing and dancing, an evening thus spent sped away
very quickly, and was worth a whole bushel of doctor's stuff. There was
no surgeon on board, I may mention parenthetically. The law does not
require such an officer to be carried when the crew, all told, is under
forty men.
It is really somewhat marvellous that a bird like this big king penguin,
should have taken so soon and so kindly to the company and customs of
human beings; but then the poor bird was exceedingly well-treated, and
whenever fish was served out, Pen was always in the front rank. Ah,
well, it is only one more proof of the truth that _amor vincit
omnia_--love conquers all things.
Pen was not always dressed as Mother Gamp. No, for he had a really good
outfit, to which the neater-fisted seamen were always adding. So
sometimes he would appear on the quarter-deck as a man-o'-war sailor, at
others as a smart and elegantly-attired artilleryman, with his cap stuck
provokingly on one side, and a little cane under his left arm.
He was at times dressed as Paul Pry. And on these occasions, as he
stretched his head and neck curiously out in front of him, he really
seemed to say: "I hope I don't intrude".
Pen was a grand actor. Mr. Toole himself would have been nowhere in it
with Pen.
Viking at first must have thought the bird something "no canny". He
would start up with a wild "wowff" if Pen came anywhere near him, and
quietly retire.
The monkey or ape, on the other hand, tried to get up a friendship with
Pen. He would approach him with a peace-offering, crying "Ha! hah!
hah!" which, being interpreted, signifieth, "Take that, old Pen, and eat
it. It will taste in your mouth like butter and honey." As the
peace-offering invariably consisted of a gigantic cockroach about three
inches long, I think it may be doubted whether it tasted as well as the
monkey would have had Pen believe. However, the presentation was kindly
meant.
This huge monkey's mouth was always crammed with cockroaches. One side
at all events, and that one side stuck out as if he were suffering from
a huge gum-boil.
The men were somewhat sorry, I think, that they could not teach old Pen
to chew 'baccy, but old Pen drew the line at this. I must, out of
respect for the truth, state, however, that the bird could not be called
a total abstainer, for he dearly loved a piece of "plum-duff" steeped in
rum, and on this questionable delicacy I think he used at times to get
about half seas over. Then he would commence wagging his head and neck
very much from side to side, and indulge in a little song to himself.
Old Pen was not much of a singer, however, and never could have composed
an opera. In fact his song was partly grunt, partly squeak, and partly
squawk. But it pleased Pen, and that was enough.
After singing for a short time he would pinch a favourite seaman's leg.
"Kack!" he would say, opening his mouth. This meant "Chuck us another
sop, matie".
After receiving it he would be off, and take his usual stand near the
galley fire, and begin to wink and wink, and nod and nod, till finally
the lower eyelids would ascend over the beautiful irises, and Pen be
wafted away into dreamland. He wasn't aboard ship any longer. He was
back once more on his own little rocky sea-girt isle, with the gulls and
the cormorants screaming high in the air around. Near him stood Mrs.
Pen, his wife, and near her, and in front, his two youngsters--fluffy,
downy, droll brats, gaping their red mouths to be fed.
On the whole, I think Pen was a curious bird, and eminently suited for a
sailor's pet.
CHAPTER VI.--"BACK WATER ALL! FOR LIFE, BOYS, FOR LIFE!"
It was summer--strange, weird, and silent summer in the Antarctic Ocean.
November was wearing to a close. The days were long and sunny; so long,
indeed, that the sun did not trouble himself to go down at all. At
midnight he just made a feint of doing so, and lowered himself towards
the horizon, but thought better of it, and was speedily mounting higher
and higher again every minute.
A great, cold-looking sun it was, however, a bright and almost rayless
disc of whitest light, that you could look at and even count the spots
thereon.
The good barque _Flora M'Vayne_ was still ploughing her way through the
dark waters of that southern ocean, and the great glacial barrier was
still far away. They could have told this even by the paucity of bird
life around them. A long-winged frigate-bird went swiftly across the
hawse now and then, and soared away and away towards the few fleecy
clouds that hovered high in air like puffs of gunpowder smoke.
That mighty eagle of the sea--the albatross--was also a constant
visitor. What a wondrous flight is his! At one moment beating up to
windward, tack and half-tack, yet with a speed almost as great as that
of a swallow, till one can scarcely see him, so far and far away is he;
then, wheeling next moment, down he flashes on the breeze, but more
quickly than any ordinary breeze e'er blew. Not straight before the
wind, however, but with a kind of sidelong rush which brings into full
view the vast outspread of his wondrous wings.
They were still in the "roaring forties", as that part of the ocean
'twixt the latitude of the Cape and the fifties is called. But what a
wide expanse of ocean is all around them! I have stood spell-bound on
the fore or main-top, not admiring so much as adoring this mighty work
of a mightier Creator: a turmoil of water, water, water in every
direction one can look. And it is not so much the height of the waves
one wonders at--though that is indeed vast--but their tremendous
breadth, the sweep, as it were, between one curling comber and another.
High and of fearful force are the seas in, for example, the Bay of
Biscay during a gale, but they are mere channel chops to these. And
wide though the expanse of these latter, they race each other round the
world with an earnestness, and even fury, that causes one to stand
aghast.
I wish I had space to describe some of the sunsets our heroes beheld
shortly after leaving the last land. No wonder that Duncan more than
once grasped Frank by the arm, and pointed northward and west at
eventide.
"Look! Oh, look!"
It was all he could say. Yet the salt tears almost blinded him as he
spoke.
"Oh, to be an artist!" exclaimed Frank once.
"An artist!" cried Duncan, almost scornfully. "What artist would dare to
paint the golden gray and crimson splendour that unites both sea and sky
into one living gorgeous whole? Oh, Frank, even Turner himself, were he
here, would throw down his brush, and confess that he was a mere
caricaturist."
But in a few weeks' time the sunsets were nil, and all, all was day.
Nor did it blow so high now.
Sometimes, indeed, the sea was as calm as a mill-pond, except where
rippled in patches by huge shoals of the fry of certain kinds of fish
that inhabit these seas.
And these were invariably followed by denizens of the deep that preyed
upon them--dancing, leaping, cooing dolphins, for example.
Some of these latter were harpooned, and their dark red flesh made an
excellent change of diet from the somewhat salt provisions, eggs, or
penguin flesh.
Once or twice, while the weather was calm and the surface of the sea
smooth and glassy, they came upon patches of yellow--banks they were, in
fact, over which they were drifting.
Men were now kept constantly in the chains, and sometimes the danger was
so great that the anchors were let go to wait for even the lightest
breeze.
This might have delayed the voyage somewhat, but nevertheless it was not
time wholly misspent, for where the bottom is near to the surface fish
are always found in abundance. So boats would be lowered, and real good
hand-line sport enjoyed.
In this old Pen participated. But the first day he started fishing he
swam so fast and so far away, that those in the boat imagined they would
never see him more.
Then little Johnnie began to weep.
"Oh, poll deah Pen! Oh, my ole mudder Sue," he cried. "He done gone
away foh ebbermoh."
But Johnnie's "weeps" were quite a useless expenditure of lachrymal
fluid. This was evident enough when Pen came racing back again with a
great silvery fish held proudly aloft. He delivered this, and went back
for another. And this again and again, till a breath of wind springing
up, it was deemed advisable to return to the _Flora_, who was "titting"
at her anchor as if eager to be on the wing again.
That Pen loved the darkie was evident enough, for one day, when bent on
to his line and hauling away with all his might, a huge bonito pulled
the little lad right overboard, the strange bird went grunting and
squawking round him in terrible distress.
Johnnie's position just then was not an enviable one, for although he
could swim like a herring, there was many a monster shark hovering near
that would have been pleased indeed to make a meal of the boy.
These sharks were sometimes caught, and although their flesh had no
great flavour, parts of it served sometimes to eke out breakfast or
supper.
There are dangers innumerable in those Antarctic seas, and one of the
most terrible is that of striking on a sand-bank or running foul of a
sunken rock. These not being on the chart, the navigator has to sail
along literally with his life in his hand, trusting all to blind chance.
A bank does give some evidence before the ship gets on if there is an
outlook in the foretop, and the cry of, "Below there! shoal water
ahead!" is all too common. Next comes the shout of, "Ready about!
Stand by tacks and sheets!"
But the rock hides its awful head and gives no sign. The ship strikes,
then backward reels, and mayhap sinks before there is time to provision,
water, arm, man, and lower the boats.
Ice at last.
But the Antarctic sea was wonderfully open this season, and the ice
loose.
It lay in streams of small pieces at first, athwart the world, as Jack
termed it; athwart the ship's course, at all events, so these they had
to sail through. The good _Flora_ was strong enough to negotiate them,
but the battering and thumping along the vessel's sides, as heard below,
was tremendous.
These ice streams became more and more numerous, and the pieces, or
"berglets", got bigger and bigger, and, of course, more fraught with
danger to the ship's vitality.
It grew appreciably colder too, but so slowly had they come into these
regions of perpetual snow, that the change in temperature had no
detrimental effect upon the health of either the officers or men.
It certainly had none on old Pen. In fact, the colder it got the more
he seemed to like it. And now when waltzing with Johnnie, he used to
sing in his own droll and dismal way.
Viking also believed in the cold, and the races and gambols he had up
and down the deck, when he could induce anyone to throw a belaying-pin
for him were wild in the extreme.
Moreover, he had a football, which Duncan had presented him with, and he
got no end of fun out of this. He threw it in front of him, he hurled
it along in front of him, and swung it about, and one day, when he
fairly tossed it overboard, he made no bother about the matter, but
rushing astern, jumped right overboard after it, quite regardless of the
fact that the ship was going on at the rate of eight knots an hour.
As quickly as possible she was hove to and a whaler lowered.
Vike was found quite a quarter of a mile astern--but he had stuck to his
ball.
He dearly loved it, and, strangely enough, he put it to bed every night
as children do their dolls, covering it carefully up with a corner of
the rug on which he slept.
----
Icebergs at last. A good thing it was for the _Flora_, that there was
but little wind, for to strike against one of these huge bergs--bigger
many of them were than St. Paul's Cathedral--would have meant certain
destruction.
Yet although the wind was often but light, a current seemed to run
rapidly enough, and the huge unbroken waves towered high above them, and
more than once they narrowly escaped disaster from a huge berg being
hurled down upon the vessel as if by Titanic force, as she wallowed in
the trough of the sea.
Even sailing past to leeward of such ice as this took the wind for a
time clean out of the sails.
Strangely enough, they reached the Antarctic Circle on Christmas day.
This was a sort of double event. Either would have been celebrated, but
now both events must be rolled into one.
One would hardly imagine that King Christmas would venture into these
lonely regions, but the old fellow is good-hearted, and where'er on
earth a Briton goes there goes Christmas also.
Well, with the exception of Johnnie Shingles and the monkey--who, by the
way, had been furnished with a brand-new scarlet flannel jacket to keep
him cosy--there was not a soul on board who had not before leaving home
been presented with a bunch of gay ribbons, by sweetheart or wife, to
help to deck a great garland that was made, and hoisted high aloft and
abaft on this auspicious morning.
Of course there were no turkeys!
Alas! there were no geese.
As for cooking an albatross--well, that has been tried before, and a
more unsatisfactory dish I have never tasted. Fishy, oily, and as for
downright toughness the wife of Beith with her iron teeth could make but
a poor show in front of it.
But some splendid corn-beef took the place of more civilized dishes both
fore and aft.
Then there was the pudding. Ah! that indeed!
And a splendid success this, or these, were. The cook went in that day
for beating all previous records. And it was universally admitted that
he did.
The _Flora M'Vayne_ was an almost temperate ship, that is, the men had
to content themselves with one glass of rum each _per diem_, man-o'-war
fashion. But on this bright Christmas day there was but little limit or
stint. Only, to everyone's credit be it said, there was no excess.
The evening, up till two bells (9 o'clock), was spent in games, in
yarning, in dancing, and fun.
Both Vike and old Pen had dined right heartily, and were in rare form.
One of the chief dances to-night was the Scots strathspey and reel, and
Duncan had got his bagpipes in order for the occasion, and as he played
the fun grew fast and furious.
So excited did both Vike and Pen become at last that they must too chime
in, the dog with a high falsetto howl, the bird with double grunt and
squawk, so that Duncan's melody was somewhat interfered with.
This, however, did not discourage the Scotch portion of the crew. They
only cracked their thumbs, danced the nimbler, and hooched the wilder,
till with the frantic merriment the very sails did shiver.
It was indeed a joyous night. Vike and Pen, although they had a truly
excellent feed, did not give way to excess, but the monkey being only
one remove from a human being, ate so much pudding and so many nuts and
cockroaches, that he suffered next morning from a violent headache. He
was seen squatting on the capstan, clasping his brow with his left hand,
and looking the very picture of Simian misery.
Frank took pity on him.
"I know what will cure you," he said. "I know what a Christmas headache
is; I've been there myself."
So he bound up the poor beastie's head with a handkerchief wrung out of
ice-cold water, and the monkey felt really better, and was grateful in
consequence.
For some natural reason or another, they now came into a sea of open
water, and much to the delight and excitement of all hands, sighted a
school of Right whales.
The main-yard was instantly hauled aback, and all preparations speedily
made to attack one at least of this great shoal.
I do not suppose that these leviathans of southern polar seas had ever
had their gambols so rudely broken in upon before.
Three boats were sent against them, each with one experienced harpooner.
The captain commanded one, Morgan another, and the third whaler was
given in charge of brave young Duncan. To tell the truth, he had really
no experience of such "fishing", but the spectioneer that sat beside him
had.
Surely it was a pity to disturb the enjoyment of those great ungainly
monsters on so glorious a day. Thus thought Conal at all events, for
without doubt the whales had assembled for a real frolic.
It was a sort of whales' ball.
Sometimes nothing was seen but the white spray or foam they raised, at
other times their enormous bodies were seen shining silvery in the
summer sun, for in their glee they actively leapt over each other's
backs.
But the noise they made is indescribable, as they lashed the water with
flippers and tails.
In the captain's boat only was the harpoon gun, and he alone would fire
it. When a much younger man he had been whaling in the far-off Arctic,
and knew a Right whale from a finner or sperm.
Yet his was not the newest-fashioned mode of whaling. He used no
explosive shells or bullets, which he looked upon as cruel in the
extreme. I should be sorry indeed to argue the point either pro or con,
for there is cruelty on both sides, but probably less with the shell,
which may cause almost instantaneous death.
Was Captain Talbot going to attack that school of whales during their
extraordinary gambols? He knew better. Were a whales' ball to take
place in the midst of even a fleet of men-o'-war I should be sorry for
some of the ships.
But see yonder, ploughing slowly along towards the herd, comes a huge
and solitary leviathan.
Talbot hastily signals to the mate and to Duncan. The latter takes the
steering oar, and, bidding him be cautious, the spectioneer, his great
whale lance in his hand, goes cautiously forward to the bows, and the
boat is kept on a line parallel to the great beast's course.
Nearer and nearer creeps the captain's boat. The excitement is intense.
Will the whale dive before he gets close enough, the men are wondering?
Nearer and still more near.
Everyone holds his breath.
"Lie on your oars, men! Still and quiet!"
The boat drifts a little way further, but the gun is trained.
Bang!
The echoes reverberate from every berg, or far or near. The line all
neatly coiled in the bows is whirling out, till the gunwale begins to
fire. But it as speedily stops.
Grand shot! The monster is struck, and for a few seconds seems stunned,
and lies still on the top of the water.
The school has dived and disappeared, to come up somewhere again miles
and miles away.
And now the wounded whale recovers from the shot, and headlong dives,
the line rushing out once again as before. Under way once again is the
boat, but the leviathan now reappears as suddenly as he had sunk. Some
instinct--whether of scent or hearing I cannot tell--causes him to take
the same course as his fellows.
Mercy on us, how he rips and tears through the black-green water! But
ever and anon he dives, and it is evident his exertions weary him a
little.
And now the line is all run out, and the boat is taken in charge. The
gunwale is cooled with hastily-drawn buckets of water, and forward she
dashes, so quickly too that a wall of water stands up on each side of
the bows.
The poor monster is in torment. The chief danger to the boat itself
would lie in the beast swerving aside and diving under a berg, which
would dash the brave whaler to pieces, and kill or drown every man on
board. But he holds his course till, weary at last, he dives once more,
and there remains for fully twenty minutes.
When he again appears the water around is red with his blood, but he
moves along very slowly now, and the other boats with their lancemen get
abreast and bear up to head him.
Duncan's is the first to get near enough, and now comes the tug of war.
The whale is sick and weak.
The harpooner holds up a warning hand.
"Be all ready to back astern, boys!"
"Way enough!"
The lance is driven in full many and many a foot, and with one decisive
twist a great and vital artery is severed.
"Back water all! For life, boys, for life!"
For life? Yes, but the men are as cool as if rowing in a regatta on the
Thames.
"All speed astern!"
None too soon.
The blood spouts high as if from a fire-hose, but in awful jets, with
every throb of the giant's heart. There is life in him yet, and while
the red-drenched seamen pull well out of the way, he lashes the ocean's
surface with his tremendous tail, one blow from which would stave in a
torpedo-boat.
The sound would be heard miles and miles away, were there anyone to
listen to it in these lonesome seas, and--so dies the leviathan.
The ship gets alongside and bends on her hooks in good time, and while
the body is still hot and steaming, blubber and skin are hoisted up and
up towards the yard-arms, till with its weight the vessel lists and
lists, and it seems as if she would be on her beam-ends.
Long before the crew is done taking on board all that is valuable, the
sharks have assembled, and are fighting and splashing as they gorge on
their awful feast.
And when the decks are all clean once more, and the sails again filled,
supper is had fore and aft, and then, but not till then, does Skipper
Talbot order the steward to splice the main-brace.
CHAPTER VII.--"HERE'S TO THE LOVED ONES AT HOME."
Captain Talbot was a brave man, but the ice for the present looked far
too dangerous to venture in through. So he kept "dodging" along the
great barrier-edge or cruising eastwards, and away towards what is known
as Enderby Land.
Sometimes he encountered a storm, brief but terrible, and dangerous in
the extreme. They saw around them great bergs coming into collision,
their green, towering, wall-like sides dashed together by the force of
wind and waves; heard the thunder of the encounter, and witnessed the
mist and foam as they fell to pieces in a chaos of boiling surf.
At times dense fog would envelop the whole sea, and then sail had to be
taken in, for the icebergs went floating past and past like mysterious
ghosts.
But clearer weather prevailed at last, and two more monster whales were
captured.
Three great leviathans! Nearly a voyage in itself. No wonder that the
spirits of the men rose higher and higher, as they thought of those who
would press them to their hearts on their return home from this
adventuresome cruise. And--happiest thought of all!--they would have
plenty of money to spend on fathers or mothers, wives or children. For
my experience is that so long as they are unallured by the drink demon,
British sailors are not really improvident.
But the good luck of the _Flora_ did not continue. Talbot had expected
to find sea-elephants in great evidence in these regions.
They are so called, it will do you no harm to know, reader, first on
account of their immense size and unwieldiness, many of the males
attaining a length of twenty feet or over, and from the fact that they
have a kind of proboscis which, when alarmed or angry, they inflate till
it looks almost like the trunk of an elephant. They are dangerous then,
and, though as a rule peaceable, can give a good account of anyone
daring enough to attempt an attack upon them, armed with the spiked
seal-club alone.
They usually, however, go further north during the spring or pupping
season, but now having returned, they ought to have been about
somewhere. But they had evidently chosen fresh ground, and Captain
Talbot was unable to find a trace of them.
He was not easily cast down, however, and taking advantage of a splendid
westerly and north-westerly wind, he daringly set every inch of
canvas--remember it was the long Antarctic day--and flew eastwards on
its wings.
But his object was not only to get a paying voyage, but to do some good
also to science and to geographical knowledge as well.
It was the duty of Duncan himself, and of Frank as well, not only to
keep a log, but to enter therein, along with the ship's sailings,
adventures, &c., the temperature of air and water twice a day.
The vessel again appeared to imagine herself a clipper-built yacht and
to fly along, and by good luck she not only had a fair wind, but a clear
sea, having only now and then to steer away from floating icebergs.
But now and then a boat was lowered to pick up some unusual form of
seal, that might be observed floating along on a morsel of snow-clad
ice. So tame were these that they only gazed open-mouthed at the
advancing boat, and thus fell an easy prey to the gunner.
Very few more Right whales were seen, and none captured.
For a time the course held was about east with a bit of northerly in it,
then on reaching the sixties they bowled along in fine style, and in the
first week in February they were daringly--far too daringly as it turned
out--steering almost directly south through a comparatively open sea
towards the great southern ice-barrier in the seventies, which lies east
of a mighty volcanic hill well-named Erebus.
It was autumn now--early autumn in these regions, but still a delightful
time.
Do not imagine that this distant ocean was uninhabited. Far from it.
There were still millions on millions of birds about, that later on
would fly far away to nor'land lands and islands. Petrels of many
sorts, especially the snow-white species, Cape pigeons, the smaller
penguins on point ends of land, and gulls of such beauty and rarity that
it would have puzzled cleverer men than our heroes to classify them.
Many of these were carefully shot and made skins of, to be set up when
they reached once more their dear native land, if God in his mercy
should spare them.
----
Mount Sabine itself is passed, and soon after, to the east of that
mountain, they lie for a day or two at Coulman Island. Strangely
enough, though floating icebergs are heaving about all around, this
rocky and storm-tossed isle is bare, and they can land.
The captain, with Frank and Conal, go off on a lichen hunt inland. They
take their rifles with them, but no wild creature is here that can hurt
them.
They find beautiful mosses, however, and strangely beautiful lichens.
Indeed, some parts of the rising ground are crimson or orange with these
latter, and the green of the mosses stand out in lovely and striking
contrast.
They continued their journey far inland, and although the rocks and the
sea all about the shore was alive with birds, here it was solemn and
still enough. The scene was indeed impressive and beautiful, and with
the blue of the sky above and the bright blue of the ocean beyond,
dotted over with green and lofty snow-capped ice-blocks, the whole
seemed a little world fresh from the hands of the great Creator of all.
Captain Talbot took specimens not only of the flora--if so I may call
the scanty vegetation of this island--but of its rocks as well, and the
height of its chief hills, with many soundings around it, to say nothing
of collecting marine algae.
All the way southwards, as far as the great ice-barrier to the eastward
of the land wherein was Mount Terror, he was at the pains of surveying
and charting out for the benefit of future generations, for as laid down
in the charts that he possessed the coast was very indolently described
indeed.
----
He was a very ambitious mariner, this skipper of the _Flora M'Vayne_,
and at the same time a bold, daring, true-blue sailor.
Now would be the time, therefore, to make his great aerial journey still
farther to the southward. But could such a thing be successfully
accomplished? That was the question that he and he alone had to answer
for himself. There was no one to consult.
And he took a whole long day to consider it, keeping himself very much
alone in his state-room that he might come quietly to a correct
conclusion.
Thus far to the south had he come with the intention of penetrating
still farther by balloon. But he had calculated on getting here much
sooner.
He had no intention of doing anything foolishly rash. Had he reached 75
deg. south latitude when the summer was still in its prime he might have
reckoned on perpetual sunshine and constant shifting of wind, but now
the breeze blew mostly from the south, and although by rising into the
higher regions he might get a fair wind if he descended one hundred
miles nearer to the Antarctic Pole, was there any certainty that he
should ever return? Indeed, it was the reverse. It seemed as though
there was not the ghost of a chance of his ever seeing his ship again.
Life is sweet, and so at long last he gave up all thoughts of his aerial
voyage for the present season.
He communicated this resolve to his mates and youngsters that day at
dinner.
But the sun had already begun to set to the south'ard, though so brief
was the night that scarce a star was even visible.
"We shall now," he told them, "bear up for the north and the west once
more, and if we reach the lone isles of Kerguelen in time, we may yet
fall among old sea-elephants enough to pay us handsomely. For though I
have never been there, I am told that they make that lone region a
habitat throughout the greater part of the year."
"And then we shall be homeward-bound, sha'n't we, sir?" said Frank.
"Yes," was the reply. "But I say, young fellow, you are not tired of a
sailor's life, are you?"
"Oh no! I would like to see all--all the world first, and then return
and dream of my wild adventures, and fight my battles with the stormy
main o'er and o'er and o'er again."
"Bravo! lad, though you are just a little effusive. Well, you are pretty
strong in wind and limb, Frank, aren't you?"
"Fairly, sir. I haven't got real Highland legs like Duncan there, but
they've always served me well on a pinch."
"Well, as soon as we get into the neighbourhood of Mount Terror again I
mean to make an ascent, and I shall want the assistance of all you young
fellows, and a hand or two besides. There are scientific instruments to
take along, besides plenty of food, drink, and sleeping-bags, for I
guess it will take us the greater part of three days to accomplish the
journey to the top and back.
"What is the height, sir?"
"It is said to be nearly eleven thousand feet high, and it is volcanic."
"Don't you think," said Morgan the mate, "that the adventure is almost
foolhardy?"
"It is risky enough, I daresay; but really, Morgan, my dear fellow, I
hate the idea of going back home without having accomplished something
out of the common."
And so, after some further conversation of an after-dinner style, the
ascent was determined on.
This was Saturday night, and as usual wives and sweethearts were
toasted, for Captain Talbot was a man who dearly loved to keep up old
customs.
So after a hearty supper of sea-pie the men got up a dance, Frank and
the man who played the clarionet forming, as usual, the chief portion of
the band.
Old Pen was in grand form to-night, and his antics, as he danced and
whirled around with little Johnnie Shingles, were laughable in the
extreme. It would be impossible to say that Pen tripped it--
"On the light fantastic toe".
For his feet were about as broad and flat as a couple of kippered
herrings, but he made the best use of them he could, and no one could
have done more.
After the dance the chief yarn-spinners assembled in a wide circle
around the galley fire. Frank and Conal made two of the party, with
noble Vike in the rear.
It hardly would have needed the rum that the cabin steward dealt out to
make these good fellows happy to-night or to cause them to spin short
yarns and sing, so jolly were they to know the ship was homeward bound--
"Across the foaming billows, boys,
Across the roaring sea,
"We'll all forget our hardships, lads,
With England on the lee".
But the crew of the brave _Flora M'Vayne_ took their cue from the
skipper, and never a Saturday night passed without many a song and many
a toast, and always an original yarn of some adventure afloat or ashore.
Sings Dibdin:--
"The moon on the ocean was dimmed by a ripple,
Affording a chequered delight;
The gay jolly tars passed the word for the tipple
And the _toast_--for 'twas Saturday night,
Some sweetheart or wife that he lov'd as his life,
Each drank, while he wished he could hail her,
But the standing toast that pleased the most was--
Here's the wind that blows and the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor!"
So thoroughly old-fashioned was Captain Talbot that on some Saturday
nights he did not think it a bit beneath him to join his men around the
fire, and they loved him all the better for it too.
Well, no matter how crowded the men might be of a night like this, there
was always room left in the inner circle for Viking, old Pen, and Jim
the monkey.
Jim, with his red jacket on, used to sit by Viking, looking very serious
and very old, and combing the dog's coat with his long slender black
fingers.
This was a kind of shampoo that invariably sent Vike off to sleep.
Then Jim would lie down alongside him, draw one great paw over his body,
and go off to sleep also.
But old Pen would be very solemn indeed. He was troubled with cold
feet, and it was really laughable enough to see him standing there on
one leg while he held up and exposed his other great webbed pedal
apparatus to the welcome glow emitted by the fire.
Sometimes yarns were at a discount, though songs never were, and no
matter how simple, they were always welcome, even if told without any
straining for effect and in ordinary conversational English, if they had
truth in them.
On this particular Saturday night Captain Talbot came forward and took a
seat in a corner to smoke his long pipe, while the steward brewed him a
tumbler of punch with some cinnamon and butter in it, for the skipper
had a cold.
"It's long since we've had a yarn from you, sir," remarked the
carpenter.
The skipper took a drink, and then let his eyes follow the curling smoke
from his pipe for a few seconds before replying.
"Well, Peters," he said, "I've had so many adventures in my time that I
hardly ever know which to tell first. Once upon a time I served in a
Royal Navy ship on the coast of Africa, and it is just the odour of the
'baccy, boys, that brings this little yarn to my mind."
"Out with it, sir," cried one.
"Yes, out with it, Captain. We'll listen as if it were a sermon, and we
were old wives."
"First and foremost," said Talbot, "let me give you a toast--Here's to
the loved ones at home!"
"The loved ones at home!" And every glass was raised, and really that
toast was like a prayer.
CHAPTER VIII.--CAPTAIN TALBOT SPINS A YARN.
"Why, boys, and you youngsters," said Captain Talbot, "when I look back
to those dear old times I feel old myself, and that's a fact. As I said
before, we were cruising about the East African coast, making it just as
hot for the slaver Arabs as we knew how to. We had a bit of a fight now
and then, too, both on shore and afloat.
"Well, your man-o'-war's-man likes that, simple and all though he seems
to be. Simplicity, indeed, is one of the chief traits in the character
of the true British sailor. I'm not sure that it might not be said with
some degree of truth, that no one who wasn't a little simple to begin
with, would ever become a sailor at all. Nobody, not even a landsman,
grumbles and growls more at existence afloat than does Jack himself,
whether he be Jack in epaulets or Jack in a jumper, Jack walking the
weather-side of the quarter-deck or Jack mending a main-sail. But for
all that, when Jack has a spell on shore, especially if it be of a few
months' duration, he forgets all the asperities of the old sea life, and
remembers only its jollities and pleasantnesses, and the queer
adventures he had--of which, probably, he boasts in a mitigated kind of
way--and by and by he gets tired of the dull shore, and maybe sings with
Proctor:
'I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more'.
And then he goes back again. Another proof of Jack's simplicity.
"Well, but some of the very bravest men or officers I have met with
were, or are, as simple in their natures as little children--simple but
brave.
"Gallant and good--how well the two adjectives sound together when
applied to a sailor. Did not our Nelson himself apply them in one of
his despatches to Captain Riou, mentioned by Thomas Campbell in his
grand old song 'The Battle of the Baltic':
'Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died
With the gallant, good Riou,
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles--
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!'
"There never was a more simple-looking sailor than Assistant-Paymaster
Mair (let us call him Mair). He was round-faced, fat, and somewhat
pale, but always merry, and on good terms with himself and everybody
else. He had the least bit in the world of a squint in his starboard
eye. This ocular aberration was more apparent, when he sat down and
commenced playing an asthmatical old flute he possessed. I don't think
anybody liked this flute except Mair himself, and no wonder it was
asthmatical, for we were constantly playing tricks on it. We have
tarred it and feathered it ere now, and once we filled it with boiling
lard, and left it on Mair's desk to cool. But Mair didn't care; our
practical joking found him in employment, so he was happy.
"Mair had never been in an engagement, though some members of our mess
had; and, when talking of their sensations when under fire, Mair used
frankly to confess himself 'the funkiest fellow out'.
"It came to pass that the old _T----_ had to engage a fort, and
preparations were made for a hot morning. The captain was full of spirit
and go--one of those sort of men who, when both legs are shot away,
fight on their stumps.
"Mair had his orders the night before, given verbally, in an easy,
off-hand kind of way. He was to stand by the captain on the bridge or
quarter-deck, and take notes during the engagement or battle. Poor
Mair! he didn't sleep much, and didn't eat much breakfast. We met just
outside the ward-room door, Mair and I. We were both going to duty, only
Mair was going up, while I was bound for the orlop deck. With the noise
of hammering, and stamping, and shouting, I couldn't catch what Mair
said, but it was something like--'Lucky dog, you'.
"Though stationed below--safe, except from the danger of smothering in
horrid smoke--I soon had evidence enough we were getting badly hammered.
I wasn't sorry when "Cease firing" sounded, and I could crawl up and
breathe.
"But how about simple Mair? Why, this only--he had done his duty nobly,
coolly, manfully; he had gained admiration from his fire-eating captain,
and got specially mentioned in a despatch. Mair looked red and excited
all the afternoon, but the flute never sounded half so cheerily before
as it did that same evening after dinner.
"Talking about simplicity brings poor Nat Wildman of ours before my
mind's eye.
"There wasn't a pluckier sailor in the service than Nat, nor a greater
favourite with his mess-mates, nor a simpler-souled or kindlier-hearted.
He was very tall and powerful--quite an athlete in fact. Once when a
company or two of marines and blue-jackets were sent to enact punishment
of some native tribes on the West African coast, for the murder of a
white merchant, and for having fired on Her Majesty's boats, they
encountered a strongly-palisaded village. Our fellows had no ladders
nor axes, and the dark-skins were firing through. The village must be
carried, and reduced to terms--and ashes; so the men hoisted each other
over. Nat worked hard at this pitch-and-toss warfare; indeed, he could
have thrown the whole ship's company over. But, lo! he found himself
the last man--left out in the cold--for there was no one to help him
across. When the row was over, Nat was found--simple fellow that he
was--sitting on the ground crying with vexation, or, as one of his
mess-mates phrased it, 'blubbering like a big baby'.
"I often think, boys, that it must be very hard to have to die at sea,
especially if homeward bound; all the bustle and stir of ship's work
going on around you; the songs of the men, the joking and laughing, and
the din--for silence can seldom be long maintained.
"Jack Wright of ours--captain of the main-top--might have been called a
tar of the real Tom Bowling type. He, too, like Nat Wildman, whom I
mentioned above, was a very great favourite with his mess-mates. He was
always kind and merry, but ever good, obedient, and brave. We were
coming home in the old _T----_. Dirty weather began shortly after we
left Madeira, and while assisting in taking in sail one forenoon, poor
Jack fell from aloft. His injuries were of so serious a nature that his
life was despaired of from the first. He lost much blood, and never
rallied.
"This sailor had a young wife, who was to have met him at Plymouth. She
was in his thoughts in his last hours. I was assisting the doctor just
at that time of my life, a kind of loblolly-boy, and I heard the man
say, as he looked wistfully in the surgeon's face: 'It seems a kind o'
hard, doctor, but I've always done my duty--I've always obeyed orders
without asking questions. I'm ready when the Great Captain calls,
though--yes, it do seem a kind o' hard.'
"He appeared to doze off, and I sat still for an hour. It was well on
in the middle watch, and the ship was under easy sail; there was now and
then a word of command, but no trampling overhead, for even the officers
liked and respected Jack. I sat still for an hour, then took his wrist
in my hand. There was no pulse there. He was gone.
"I covered him up and went on deck, for something was rising and choking
me. It was a heavenly night--bright stars shining, and a round silvery
moon, with the waves all sparkling to leeward of us.
"'It does seem hard,' I couldn't help muttering.
"As the bea
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