MASTER ROCKAFELLAR’S VOYAGE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
MY DANISH SWEETHEART
HIS ISLAND PRINCESS
ABANDONED
[Illustration: “BE PLEASED TO GET IN AND GO AWAY.”
_See page 175._]
MASTER ROCKAFELLAR’S
VOYAGE
BY
W. CLARK RUSSELL
AUTHOR OF “MY DANISH SWEETHEART,” ETC., ETC.
WITH 27 ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE
FIFTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published_ _October_ _1890_
_Second Edition_ _November_ _1894_
_Third Edition_ _August_ _1906_
_Fourth Edition_ _November_ _1910_
_Fifth Edition_ _1913_
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
HE BEGS TO GO TO SEA 1
CHAPTER II.
HIS FIRST DAY ON BOARD SHIP 17
CHAPTER III.
HE SAILS FROM GRAVESEND 30
CHAPTER IV.
HE GOES ALOFT 45
CHAPTER V.
HE SIGHTS A SHIP 59
CHAPTER VI.
HE IS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING 74
CHAPTER VII.
HE HEARS A BELL 88
CHAPTER VIII.
HE SEES THE EQUATOR 103
CHAPTER IX.
HE SEES AN ICEBERG 209
CHAPTER X.
HE SIGHTS A WRECK 227
CHAPTER XI.
HE SEES A STRANGE LIGHT 243
CHAPTER XII.
HE ARRIVES HOME 259
MASTER ROCKAFELLAR’S VOYAGE
CHAPTER I.
_HE BEGS TO GO TO SEA._
My name is Thomas Rockafellar; father and mother always called me Tommy,
and by that name was I known until I grew too old to be called by
anything more familiar than Tom. I have seen people look at one another,
and smile, perhaps, when they have heard the name Rockafellar mentioned
as that of a family; but I here beg leave to state that the Rockafellars
are an exceedingly ancient race, who, if they do not claim to have
arrived in this country with William the Conqueror, can excuse themselves
for not having landed with that chieftain by being able to prove that
they had been many years established when the keels of the Norman galleys
grounded on the Hastings shore.
[Illustration: EBENEZER ROCKAFELLAR.]
Amongst my ancestors were several sailors, who had served the king or
queen of their times in the navy of the state. A portrait of Ebenezer
Rockafellar, who was a rear-admiral in the early years of George the
Second’s reign, hung in the dining-room at home, and represented a face
like that of the man in the moon when the planet rises very crimson out
of the sea on a hot summer’s evening. He had a tail on his back and a
great copper speaking-trumpet under his arm and his forefinger, on which
was a huge ring, rested upon a globe of the world. The artist had painted
in a picture of a thunderstorm happening through a window, with the
glimpse of a rough sea, and an old-fashioned ship like a castle tumbling
about in it resembling a toy Noah’s ark tossing on the strong ripples of
a pond.
It might have been my looking at this red-faced ancestor of mine, and
admiring his speaking-trumpet, and the noble colour of weather which
stained his face that first put it into my head to go to sea. I cannot
say. Who can tell where little boys get their notions from? I would stand
before that picture, and in my small way dream about the ocean, about
sharks, tropic islands full of cocoa-nut trees, and monkeys, and parrots
gorgeous as shapes of burnished gold; and I would dream also, all in my
small way, of flying-fish like little lengths of pearl flashing out of
the dark-blue brine on wings of gossamer, and elephants and ivory tusks,
and of black men in turbans and robes glittering with jewels, like the
dark velvet sky on a midsummer night; and so on, and so on, until there
arose in me a passion to go to sea, and behold with my own little eyes
the wonders of the world.
Father and mother tried hard to conquer my desire; and then, when they
found I would still be a sailor, they pretended to consent, secretly
meaning to weary me out, or to give me a good long chance of changing my
views by delaying to take any steps to humour my wishes. At last, finding
my mind to be wonderfully resolved, my father talked to my mother gravely
about my disposition for the sea—told her that when a boy exhibited a
strong inclination for a walk, no matter of what nature if honest, he
should not be baulked—that I might have the makings of another Captain
Cook in me, or at all events of a Vancouver, and end my days as a great
man.
“Besides, my dear,” said he, “one voyage at least cannot harm him; it
will fill his mind with new experiences, it will also test his sincerity;
it will act as the strongest possible persuasion one way or the other.
It will be cheaper too than a year of schooling, and more useful, I
don’t doubt. So, my dear, let us make up our minds to send him into the
Merchant Service for one voyage.”
However, it was some time before my mother consented. She would not very
strongly have objected to the Royal Navy, she said, but she considered
the Merchant Service too vulgar for a Rockafellar.
“Vulgar, my dear!” cried my father; “why, do you forget that your own
Uncle Martin was in the service of the Honourable East India Company?”
“Ah but,” she answered, “Uncle Martin was always a perfect gentleman, and
even had he been a common sailor on board a barge, he would have carried
himself with as much dignity and been as fully appreciated by people
capable of distinguishing as if he had been an Admiral of the Blues.”
[Illustration: “MY FATHER TALKED TO MY MOTHER.”]
“Of the Blue, I think it is,” said my father.
“The Red is cock of the walk,” said I, who had been listening to this
conversation with much interest.
Well, it ended, after many talks, in my mother agreeing with my father
that one voyage could do me no harm, and that if I returned as eager for
the sea life as I now was, it might prove as good a calling for me as any
other vocation that could be named. So after making certain inquiries,
my father one day took me to London with him, to call upon a shipowner
who lived close by Fenchurch Street. He had five vessels, three of them
large ships, of which two had formerly been Indiamen, and the others were
barques. They were all regular traders to Australia: that is to say, to
the different ports of that colony, and one or more of them were always
to be found in the East India Docks discharging the wool with which they
returned home full of, or taking in merchandise for the outward passage.
The shipowner, Mr. Duncan, was a large, fat, cheerful man, “with a very
knowing eye, and supposed to be already worth, my dear, about a million
and a half,” as I afterwards heard my father tell my mother. We passed
through an office full of clerks into a little back room, where we were
received by Mr. Duncan, who seemed delighted to make our acquaintance.
He patted me on the head, said that he was always fond of boys whose
hair curled, declared that he could not remember ever having set eyes on
a more likely sailorly-looking lad, promised me that I should become the
captain of a ship if I worked hard, and then he and my father went to
business.
The terms were a premium of sixty guineas for the first voyage, together
with ten guineas for what was called mess-money; “and with regard to
pocket money,” said Mr. Duncan, “I should say if you give the captain
enough to enable him to put half-a-crown a week into the lad’s pocket
whilst he’s in harbour the boy will have more than he needs for simple
enjoyment, and too little,” said he, closing one eye, “for what Jack
calls larks.”
The name of the ship was the _Lady Violet_, and Mr. Duncan told us that
she was commanded by Captain Tempest, who, notwithstanding his stormy
name, was a gentleman-like person of a mild disposition, one of the best
navigators out of the Port of London, and beloved by all who sailed with
him.
“There is no flogging now, I think, sir, at sea?” said my father.
“Oh dear no,” cried Mr. Duncan, smiling all over his immense crimson
face: “a barbarous practice, sir, very happily suppressed ages ago.”
“How are boys punished,” asked my father, “at sea when they deserve it?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Duncan, “the captain usually sends for them to
his cabin, and lectures them paternally and tenderly. His admonitions
rarely fail, but if there be great perversity, then possibly a little
extra duty of a trifling kind is given to them. But there is very little
naughtiness amongst boys at sea, sir! very little naughtiness indeed.
Perhaps I should add, in _my_ ships, where no bad language is allowed,
where sobriety is strictly encouraged, and where even smoking is regarded
as objectionable, though of course,” added Mr. Duncan, drawing a deep
breath that sounded like a sigh, “we do not prohibit it.”
A good deal more to this effect passed between my father and Mr. Duncan,
and then certain arrangements having been made, we took our leave.
The ship was to sail in three weeks; she lay in the East India Docks, and
as she would not be hauling out of the gates until the afternoon, there
was no need for me to present myself on board sooner than the morning of
the day of her sailing.
My outfit was procured at a well-known marine establishment in Leadenhall
Street. I very well recollect the pride with which I tried on a blue
cloth jacket, embellished with brass buttons, and surveyed my appearance
in a large pier-glass. I had never before been dressed in brass buttons,
and felt, now that I was thus decorated, that I was a man indeed. Also
the glittering badge of a sort of wreath of gold, embracing a gorgeous
little flag on the cap which the outfitter placed on my head, enchanted
me. Indeed, I could not but think that the privilege of wearing so
beautiful a decoration would be cheaply earned by years of exposure and
hardship, not to mention shipwreck, and even famine and thirst in an open
boat.
“It seems to me,” said my father to the outfitter, “to judge by your
list, that it is the practice of young gentlemen when they first go to
sea to take a great number of shirts and fine duck trousers with them.”
“They need all their fathers allow them, sir,” said the outfitter, with a
bow.
“Is it,” asked my father, “that they must always appear very clean?”
“No, sir,” answered the outfitter. “I regret to say that it is the habit
of most young gentlemen when first they go to sea to swap their trousers
and shirts with the baker for what is termed ‘soft-tack.’”
“What is soft-tack?” said I.
“Bread, the likes of which we eat ashore,” answered the outfitter.
“Don’t they get the same at sea?” said I.
“No, young gentleman,” answered the outfitter; “there’s nothing but
biscuit eaten at sea by sailors, and it’s sometimes rather wormy. When it
is so, soft-tack grows into a delicacy, compared with which midshipmen’s
trousers and shirts count for nothing.”
“I’d rather have a biscuit any day,” said I, “than a slice of bread.”
I thought the smile the outfitter bestowed upon me a rather singular one.
My father looked pleased, and said to the outfitter, “Master Rockafellar
will keep his clothes, I know.”
“Not a doubt of it, sir,” responded the outfitter, and forthwith
proceeded to show us the oilskins, sou’wester, sea-boots, bars of marine
soap, clasp-knife, and the other articles which were to form the contents
of the brand-new white-wood sea-chest, with grummets for handles, and
with a little shelf for “curios,” and upon the lid of which my name,
THOMAS ROCKAFELLAR, was to be painted in strong, large black letters.
I will pass over my parting with my mother and sisters and little
brother. My uniform came down a week before I sailed, and my wearing of
the clothes greatly helped to sustain my spirits, whilst they made me
feel that I was a sailor, and must not betray any sort of weakness that
might seem girlish. I tried hard not to cry as my mother strained me to
her heart, and I said good-bye with dry eyes; but I broke down when I was
in the railway carriage as the engine whistled, and the familiar scene of
the station slipped away. My father, who was accompanying me to the ship,
put his hand upon mine, and said something in a low voice, that was, I
think, a prayer to God that He would protect and bless and guard his boy,
and then turned his face to the window, and when presently I peeped at
him, I saw that he had been weeping too.
Ah, dear little friends! let us always love our father and mother, and be
grateful to them. They suffer much for us when we are young, and when we
are incapable of understanding their anxieties and griefs. Later on in
life we find it all out ourselves, and it is as sweet as a blessing sent
to us by them from heaven if we can remember that we were always good,
and loving, and tender to them when we were little ones, and when they
were alive to be made happy by our behaviour.
When I look back from the hour of my trotting into the docks at my
father’s side, down to the time when I felt the ship heaving and plunging
under me upon the snappish curl of the Channel waters, all that happened
takes so misty a character that it is like peering at objects through a
fog. Everything, of course, was new to me, and all was startling in its
way, confusing my little brains; and it was a sort of Wonderland also.
The docks were full of business, and movement and hurry; huge cranes
were swiftly swinging out tons’ weight of cargo from the holds of ships
to the snorting accompaniment of steam machinery; dockyard labourers
were chorussing on the decks of the vessels, or bawling to one another
on the quayside; the earth trembled to the passage of heavy waggons; and
the ear was distracted by the shrill whistling and roaring puffing of
locomotives. There were fellows aloft on the ships, dismantling them of
their spars, and rigging, or bending sails, and sending up masts, and
crossing-yards, and reeving gear for a fresh voyage.
It was a brilliant October morning, with a keen shrill wind that made
even the dirty Thames water of the docks tremble into a diamond-bright
flashing, and in this wind you seemed to taste the aromas of many
countries—coffee, and spices, and fragrant produce, the mere flavour of
which in the atmosphere sent the fancy roaming into hot and shining lands.
The _Lady Violet_ still lay alongside the quay. I recollect thinking her
an immense ship as we approached. Aloft she looked as heavy and massive
as a man-of-war, with her large tops, her canvas rolled up on the yards,
and all her sea-gear—a bewildering complication of ropes—in its place.
She had a broad white band along her sides, upon which were painted black
squares to imitate portholes. She was an old-fashioned ship, as I know
now—though then I saw but little difference between her and the rest of
them that lay about. Her stern was square and very handsomely gilt;
there were large windows in it, and the sunlight flashing in them made
the long white letters of her name stare out as though they were formed
of silver. She had a handsome flag flying at the mainmast head, exactly
like the one that I wore in the badge on my cap. The red ensign floated
gaily at her peak, and at the fore-royalmast head the Blue Peter—signal
for sailing—was rippling against the light azure of the sky.
My father seemed as much confused as I was by the bustle and novelty. He
grasped my hand, and we stepped over a broad gangway bridge on to the
ship’s deck. Here was confusion indeed! all sorts of ropes’ ends knocking
about, men on deck shouting to men in the hold, pigs grunting, babies
crying, cocks crowing, and hens cackling; steerage passengers bound out
as emigrants wandering dejectedly about; unshorn, melancholy men in
slouched hats, pale-faced women with hollow cheeks stained by recent
tears, cowering under the break of the poop, and gazing forlornly around
them; and drunken sailors on the forecastle bawling out coarse joking
farewells to friends ashore. We went up a ladder that conducted us to the
upper-deck or poop, and I noticed that along the rails on either side
were stowed a great number of bales of compressed hay as fodder for the
sheep, which were bleating somewhere forward, and for a cow that was now
and then giving vent to a sullen roar, as though she were vexed at being
imprisoned in a great box.
There were several midshipmen on the poop running about. They glanced
at me out of the corner of their eyes as they passed. I could not but
envy them, for they seemed quite at home, whilst here was I, trembling
nervously by the side of my papa, staring up at the masts, and wondering
if ever I should be made to creep up those great heights, and if so,
what was to become of me when I had reached the top? There was no need,
indeed, to glance at my buttons to know that I was a “first voyager.”
My wandering eyes and open mouth were assurance as strong as though I
had been labelled “greenhorn.” My father, stepping up to one of the
midshipmen, asked if the captain was on board.
“I don’t think he is,” said the youngster.
“This is my son,” said my father, “who has come to join the _Lady
Violet_. Are there any formalities to go through—any book to be signed by
him—we are rather at a loss?”
All too young as I was to be an observer, I could yet see a spirit of
laughing mischief flash into the lad’s brown handsome face, and I have no
doubt that he would have told me to go forward and seek for the cook and
report myself, or have started me on some other fool’s errand of a like
sort, but for a sunburnt man in a blue-cloth coat coming up to us, and
asking my father what he wanted; on which the midshipman slunk away and
joined two other midshipmen, who, on his speaking to them, began to shake
with laughter.
“No, there is nothing to be done, sir,” said the weather-stained man
in answer to my father’s question. “I suppose your chest is aboard?”
he exclaimed, looking at me. “Better go below and see that your kit’s
arrived. We shall be warping out in a few minutes.”
“Are you one of the officers, sir,” asked my father.
“I am the second mate, sir, and my name is Jones,” answered the other.
My father was about to put some further questions to him, but just then
Mr. Jones, bawling out “Right you are!” to some one who had called to him
from some part of the ship or the shore, rushed away.