The mate now approached the captain, evidently with a proposal.
“Yes, why shouldn’t we?” replied D’Acre; “everything is fair in love and
war, especially against such demons as these. Do so, by all means.”
The proposal was to get up steam in the engine used on board for making
soft water from salt, and if the worst came to the worst, and the
savages obtained a footing on board, to turn the boiling hose upon them.
It seemed very dreadful, but life is sweet.
Another long hour of suspense and waiting passed slowly, drearily away.
The fires had died down on the hills and gone out, and the silence was
intense.
Sandie was leaning over the bulwarks as usual, gazing into the
mysterious blackness. Near him was Tyro.
Suddenly, without warning of any kind, the dog placed his forepaws
against the bulwarks and barked loudly, fiercely.
“Good dog!” said the captain.
“Men, be ready; they are coming!”
“Uncover the lamps!”
This was done, and instantaneously the ship’s deck and every spar and
rope was revealed in a light almost as bright as day.
At the same time a yell rang up from the water, so savage, so
demoniacal, that it almost paralysed the nerves of those who heard it.
It was answered next moment, however, by a truly British cheer.
The Firelanders had chosen the bows at which to board. The
boarding-netting, however, was something they had not reckoned for.
They could be seen in scores, like demons, hacking at it with their
knives from the outside.
But volley after volley was poured into them from the revolvers. Then a
charge was made with swords.
Sandie had no fear now, and his good sword thrust more than one savage
wounded to the water beneath. The fight was a terrible one while it
lasted, and it really seemed that for every cannibal killed two more
appeared.
If they should once gain a footing on board, then well those brave men
knew that the brave barque would be at their mercy.
Every revolver was now empty, and there was no time to reload.
It was a case, therefore, of cut and thrust; but it soon became evident
that the white men’s arms were getting tired battling against such
terrible odds.
But now the captain’s voice was heard high over the din of battle and
the yells of savage strife.
“Give ’em the hose, mate. Fetch it along. Be calm. Cheerily does it.”
Three or four blacks had already reached on board, and more than one
white man fell stabbed to the heart.
But now the mate dashes forward with the hose.
How shall I describe the scene that followed, or the sickening yells of
those now terror-stricken savages?
They tumbled backwards into the sea, or down with fearful thuds on top
of their frail canoes. Mercy, I fear, this swarthy mate knew not. Nay,
he even commanded lights to be held overboard, that he might play on the
laden canoes; but these were speedily deserted, as, leaving their arms,
the cannibals leapt wildly and shrieking into the sea, and commenced
swimming shorewards through the blackness and the darkness of this
fearful night.
The whole battle had not occupied over half-an-hour, and though the
savages must have suffered terribly, it was found that the _Boo-boo-boo_
had only two men killed and three wounded.
Just an hour afterwards, greatly to the joy of all on board, a light
breeze began to blow off the shore; the sails no longer flapped, but
filled, and the brave barque was soon standing steadily out to sea, and
away from that blood-stained cannibal isle.
* * * * *
It was nearly a whole week after the above adventure before the
_Boo-boo-boo_ got quite clear of the straits, and turned her jibboom to
the nor’ard and west.
Hopes began to rise high now in every breast. Surely the worst of their
dangers were past and gone.
The wounded were doing well.
The two poor fellows who had been slain were buried at daylight next
morning, the captain himself conducting the burial service.
The bodies were placed side by side on a grating. Each was sewn in a
hammock, which was weighted with iron.
The service was most impressive, and as the captain prayed and gave out
a hymn to sing, it is no departure from the truth to say, that tears
chased each other adown many a brave and weather-beaten face, tears the
men strove in vain to hide.
“We commit these bodies to the deep.”
Here the grating was tilted, and with a dull and sullen plash the bodies
sank, to appear no more till the sea gives up its dead.
“We commend their spirits to the living God who gave them.”
* * * * *
The captain had closed the book, and a few minutes afterwards the men
were going about their duties, as if there was no such thing as death
and sorrow in the wide wide world.
I wish I could say that all the troubles of the good barque
_Boo-boo-boo_ were now over and done with. I wish it for this reason,
that I am no lover of horrors. I neither like to read about nor to write
about them. But I have an “ower true” tale to relate, and I am the last
person in the world, I trust, or one of the last persons, to shirk a
duty.
For a day or two, then, all went well. The wind blew fair, the waves
sparkled and shone in the sunshine, as if elfin fingers were scattering
their sides with diamonds.
Then suddenly the wind veared round to the west, but fell considerably.
Except on tack and half tack there was no way of making headway against
it.
But to make matters worse, a fog came down upon the ship so dense that
the jibboom could not be descried from the binnacle, and the men, even
by the foremast, loomed out like tall and ghastly spectres.
This was the _musgo_, so much dreaded in these regions.
But nobody thought even now that the _Boo-boo-boo_ was a doomed ship.
Read on, and you shall learn the terrible truth.
CHAPTER VI
_THE LAST OF THE BRAVE BARQUE “BOO-BOO-BOO”_
All that day the _musgo_ lasted. The night closed in early. It closed in
so pitchy dark and gloomy, that even Captain D’Acre himself was fain to
confess he had never seen anything to compare with it.
It lacked to some extent, however, the strange mystery associated with
the deep silence of the black nights they had experienced in the
straits. It was not silent to-night, for the head wind continued to
blow, and great seas, houses high, rolled in from the west, making the
motion of the vessel when tacking very disagreeable.
It might have been about four bells in the morning watch when a wild
shout arose from the men, who, more for custom’s sake than any use they
could be, were stationed at the bows to look out.
“Keep her away, keep her away, for God’s sake.”
“Port your helm--hard a port!”
Even against the blackness of the night, they had seen a monstrous
shape, dark as Erebus, bearing down upon them.
The helm was put hard a port, but alas! it was too late. Next moment
down with the send of a great sea came the shape. There was a crash
amidships, as if the _Boo-boo-boo_ had been blown broadside on to a
rock. She heeled over till her starboard-yard ends almost touched the
water. No one on board expected she could right herself again, yet
slowly she did so, and was once more upon an even keel.
The pumps were now got to work; the barque was badly stove, and filling
fast.
By those of the crew not engaged pumping, an attempt was made, under the
supervision of the mate, to rig a device, with the aid of poles,
blankets, and tarpaulins, to stop if possible the terrible leak. This
was lowered over the side, and was far more successful than could have
been expected.
But it was evident to all that the ship could not be kept long afloat,
so all haste was now made to get the boats ready, and to provision and
arm them.
Before this business was completed daylight began to glare, yellow and
grey, through the fog; but the fog by itself was evidently thinner, and
presently it lifted entirely, and went rolling away like a tall black
wall to leeward. Then the sun shone over the sea with a brightness that
was quite dazzling.
“Look!” cried the mate to the captain, “what is that down to leeward? A
ship, sir?”
“It is a ship,” replied D’Acre gloomily; “she is doubtless a derelict,
and she it was who worked our ruin.”
“A derelict, sir?”
“Yes, mate; there are many of them in these seas, and they constitute a
danger against which the mariner is powerless to guard himself.”[8]
“But come,” he continued, “we will put about and bear down towards her.
She is high out of the water, and still has one mast and her jibboom
standing. She cannot have been abandoned long.”
“Ready about!” shouted the mate. “Tacks and sheets!”
The vessel’s course was now altered and though she yawed about in a
disagreeable and even alarming manner, she made fair progress down
towards the derelict vessel.
Captain D’Acre laid her right alongside and grappled, or secured, the
two vessels together.
Then the captain, with Sandie and Willie, scrambled on to the deck of
the forsaken ship.
Their feelings as they did so may be better imagined than described.
Curiosity, perhaps, was upper-most in their minds, but it was a
curiosity mixed with awe.
What was the mystery? they wondered. Ah! the sea hath many mysteries,
and here was one of them, yet it seemed one that was not inexplicable,
not impossible to ravel.
The deck was hampered with a litter of wreck, fallen spars and rigging.
There were no boats to be seen. It seemed evident that the ship had been
taken aback or struck by a sudden squall, and that, believing she was
sinking, a panic had seized upon the crew and they had left in the
boats. There was every appearance of a hasty exodus, for stores lay
about the deck where they had fallen, tinned meats, and even bottled
beer.
But there was now no living thing on board.
Yes, there was though; for while they were yet gazing around them in
surprise and wonder, a beautiful young tom-cat made his appearance, a
red tabby he was, and commenced singing aloud as he rubbed himself
against Sandie’s leg.
Sandie took the poor puss up in his arms, smoothed it and spoke kindly
to it.
“Jump on board the _Boo-boo-boo_, Willie, and fetch the poor creature a
bit of meat.”
[Illustration: THE ONLY LIVING THING ON BOARD.--_Page 270_]
Willie was off in a moment, and soon returned with a plate of food,
which the cat ate ravenously.
It surely spoke well for the goodness of those young men’s hearts that,
in the midst of their own sore trouble and danger, they could think
about a cat.
* * * * *
The mate and captain now held a consultation, and the derelict was
thoroughly examined. There was a considerable amount of water in her
hold, and she was leaking badly, but with care she would float a week,
while, alas! the poor _Boo-boo-boo_ might sink at any moment, and
certainly would go down in a few hours.
It was determined, therefore, to take possession of the derelict, and
with this view the _Boo-boo-boo’s_ boats, spare spars, water,
provisions, with everything useful, were transferred on board her.
There was hurry, certainly, for there was no time to lose, but there was
no confusion.
As soon as everything was done, it being evident the _Boo-boo-boo_ was
going fast, all hands got out of her and she was cut adrift. At the same
time sail was made on the foremast--the only remaining one--and jibboom
of the derelict, and she was soon well off from the doomed and sinking
barque.
None too soon. Her end came with a rapidity that was extraordinary. The
tarpaulin arrangement had doubtless shifted from her side, and the
water rushed in.
Her whole fore part rose for a moment and trembled in the air. Next
minute, she went down with a fearful sounding plunge, stern first. The
frothy bubbling waters closed over her, and this was the last of the
brave barque _Boo-boo-boo_.
CHAPTER VII
_AFLOAT ON A DERELICT SHIP_
How strange it all seemed! And how unreal! Only yesterday bounding along
in their own good barque, their home on the ocean wave, filled with
hope, and even happiness. To-day, afloat on a derelict ship! There were
times when Sandie was not quite sure whether or not he was awake,
whether all he saw around him was not merely the phantasm of an ugly
dream.
Alas! it was all too real.
The deserted ship was, like the lost _Boo-boo-boo_, a barque, but not of
the same dimensions by a long way.
What had been her trade or calling? Well, Captain D’Acre and his mate
had not much difficulty in determining this. First and foremost, she was
exceedingly light in the water--almost empty, in fact. It was evident,
therefore, that she had not yet taken her cargo on board. Down below in
the hold, and ’tween decks, were found large quantities of rice and many
barrels of water. There was also ample provision for cooking this rice
at the large galley.
“Do you begin to smell a rat, sir?” said the mate.
“I do, my friend, I do.”
“And see, sir, what we have in this corner!”
As he spoke he hauled out a long strong iron bar, to which leg irons
were attached, and a padlock fastened to the end.
“Now,” said the skipper, “we can not only smell the rat, but see it.”
“Blackbirders!”
“Blackbirders,” repeated D’Acre, “evidently.”
For the benefit of the uninitiated, I beg to say that in some parts of
Australia--Queensland, in particular, I think--black labour is hired
from the islands of the South Pacific. The natives--call them savages,
if you please--who “volunteer,” are offered good wages and a free and
safe passage back to their own homes. It is almost needless to say that
they seldom see those homes again.
But the men engaged in this nefarious trade are called Blackbirders, and
as a rule the business resolves itself into one of kidnapping the
blacks, oftentimes associated with the most shocking atrocities and
cruelties that can be imagined.
As long as Blackbirding is suffered to exist, slavery of the basest sort
must be supposed to flourish. I know there are people even now that deny
the existence of Blackbirding, or that it ever did flourish in cruelty
and tyranny. Proofs are all against these people, and many a burned and
blackened island, many a desolated village, and many an ant-cleaned
skeleton lying unburied and bleaching in the sun, shall testify to what
I say.
“Yes, she is a Blackbirder, right enough, mate. Perish the fiends! But
what fools they were to leave their ship!”
“As a rule,” said the mate, “the cruel are cowards.”
“Well, mate, I don’t hold with you altogether there. I have known fiends
in human form who were very far indeed from being cowards. But come now,
mate, we’ll go on deck, and begin making the ship as snug as ever we
can.”
“Well, sir, there is one thing sure enough, we must make the best of our
way towards some island. The ship won’t float a week.”
“Think not?”
“Sure of it, sir. Collision with us didn’t improve her. No, she won’t
float.”
“Well, we must beach her.”
“Yes; that is, if we can fall in with an island to beach her on.”
“Another thing is this, mate, we must try to keep in the track of
vessels, outward or homeward bound.”
“Yes, captain, that’s our only holt.”
“You see, mate, if we strike some lonely out-of-the-world island, we run
the chance of lying there till we rot, even if our bones are not picked
by hostile natives.”
“True, sir, true.”
“Well, in the route from China to England round the Horn there are many
islands, so there are in the route ’twixt Sydney and England viâ
Panama. Our plan will be to repair ship, and bear up for some of these.
With God’s good help, I think we may reach an island in safety. If the
worst comes to the worst, we have still the boats.”
“Good, sir, good! Ah! excuse me, sir, but your head is screwed on with
the face to the front.”
The kindly old captain laughed, then both went on deck.
All hands were now called, and work was commenced at once.
The skipper first, however, made his men a little speech, explaining the
discoveries they had made below, and his intentions of trying to beach
the sinking derelict on some island in the track of trading ships.
After this the men set to work with a will, cheering each other with
chaffing, and laughing, and talk, and even with snatches of song.
In a very short time the wreck was cleared away, all that was useful
being retained, and mere lumber bundled overboard to amuse the sharks.
The mainmast had gone, but not quite by the board, so that it was easy
to rig a jury, and set thereon a huge trysail. With her square sails on
the fore, and jibs set, and the wind being now on the quarter, the
_Peaceful_, for that was her name, which must have been given by way of
a grim joke, seemed to feel herself once more, and fancy herself also,
lifting proudly to every wave, and coming down again with a saucy
plunge that sent the spray flying inboard over the bows.
On the heaving of the log, it was found that she was making the highly
respectable progress of seven knots an hour.
This was increased to eight after the pumps had been rigged and the
water lowered in the hold.
This pumping, it was found ere long, was work that must be kept up for
over two hours in every watch, else the _Peaceful_ would soon follow the
example of the _Boo-boo-boo_, and sink to rise no more.
Sandie soon came to the conclusion, that what he saw around him did not
belong to the realms of dreamland, but to those of stern reality.
He could not tell what dangers or difficulties were yet to be
encountered, but he had the most perfect confidence in the skill and
ability of that white-haired old skipper to do whatever was for the
best. And he had, moreover, faith and trust in God, who rules all, and
who can hold the ocean in the palm of His hand.
Tyro, the collie, had entered into relations of the most friendly
character with the young red tabby cat, and the two were romping
together on the quarter-deck, as if there was no such thing as death or
danger in the universe.
The course now steered was as nearly nor’-west as possible.
Captain D’Acre really entertained some hopes that he might meet some
homeward bound steamer, or be overtaken by one that was outward bound.
But one never knows how vast the ocean is until he is sailing on its
heaving breast. Ay, and you may sail for weeks in an ocean highway, and
never meet or see a ship, only the great silent wondrous world of
waters, for ever moving and heaving around you.
* * * * *
With varying fortunes as to wind and weather, the sadly-stricken barque,
_Peaceful_, sailed on and on and on.
It was now very warm on deck, not to say broiling hot. The pitch boiled
in the vessel’s seams, and Tyro’s bonnie white paws were sadly soiled
and blackened. The sun all day blazed in a sky of lightest blue, only
down along the horizon, great rock-looking clouds were banked up, behind
which every night summer lightning gleamed incessant.
It was about three bells in the morning watch one night, but still inky
dark, when the first mate, lamp in hand, entered the captain’s cabin,
and touched him on the shoulder.
The skipper was but a light sleeper, and so raised himself from his cot
at once.
“Anything wrong, mate?”
“I fear, sir, there is something very much wrong indeed. We seem to have
sprung an ugly leak all at once. The water is gaining on us fast, though
we’re pumping all we can.”
“Bless my soul, mate!”
“If we can keep her afloat for six hours, sir, I think it will be all we
can do.”
“Well, in three hours, my friend, we can easily arm and provision
boats.”
“Yes.”
“Better call all hands, then.”
“I’ve done so an hour ago, sir.”
“Tell the steward to splice the main-brace immediately after the men
have had their coffee and biscuit.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“What time did you say it was?”
“About three bells and a quarter. The sun will be up in a short time.”
“Good! I’ll be on deck in a brace of shakes.”
Sandie and Willie had been aroused by the shouting and trampling of
feet, and dreading something unusual had happened, they had quickly
dressed and gone on deck.
On learning what had happened, both heartily volunteered to lend a hand
at the pumps, and so the work went merrily on.
Soon the sky assumed the most glorious colours, with flushes of gold and
cloud stripes of purest amber and crimson.
Next, there hung low down on the horizon a short bright blood-red line,
which got bigger and more definite in shape every moment, till at last
up leapt the sun, and a triangular bar of bright ensanguined water
stretched right away to the very hull of the sinking ship herself.
Higher and higher mounts the sun, paler and clearer become its beams.
And now, to the joy of all, there is visible, not many miles away, a
green island.
It is like a veritable fairyland, for it does not appear to be in the
sea at all, but afloat in the ambient sky.
“Can we make it, sir,” asks Sandie, “before the vessel sinks?”
The captain’s glass was turned towards the island. He could see its
golden sands, see the long white line the breakers made as they broke
lazily on its beach, and see behind tall cocoa-nut trees and banks of
waving palms.
“We can make it, my young friend, if----”
“If what, sir?” said Sandie, feeling somewhat uneasy at the captain’s
manner.
“If, Sandie, it _be an island_, and not a mocking _mirage_.”
CHAPTER VIII
_CRUSOES--PREPARED FOR ANYTHING_
But that island was no mirage. Of this all hands were speedily
convinced, and redoubled their efforts to pump the vessel and keep her
afloat until they could reach it. Breakfast of biscuits steeped in
coffee was partaken of on deck, then the steward spliced the main-brace.
Hardly half a mile now intervened between the _Peaceful_ and the island,
but her rate of sailing was very slow, and she yawed about more than was
agreeable.
It must be confessed that the danger was now extreme. The ship might
sink at any moment, and in a moment, with all on board. Yet the captain
and crew determined to stick to her.
And they did. Ah! there is no sailor in all the wide world like the
British Jack-a’-tar, whether he treads the decks of a man-o’-war or
hoists sail on a merchant vessel.
Death was staring those men in the face. In another minute they might
all be in eternity, yet hear them sing as they work the busy pumps. Oh,
only sailors’ doggerel, with no sense in it, bar that it chimes in with
the motion and sound of the levers, and the gush of water that flows
over the side--
“In San Domingo I was born,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn,
Heave, boys, and away she goes.
Hurrah!
My parients both were black as ink,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
They killed theirselves wi’ cussed drink,
Heave, boys, till pumps go dry.
Hurrah!”
The ship is reeling like a sick man. She reels, she staggers. When she
yaws, it seems as though she would never recover.
But hurrah! the shore is near. And here is a little cove that runs
inland a little way between banks of waving bananas and trees gorgeous
with creeping flowers.
At last she strikes, she rasps, she is fast upon the sand, and on an
even keel.
“The Lord’s Name be praised,” says the captain. And more than one manly
voice responds, “Amen!”
The strain upon both Sandie’s mind and Willie’s, particularly during the
last hour, had been very great; and now that the reaction had come,
strangely enough, Sandie, at all events, felt that he would have given a
five-pound note for a five minutes’ cry.
* * * * *
Our heroes were Crusoes now with a vengeance, but Crusoes after a
somewhat strange fashion.
In looking back to all their adventures since they left Sandy Point,
they could not but marvel at the wondrous way they had been preserved.
And here they were on board the wrecked derelict, safe and sound for a
time, at all events, and with good hopes of soon being picked up.
The first thing the crew had to do was to cut down trees in the woods,
to prop the ship up when the tide went farther back.
Meanwhile, taking Tyro with them, and not only a rifle each but a good
revolver, Sandie and Willie set out to explore the island. They soon
found that it was of no great extent, not more, indeed, than about ten
miles long by five or six wide.
This they ascertained by climbing a rather high hill, which had a bold
bluff rock right on its peak.
The island altogether was hilly and beautifully wooded, though there
were many green and verdant glades in it, and some open glens as well,
adown which they found, much to their joy, streamlets of clear water
bounding or rippling along, going singing to the sea, in fact.
There was no smoke to be seen anywhere, consequently they came to the
conclusion that the island was uninhabited.
This was strange, because there were fish in the streams, there were
rock-rabbits on the hills, and cocoa-nut and other trees were laden
with fruit. And it is the rule that, wherever on an island or on a coast
you find cocoa-nut trees, you find natives.
“What is the mystery, I wonder?” said Willie.
“I cannot tell at all,” replied Sandie. “It appears so strange that so
fertile and lovely an island as this should be lonesome and
uninhabited.”
“Well, anyhow, Sandie, let us get farther into the interior.”
They wandered on and on, now through the greenery of the lovely woods,
pausing often to admire the strange and beautiful flowers, that hung
pendant or in garlands from the branches of the loftier trees, or to
listen to the sweet low singing of some little bright-winged bird.
On and on they wander.
And now, all at once, a wide grassy glade opens out to their view.
Both Sandie and Willie shrink back appalled at the sight that meets
their view.
Here are the ruins of a very large native village, with grass and
creepers growing rank over the fallen walls.
Regaining courage, they venture forward, but do not proceed far before
Willie trips, and almost falls over something in the grass. With the
barrel of his gun he moves aside the weeds, A white ant-cleaned skeleton
lies there. Lizards skurry away from it, grey lizards, red lizards, and
green.
They shudder as they perceive that the skull has been cloven as if with
an axe.
But they do not go much farther ere they come upon many, very many
skeletons, and all bear the marks of violence.
And some among them are the skeletons of mere children.
Even in the blackened ruins of the huts lie half-charred bones, which
tell their own dismal tale.
But the saddest sight of all is that which they come to at last.
It is that of a large skeleton, with no marks of violence, hanging in
chains to a tree. The skull has tumbled to the ground and one of the
limbs, but enough remains to show the gruesomeness of the tragedy which
at no very recent date must have been enacted in this lovely glade. The
poor wretch must have been chained up alive, and left to die in the
sunshine, or to be eaten alive by the awful insects, the centipedes, and
poisonous beetles that infest a forest such as this by night.
Sandie and Willie both felt sick, and were not sorry when they found
themselves far away from that haunted glade.
They managed to shoot over a dozen rock-rabbits, and now with their
spoil they betook themselves back to the ship, to report on all they had
seen.
“As I thought,” said the old captain. “The Blackbirders have been at
work. They have wiped out a portion of the natives who dared to resist,
and have made prisoners of the rest; and the poor wretch, hung in
chains to die a lingering death, was no doubt the chief.
* * * * *
The men of the lost _Boo-boo-boo_ soon began to settle down to their new
mode of life, lonely and all though it was.
Captain D’Acre thought it would be best to live on board the _Peaceful_.
They would not only be free from malaria, and the troubles of creeping
insect life, but in a better position to defend themselves if attacked
by some wandering hostile tribe.
There was no saying how soon an attack of this kind might not be made,
so they determined to be prepared. They found a kind of willow-withe
growing plentifully on the island, and from this they manufactured in a
few days enough boarding-netting to go all the way round above the
bulwarks. They got all arms up, and loaded them, also plenty of
ammunition. They also trimmed all the lamps lest an attack should take
place under cover of the night. Moreover, lest a fight might end in a
siege, they laid in a goodly store of fresh water.
After this they felt comparatively safe, and inclined to take life very
easy indeed.
Many little shooting excursions and rambles were made into the interior.
Fishing parties too were got up, both inland and at sea.
All day long a look-out was stationed on the rocky peak of the highest
hill. His duty was to report by an arranged code of signals either the
approach of suspicious canoes, or the appearance in the offing of a
ship.
In the latter case, it would be the duty of two boats, always kept ready
manned for the purpose, to row out to sea and endeavour to communicate
with the vessel.
The rock-rabbits, the fresh-water fish, but above all the many delicious
varieties of fish caught at sea, formed a most wholesome addition to the
larder, so that it is no wonder that Willie remarked more than once,
that, instead of existing in the guise of starving Crusoes, they really
were living like the British fighting-cock.
The fruit of the island was luscious, rich, and rare, and to crown all,
there were rare crabs, and curious but succulent lobsters, and oysters
of rarest flavour found clinging to the rocks at low water.
Sandie had come through a good many hardships, and much anxiety of mind,
within the last month or so; yet, singular to say, he had waxed hardy,
stout, and strong. There was no trace of consumption about him now,
unless, as Willie told him, it was the consumption of bananas and
oysters. All cough had gone, his voice was once more manly and strong,
and his spirits were never higher.
Oh, he often thought of home--that was but natural. He often wondered
what his parents and Elsie might be doing, and dear little Maggie May.
But when he did think of home, it was always hopefully, always with a
happy feeling of certainty that he should return in health and safety to
resume his studies at the University.
A whole month passed away, but no ship ever came; another dragged
somewhat more wearily by.
Things were beginning to look a trifle serious, for this reason: there
was a limit to the length of time the flour and biscuit would last. When
these were done, they would be compelled to live on salt meat, with the
fish, fruit, and rabbits they might succeed in getting.
So the men were now--in the third month of their Crusoe-ship--put on an
allowance of biscuit. It was deemed advisable also to be as sparing in
the expenditure of gunpowder as possible, so the rock-rabbits were
snared instead of being shot.
But if no ship appeared, it was satisfactory, on the other hand, that no
boats laden with savages hove in sight, so the Crusoes tried to live as
contentedly as circumstances would permit.
No fishing, or even snaring of rabbits, took place on the Sabbath. This
was kept as a day of rest, and in the forenoons the old captain always
called all hands aft. Then a prayer would be offered up, several hymns
sung, a chapter of the Bible read and explained or commented on to the
best of the good old man’s ability, then, after more singing and
another prayer, the men would be dismissed.
But D’Acre was a true sailor, and so every Saturday he caused the
main-brace to be spliced. Well spliced, too, not in any half-hearted
way, so that the men might enjoy themselves, and drink to those so far
away--their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.
And almost every Saturday night the mate would go forward with his
fiddle, and Sandie, too, would be there to sing a song. But before eight
bells every man had turned in who was not on duty.
* * * * *
Three long months had passed away, and things began to look serious. The
biscuits were done now, and even the beef was running short.
But, oh, joy! one forenoon the signalman on the hill-top was seen to
indicate the presence of a ship, and pointed with his large fan in her
direction.
In five minutes’ time two boats were under way, pulling merrily over the
sparkling waters in the direction indicated. Never even at a boat-race
surely did men pull more earnestly. It was indeed a race for life.
But now they can see the vessel. A great ocean steamer she is.
They alter course a little, their object being to intercept her. No need
to hurry now! Oh, glorious hour! She sees the approaching boats and
stops ship.
They are saved! What need to say more? The vessel is an outward-bound
steamer for Sydney. She carries a few passengers, but has ample
accommodation for the Crusoes.
They are made heartily welcome, and that evening, down in the splendid
saloon, our chief heroes have, over and over again, to tell all the outs
and ins of their wondrous adventures.
CHAPTER IX
_“O MY POOR, DEAR FATHER!” CRIED SANDIE_
What a pleasant voyage that was to Sydney! Our heroes had nothing to do
but talk and read, and laze dreamily in the sparkling sunshine, or under
the quarter-deck awning.
The ladies on board, and there were several young and
not-quite-so-young, appeared determined to make heroes of Sandie and
Willie. Moreover, they treated the former as somewhat of an invalid,
Willie having told them all his story, so they gave up a deck-chair to
him. They wrapped him in rugs at eventide. During the day they brought
to him cunningly concocted drinks, and when the shades of night fell
they made him drink fragrant coffee, fortified with condensed milk, plus
a modicum of preserved cream. Preserved fruits, too, were his. The only
drawback to all this enjoyment rested in the fact that these
kind-intentioned ladies made him swallow half-an-ounce of cod-liver oil
three times every day; and Sandie didn’t like it.
Sydney has the most beautiful and extensive harbour in the world. I feel
in duty bound to make that remark, because everybody else says the same
thing, and because I know it will please the Sydneyites, and the
Australians in general. You see, I mean to visit Sydney one of these
days, and I wish to have a Highland welcome.
“Have you anywhere in particular to stay?” asked the most matronly lady
of our young heroes.
“No,” was the candid reply.
“Oh, then I shall carry you off.”
And she did.
A very pleasing time she gave them, too, for over two months. Then
somebody else carried them away for another month, and as this was
repeated, it may be presumed that during their stay in Sydney their keep
did not cost them much.
But the matronly lady got hold of them again, and being a widow with
plenty of means, she could do as she pleased. So she made up her mind to
show Sandie and Willie something of Australia and Australian life.
Some men inform us that this world is all bad and vile. For my own part,
I have not found it so. I still am a believer in human nature. Well, for
example, persons like this matronly lady, who had taken so great an
interest in our heroes, are not such _raræ aves_ as certain pessimists
would have us believe; and they obtain their own happiness by bringing
about and enjoying the happiness of others.
Mrs. Maxwell was this dear lady’s name, and her eyes positively
sparkled with delight when she witnessed the admiration and wonderment
exhibited by Sandie and Willie on first beholding the weird and awful
beauty of, for instance, the gum-tree forests.
City views, though very grand and rich, failed to impress them. Had they
not seen Edinburgh and Glasgow? But the wild sylvan loveliness of the
green silent country, ah! that indeed sent a thrill of pleasure to their
hearts.
“As long as I live, Mrs. Maxwell,” Sandie told the lady when at long
last he had to bid her adieu, “I shall never forget this visit to
Australia, nor all the disinterested kindness you have shown us. Yes, we
will write.”
“Good-bye, boys, and God bless you!”
“God bless _you_, Mrs. Maxwell.”
There was tears in Sandie’s eyes, and I think in Willie’s too.
Yes, their time was up, they had to go. In two days’ time one of Mr.
Tomlison’s ships--a bonnie clipper barque and sister vessel to the lost
_Boo-boo-boo_--would leave Sydney harbour, going home round the Cape of
Good Hope instead of the Straits of Magellan, or the still more stormy
Horn, and not only were Sandie and Willie going by her, but Captain
D’Acre and the first mate as well.
It was the month of March, or autumn, when the good barque--_Fairy
Queen_ was her name--reached Cape Town and cast anchor in the bay.
“What a lovely spot!” were Willie’s first words to Sandie, when both
went on deck next morning.
“It is indeed beautiful!”
It was not, however, the town they were admiring, but the grand romantic
mountainous scenery in its rear.
After breakfast they went on shore for a ramble. They soon found a Malay
guide, who for a trifle agreed to show them everything.
That word “everything” included all the public buildings, but best of
all the Botanical Gardens, which both our heroes agreed were a veritable
fairyland. Surely no such palms or flowers as these flourished or
bloomed anywhere else in the world!
When they had lingered long here, they came reluctantly away, and their
guide then took them to the hills.
And what hills! They were everywhere ablaze with flowers and the rarest
of heaths, that at home in Britain can only be kept alive in the
hothouse. Gorgeous geraniums were everywhere, and wherever there was a
patch of ground uncovered by these or by heaths, it would be closely
overgrown by a compact little flower of inexpressible sweetness, and in
shape not unlike a cineraria. These were principally crimson and white.
The only drawback to perfect enjoyment during this long hillside ramble
was the constant presence of snakes. The little sand-snake wriggled
about where least expected--on damp ground a great black snake lay
coiled. Sometimes when stooping down to cull flowers where the grass
grew greenest, the long thin dark whip-snake would glide out and away
from among their very fingers, very much to their horror. But worse than
all was the hooded cobra, the most deadly of all Cape snakes, and of
these they saw far more than they desired to.
Nevertheless, on the whole, they enjoyed their visit to the capital of
the Cape, and got on board at last, laden with botanical specimens, and
quite as hungry as there was any need to be.
* * * * *
The _Fairy Queen_ was once more at sea, and the weather was all that
could be desired.
With the exception, therefore, of a visit to the romantic and beautiful
island of St. Helena, the so-called sea-girt rock on which Napoleon was
imprisoned and died, the voyage was altogether uneventful.
The last letter received from home reached Sandie and Willie just before
they left Sydney. At that time all their friends and relations were
well.
Alas! though, in this world of sorrow much may happen in two or three
months.
The news of the arrival of the _Fairy Queen_ in Aberdeen docks spread
like wildfire, and on the very next morning Sandie’s mother and Elsie
came off to welcome him home.
They were both dressed in the deepest mourning.
“O my poor, dear father!” cried Sandie in an agony of grief.
And what could his mother do but weep with him.
Yes, M‘Crae, the honest farmer of Kilbuie, had been called away.
What a change!
The farm itself was not kept on by Sandie’s mother. Everything had been
sold, and she and Elsie had come to live at a pretty little granite
cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen.
So this, then, would be Sandie’s new home.
But as soon as the first great wave of grief had passed over his soul,
leaving it sad and chastened, Sandie determined to live but for his
mother and sister alone.
He was now well and strong, and could resume his studies without fear.
But he would not have to tax his brain so much in future. For the study
of Divinity presents no such difficulties as do Greek, Latin, and
Mathematics.
The cottage in which Mrs. M‘Crae had settled down, though by no means an
expensive one, was very pretty. It stood at the Rubislaw end of Union
Street, quite on the outskirts, and had a pretty little bit of garden in
front, and a long one behind.
Of course both Elsie and her brother missed the fields with their
wild-flowers, missed the golden furze and the yellow tasselled broom,
missed too the whisper of the wind in the dark waving pine-trees, the
croodle of the cushat, the mellow notes of the mavis, and plaintive
song of the blackbird; but Sandie told Elsie all these things would come
again when he got his church, which was bound to be in the country, and
in one of the most romantic parts of the country too. Meanwhile they
must live in hope.
You may be sure that Sandie had not been long at home ere he paid a
visit to the manse of Belhaven, and his friend Willie went with him.
Sandie would not--could not--go near Kilbuie; his grief was far too
recent.
He found Mackenzie not one whit altered. Maggie May came forward with a
smile and a bonnie blush to welcome Sandie back; but she gave him no
kiss. She was altered. She was a child no more.
But she paid him a compliment.
“How you have improved!” she said. “And how red and burned you are!”
That night, while discussing a delightful dinner, Sandie and Willie held
Mackenzie and Maggie May spellbound as they related all the adventures
of their perilous voyage.
Next day, by way of bringing back sweet memories of Auld Lang Syne, the
young folks went fishing and picnicking; and a very happy, pleasant day
they spent, bringing home, too, an excellent bag.
They stayed nearly a week at the manse, then, promising faithfully soon
to come again, they said “Adieu!” and shortly were back once more in the
Granite City.
I must not forget to mention that Sandie brought back with him from sea,
not only his dear friend Tyro, but that beautiful young red tabby cat,
and that they speedily made themselves perfectly at home at Kilbuie
Cottage.
During the summer that ensued, Sandie devoted much of his time to
coaching young students for the University. This was a kind of work that
was congenial to his tastes, and that really paid fairly well.
But when the winter session commenced, and he entered Divinity Hall, as
it is phrased, he threw up teaching. He was determined to do nothing now
to endanger his health.
Willie had entered a stockbroker’s office, so the two sincere friends
did not see quite so much of each other all the week. But there were
always the Saturday afternoons, and the Sundays to boot. Indeed, at such
times, if Willie was not at Kilbuie Cottage, it was because Sandie and
he both were at the Provost’s beautiful home in King Street.
And so the time passed by quickly and happily enough; this winter flew
away, and summer came again.
Then Sandie renewed his coaching.
“Monday is Bank holiday,” said Willie, one Saturday afternoon, as he
with Elsie and Sandie sat in the back summer-house, listening to the
sweet sad song of a merle perched upon a crimson-flowered May-tree.
“Yes, Sandie, Monday is Bank holiday, and do you know what I should
dearly like to do?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“Go to Mackenzie’s?”
“Ah! Sandie, Mackenzie’s is a good deal in your head.”
What made Sandie blush, I wonder, and slightly alter his position?
“No, my friend, I like Mackenzie’s very well indeed, but it is too far
away. Now what say you to a dogcart drive up to the Loch of Skene, and
dinner at the old-fashioned cosy inn of Straik?”
“Delightful!” said Sandie.
“Will you go?” said Willie, turning suddenly round to Elsie. “Mind,” he
added, “we don’t mean to go without you.”
“In which case,” replied Elsie, laughing, “I shall be your humble
servant.”
“No, Elsie, our sweet companion, the partner of our joys and sorrows,
our bites and nibbles. So it is arranged.”
Monday was a delightful summer’s day, with just enough breeze to cool
the air, and cause a ripple on the water.
How delicious it was to stop in the dark woods of Hazelhead, and hear
that same breeze sigh and whisper through the lofty pine-trees, and to
listen to the wild glad melody of the birds.
“Oh,” cried Sandie, who was ever romantic, “this is heavenly; does it
not put you in mind of that grand old Scotch song, ‘The bonnie woods o’
Craigielee’?”
“Everything puts you in mind of a song,” said Willie, “but sing it,
Sandie, sing it.”
“Help me, then.”
And sweetly in the morning air, in that dark wood, rose those tuneful
voices three.
I dare only give one verse.
“Far down thy dark green plantin’ shade
The cushat croodles am’rouslie,
The mavis in the buchtin’ glade
Mak’s echo ring frae tree to tree.
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
In thee I spent life’s early day,
An’ won my Mary’s heart in thee.”
The landlady of the little inn knew the young men, and was delighted to
see them. She promised, if they would leave the matter to her, to
provide a dinner, she felt sure, would not only please them, but the
winsome young lady too. And would they have the boy, their old guide? Of
course they would. Without him they could not be sure of anything like a
bag.
Well, the boy came, and he carried the luncheon that was to be eaten by
the burnside, and the bottle of delicious heather-ale.
It was, on the whole, a heavy burden, but this lad’s back seemed just
made for heavy burdens, tiny and all though he was.
The trout to-day were very kind, and even before luncheon-time they had
succeeded in making a fairly good bag.
After luncheon they completed their “take,” then spent the rest of their
time in wandering through the woods and fields, and by the Loch side,
collecting wild-flowers. Then back to the inn in good time for dinner.
The tablecloth was spotlessly white, the knives and forks shone like
silver, though they weren’t, and through the open window, as they dined,
blew the soft west wind, laden with the odour of roses. Roast duck and
tender green peas, what could be better, but the whole associations made
that dinner, simple though it was, far more delightful than if it had
been eaten in the banqueting hall of a palace.
Low over the greenery of the woods the sun was declining when, bidding
good-bye to the kindly landlady, they mounted once more and drove off.
But the gloaming star was shining sweet and clear long before they
reached once more the bonnie woods of Hazelhead.
CHAPTER X
_HOW IT ALL ENDED_
Ah! now my story draws to a close. I am very sorry because I have quite
enjoyed writing it.
The reader may never know how much of my own young life is depicted in
these pages. Many a time and often have I laughed as recollections of
schoolboy or student pranks have risen up before my mind’s eye, but more
than once as I wrote a mist bedimmed my sight, and something fell--it
might have been a tear.
Life, dear reader, is all like a dream; but we never realise this until
grey hairs appear around our temples, and there are silver threads in
the dark brown of our beards.
But come, I must pull myself up with a round turn, as we sailors say.
Moping never did any good in this world, that I am aware of; grief is
more ageing than time itself. There is nothing so healthful as
cheerfulness and good temper. “A merry heart goes all the day.” Let us
laugh, then. There isn’t the slightest fear of getting too fat. I don’t
believe in the silly old saying, “Laugh and grow fat.” I’ve been
laughing all my life, when I haven’t been whistling or humming a tune,
but I’m not fat yet, and what is more, I don’t want to be. But a merry
heart strengthens every muscle and organ in the body, and prevents
chilblains. A ridiculous thing to say, is it? Oh, perhaps, but it is
true. That disagreeable winter complaint belongs to the sad and the
phlegmatic morose sort of people. But a merry heart means a
well-balanced circulation, and so, if you want to be healthy, you’ve got
to cultivate cheerfulness.
All this is digression? Well, I don’t care, I shall do what I like in my
last chapter.
* * * * *
In course of years, Mrs. M‘Crae and Elsie both got to like the little
cottage. It was cosy and homely and snug. They had their regular
visitors, too, and never cared to add many to them.
When in harbour, both Captain D’Acre and his mate used to be constant
visitors, and the mate never failed to bring his fiddle. Then a regular
musical evening was sure to follow, much to Mrs. M‘Crae’s delight, for
she was passionately fond of melody.
Summer after summer, Sandie continued coaching his pupils, remunerating
to both teacher and students, and winter after winter he plodded back
and fore to the Divinity Hall. He was a pet student with all the
professors, because he was a very promising one. Whatever study he took
in hand, he went into thoroughly, and was not content until he had
mastered it. That is the sort of man Sandie was.
But the winters and the summers too wore away at last,--Sandie’s
divinity studies were over. He had passed every examination with honour,
and was now the Rev. Alexander M‘Crae, M.A.
What joy!
All his toils were over--so he thought; he would soon get a church--so
he believed; and he would take his mother away to his beautiful home in
the cool green country, far away from the madding crowd, from the bustle
and din, from the grime and the gride of city life. As hope told him
this flattering tale, he could not help repeating to himself those
charming lines of Horace, beginning
“Beatus ille qui preul negotiis,
* * * * *
Paterna rura bubus exercit suis
Solutus omni fenore,”
which may be paraphrased: “Happy is the man who, far from the busy
haunts of life, far from care and worry, ploughs with his own oxen the
paternal acres.”
But Sandie’s life while at the Divinity Hall had not been all bliss
unalloyed. There was one drawback to his happiness. Let me explain it,
if I can. Sandie, then, was constitutionally shy.
Now shyness is about the worst fault a public orator or preacher can
have, though I must not omit to mention that the cleverest men are
usually the shyest.
In the privacy of his own study, which was right away up at the top of
Kilbuie Cottage, an attic, in fact, Sandie, when all alone, could
declaim triumphantly, and many a rousing extempore sermon he here
preached. Again, he could preach a sermon anywhere, and with confidence,
if he had written it out beforehand, and might have the manuscript on
the pulpit desk in front of him. But well he knew that many old people
in country parishes had a decided objection to written sermons. They
liked their ministers to walk into the pulpit, to take a text, and trust
to the Spirit of God to give them language and words.
Now, after all, extempore preaching is merely a matter of habit and
experience.
Strangely enough, assistance came to Sandie from quite an unexpected
quarter.
It was while he was in his third year, that one Thursday evening he was
told by Elsie, who could hardly keep from smiling, that a lady and
gentleman wanted to see him on a matter of business.
“Where are they, Elsie?”
“In the drawing-room, Sandie.”
“Say, I’ll be down in a moment.”
He dashed his fingers through his hair, smoothed down his dark brown
beard, pulled up his collar, cleared his throat, and descended.
When he opened the drawing-room door, he was certainly somewhat
surprised and taken aback at the youth and diminutive stature of the
lady and gentleman. The boy was about eight, the girl barely ten.
But she opened negotiations with a promptitude that did her credit.
“Oh, if you please, Mr. M‘Crae, long, long ago when father first comed
to this country from the Norf, he builded a school, and every Sunday
night now there is preachin’ in the school, ’cause the people likes it,
an’ every Fursday night little wee Williamie Gordon here, my bludder,
and myse’f comes in to get a minister. But, oh, if you please, sir, we
can’t get one to-night, and oh, would you come?”
“And where is the school, my dear?”
“Oh, if you please, it is four miles from here at Bellfield. And you has
through the dark Hazelhead woods to go, where sometimes the robbers
kills folks. Williamie Gordon and I isn’t afraid, ’cause we is too small
to bother killing, and we have nothing to rob. But you wouldn’t be
afraid, ’cause you’s a big fine man, and could kill them back again.”
Sandie laughed at the droll conceit. But he promised he would come in
spite of the robbers. Then he rung the bell, and five minutes after that
the two children were doing justice to a hearty supper.
Then the wee toddlers started back on their long and dreary journey,
arriving home safe and sound.
After they had gone, Sandie went straight up-stairs, chose a text, and
never lifted his head from over his desk until he had written a good
long sermon.
With this in his pocket--as he thought--he started on the Sunday
afternoon for Bellfield school. His child friends were there to give him
a hearty welcome, and an invitation to supper after the sermon.
Every one was struck with the young man’s appearance and manner. He gave
out a psalm and conducted the singing. He prayed long and fervently.
Then he opened the Book, and after giving out his text, placed his hand
in his pocket to produce his manuscript.
It was gone!
His heart seemed to leap clean out of him; his head swam, and he almost
fell. Then he bent his brow reverently over the Bible and prayed for
strength.
Slowly and in short constrained sentences he began to speak, but he
gathered strength as he went on, he waxed eloquent, impassioned; he
could scarcely believe it was he himself who was talking.
And never, I ween, was sermon listened to with more marked and solemn
attention.
“Thank God,” said Sandie to himself when at last he closed the Book.
Sandie preached at this school every fortnight after this, but neither
here nor anywhere else did he ever again use a manuscript.
A letter came from Sandie’s friend Mackenzie a few weeks after he had
been ordained minister.
The clergyman of Drumlade, the very parish in which Sandie was born, and
in which stood the farm of Kilbuie, was very old and wanted a helper.
He (Mackenzie) had proposed Sandie. Would he come?
This was glorious news!
Sandie became such a favourite with the parishioners, that, six months
afterwards, when the poor old minister died, he received a universal and
unanimous call to take the office.
And so it came to pass that ere long our hero became minister of the
fine old parish of Drumlade.
The church itself was a large one, and stood on an eminence overlooking
a curve of the winding Don, and surrounded by its God’s acre of green,
green graves.
At a distance of about an eighth of a mile, and nestling near the
river-side, in a bosky dell, stood the fine old manse, with its rich old
walled gardens, its grass lawns and rose terraces, on one of which stood
an ancient dial-stone.
There was a wilderness of trees all about, bird-haunted trees. Surely
not a feathered songster that ever trilled a note in the far North that
did not sing in those copses and groves, while high aloft, in the
swaying pine-trees, lived hawk and crow and magpie.
All the place, in the sweet summer-time, was a poem, a romance, a dream.
Of course Kilbuie Cottage was now given up, and Sandie’s mother and
Elsie came to reside at the manse, and sit Sunday after Sunday in the
manse pew, near to the pulpit.
Sandie’s living was a good one, and there was, in addition to the
stipend, a large and rich farm of glebeland, which soon became the young
minister’s chief delight.
* * * * *
I must tell you something else, as long as I think of it. Jamie Duncan
had a rich uncle, who was good enough to shuffle off this mortal coil
for the benefit of Jamie. He left him quite a haul of money.
Then Jamie took Kilbuie farm and stocked it, and elevated Geordie
Black--the quondam orra man--to the proud position of first horseman,
and lived happy ever afterwards, so far as I know.
I did hear lately that Geordie Black had married Tibbie, but it may be
mere rumour.
* * * * *
One beautiful summer’s day Willie called at the manse. He had come to
stay for a whole fortnight.
And he meant to enjoy himself, so he said. Yes, Willie meant to enjoy
himself, and he did. But, going into her room one day, Sandie found his
mother sitting on the sofa weeping bitterly.
Somewhat alarmed, he seated himself beside her, and put an arm around
her waist in the old tender fashion.
“Mother, mother, what is the matter? You frighten me!”
“Oh,” she sobbed, “he--your friend Willie--is going to deprive me of--of
my child.”
More tears and sobbing.
“I am--going to lose my daughter.”
“Mother, mother,” pleaded Sandie, caressing her, “you must not give way
like this. It is nature--nay, more, marriage is Heaven’s ordination.”
She got quieter after a time, and even smiled through her tears.
“But,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “I shall almost break my
heart to be deprived of my daughter.”
“Oh! no, you won’t, mother dear. Because, listen! I am going to bring
you home another daughter.”
Sandie got straight up now from his mother’s side and walked out.
Presently he returned, leading by the hand--why, whom do you think?
Bonnie blushing Maggie May.
“Mother, your daughter that is to be!”
Sandie’s mother opened her arms, and next moment Maggie May was nestling
on her breast.
And this is how it all ended, reader mine.
And surely we could hardly have wished it otherwise. Could we?
THE END.
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_Edinburgh and London_
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* * * * *
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By S. M. S. CLARKE (Mrs. Pereira).
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] The blaeberry is the English hert.
[2] My English readers ought to know that a bursary is a kind of
scholarship, which not only entitles the holder to free education at
the University, but to a sum of money paid annually during the whole
four years’ curriculum.
[3] Now Sir W. D. Geddes of the Aberdeen University.
[4] Pronounced “shees.”
[5] This story is not imagination, but truth.
[6] A kind of floury Scotch roll.
[7] Dulse is an edible seaweed much used in the North, and pepper dulse
is a smaller seaweed with pleasant pungent flavour, that is eaten as a
relish along with it.
[8] “How do all these vessels become derelicts, because I thought a
ship was never deserted while she would float?”--“No. When a ship
has rolled her masts over the side, or gets leaking badly, or has a
heavy list, or from a thousand and one other causes gets dangerous,
her crew are frequently only too ready to leave her. There are some
notable cases, and only just within the last week or two the _Bahama_,
a fine large steel sailing vessel on her first voyage, was deserted in
the Atlantic, and was sighted afterwards in an apparently seaworthy
condition. But there is to be an inquiry into her case, so I will say
nothing more about her, except that she is not yet charted, and is
knocking about without lights, without foghorn, without anything--in
fact, a tremendous danger to navigation. Over and over again a crew
has left a ship when another crew from the relieving vessel has
stayed behind and brought the otherwise derelict safely into port.
Many of these derelicts, I should tell you, are waterlogged timber
ships; and it may interest you to learn, while I think of it, that
one of the United States vessels engaged in sinking derelicts is the
old _Kearsarge_, who fought and sunk the _Alabama_ in the English
Channel.”--_Pall-Mall Gazette._
Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber:
“your a thrifty lad."=> “you’re a thrifty lad.” {pg 218}