CHAPTER I.

[Transcriber's note: WARNING: some words and language in this book

may be offensive to modern readers.]

[Illustration: Cover art]

[Frontispiece: He dashed the stone into the dying embers.]

HOW JACK MACKENZIE

WON HIS EPAULETTES

By

GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS

LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN

AND NEW YORK

1906

PREFACE.

There is a glamour and romance about war that appeals to the heart of

every young man worthy of the name in these islands. This is as it

should be. We are a nation of sailors, it is true, but many a

blood-red field can bear witness that we are soldiers also, when we

have the right man to lead us.

A weapon, however, that is left too long in its scabbard is apt to

rust therein. This was the state in which we found the British sword

when the fiery cross was sent round in 1853. We had not been at war

for forty years before this, and even many of our generals had

forgotten all about the art. Hence the terrible muddle and

mismanagement witnessed in the Crimea. Our poor fellows were

positively sent off as empty-handed as if going to a grand parade or

soldiers' picnic, and indeed but for individual courage, and good

luck, the invasion would have ended in national disaster and

disgrace, for us as well as for our brave allies the French.

I have no desire to dispel the romance that surrounds as with a halo

the noble and necessary art of war. But I think every young fellow

should know that to be a real soldier it is necessary for him to be

not only a fighting man and a brave man in the field, but a perfect

camp's-man also; and he can never learn to be so in barracks, but on

the tented field, in times of peace.

It is for this reason that the sailor, if I may be allowed to say a

word in favour of the service to which I belong, makes the best

soldier. Captain Peel's brigade proved this in the trenches.

In the second book of this story, the youthful reader will find

fighting and bloodshed enough, and horrors too. But the tale is all

true, sadly, terribly true. Hear what Sir Evelyn Wood says: "It may

be asked, Why recall these dismal stories? Because ...... to the

present generation our hideous sacrifice of soldiers in the Crimea is

but little more known than the sufferings of our troops at Walcheren

and in the Peninsula. I believe in the advantage of telling those

who elect parliamentary representatives what has happened and what

may happen again, unless a high standard of administrative efficiency

is maintained. This cannot be attained unless the necessary

departments are practised in their duties during peace."

* * * * * *

"Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war."

In my first book, then, I have endeavoured to give a sketch of the

sailor's life in the piping times of peace, and most of the sketches

and little adventures and yarns are drawn from the life. Dr. Reikie,

who is constantly in the pursuit of science under difficulties, was a

real character. So were Sturdy, Gribble, Fitzgerald, Captain

Gillespie, and the marine Paddy O'Bayne.

_CONTENTS._

Book First.

_IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE._

_I. Wee Johnnie Greybreeks_

_II. Life in Summer Loaning_

_III. Mrs. Malony's Wedding-ring_

_IV. "I'll be a Sailor or a Soldier"_

_V. "Hullo, Johnnie Greybreeks! I'm your Uncle"_

_VI. "The Old Lady had a Woman's Heart after all"_

_VII. "Hard a-Port!"_

_VIII. Jack's Sea-daddy_

_IX. In the good old "_Gurnet_"_

_X. Paddy's Adventure--Fred Harris proves himself a Hero_

_XI. A Tragedy--Auld Reikie pursues Science under Difficulties_

_XII. Tom Finch and the Shark--Shooting in the Dismal Swamp--Death

and Promotion_

_XIII. Paddy's Hybrid--"A quare, quare Baste, Sorr"--Tricky

Niggers--Black Man as Cook--War declared_

Book Second.

_FOR HONOUR AND GLORY._

_I. "Blow, Good Wind, and waft us East"_

_II. A Ghastly Adventure--The Embarkation--A Stormy Landing_

_III. A field of Heroes--"On, Lads, On!"--Brave Codrington--Panic and

Terror_

_IV. The Kilted Warriors of the North--The Terrible Struggle for

Kourgané Hill--The Impetuous 93rd--Victory!_

_V. A Walk across the Battle-field--Ghastly Sights--Brave Surgeon

Thompson of the 44th--Jack's Strange Adventure_

_VI. The First Great Bombardment--Ships versus Forts--Poor Boy

Harris--"Tell 'em I died like a Thousand o' Bricks"_

_VII. The Victorious Charge of the Heavy Brigade--The Scotch Wife and

the Turks--The Light Brigade and their Awful Charge_

_VIII. The Truth from a Russian--Parable of the Stoat and the Wild

Cat--Day-dawn of the Memorable Fifth_

_IX. The Battle of Inkermann--The Soldiers' Own_

_X. The Awful Gale--In Camp before Sebastopol--Letters from Home_

_XI. The Horrors of Scutari_

_XII. Pelissier to the Front--Death of Lord Raglan_

_XIII. The Russian Bear at Bay--The Last Act of the Tragic War_

_XIV. "Remember, we shall all meet again some Christmas Eve on High"_

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

_He dashed the stone into the dying embers_ . . . _Frontispiece_

_He threw up his arms, and fell flat on his face_ . . . _Vignette_

[missing from source book]

_He crept nearer and nearer to the window_

"_This is Jack_"

_He felt a weight on his back_

_He has seized the colours, and his wild slogan can be heard high

above the roar_

_She laid about her right and left_

"_Maggie!_"--"_Jack!_"

HOW JACK MACKENZIE WON HIS EPAULETTES.

Book First.

_IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE._

CHAPTER I.

WEE JOHNNIE GREYBREEKS.

It was what is called a real old-fashioned Yuletide. The snow had

been falling, falling, falling all day long; it had begun at grey

daylight in the morning, in little pellets like millet seed, which

lay white and unmelted on the frozen pavements. But as the hours

went by, these were changed for flakes as big and broad as

butterflies' wings, that fell fast and "eident" all the day; and that

night the more aristocratic thoroughfares of Glasgow were as silent

as a city of the dead.

Not that they were deserted by any means, for passengers flitted

about in garments draped with snow, and snow-laden cabs drove past,

but not a sound could be heard from hoof of horse or foot of man.

It was not cold, however. There was no high wind to powder the

flakes or grind them into ice-dust, or raise wreaths along the

pathways; and so pure was the air, that but to breathe it for a

little while was to purify every drop of blood in one's body from

heart to head and heels, to heighten the vital flame, and to make one

feel as happy and contented as one should ever be about a Christmas

time.

From the windows of many a beautiful villa in this picture of a

winter's night there shone, directly out upon the snow-clad lawns and

ghost-like bushes, the ruddy light of cosily-furnished rooms, where

rosy children romped and played, while around the fire sat their

elders, "doucely" talking about the days of "auld lang syne."

One room in a villa of larger size and more pretentious architecture

than its fellows looked particularly bright and cheerful. It was

tastefully furnished, and here and there in corners stood tall lamps

with coloured shades, while in the centre was placed a lordly

Christmas tree. No wonder that the ring of prettily-attired children

around gazed with admiration on this masterpiece of decoration. It

was indeed very beautiful, its green and spreading branches laden

with light and the sunshine of a hundred toys.

But listen! the music of a piano and harp strikes up, and now the

children, big and little, join hands and go daftly dancing round the

tree. Till one wee toddler tumbles; then the ring is broken, and

half a dozen at least are piled on top of her. The very house seems

to shake now with the sound of mirth and laughter, the shrill treble

of the youngsters receiving a deep and hearty bass in the voices of

two jolly-looking elderly gentlemen, who are standing on the hearth

with their backs to the fire.

But once again the ring is formed, once again the music that had been

partially interrupted is heard, and once again the children dance

jubilantly round, madder and wilder now than ever, singing,--

"Here we go round and round and round,

Here we go round the Christmas tree."

The elderly gentlemen who stood with their backs to the fire were

spectators of all this fun, frolic, and jollity. But they were not

the only ones.

For past the broad and open gate, as he had been creeping through the

snow--oh so slowly and wearily--a tiny boy, attracted by the sound of

the gladsome voices, had paused to listen. Listening or looking is

such a cheap pleasure that even the very poorest can indulge in it.

The snowflakes had for a time ceased falling, and from behind a mass

of clouds the moon was struggling. But the red rays from the window

more than rivalled its splendour, and very inviting indeed did they

appear to the little wanderer. He first looked in through the gate,

then he crept in through it. Nearer and nearer to the window, closer

and closer to the joy within, till the lamplight shone directly on

his white, pinched face, and glittered in his dark and wondering

eyes, as he stood there keeping hold of a snowy branch with one hand,

as if afraid of falling.

To listen and to look on while the rich enjoy themselves--oh yes,

these are the privileges of the very poor! But somehow on the

present occasion little Jack Mackenzie was doing more than simply

listening and looking. Quite unintentionally, remember. He was

associating himself with all the games and pleasure inside the room.

He was no longer a thinly-clothed, bare-footed laddie, shivering in

the winter's snow; he was one of that prettily-dressed crowd of

beautiful children playing around the Christmas tree. Fairies he

called them in his own mind; for he had once been treated to a

gallery seat at a pantomime, and this was just like that, only ever

so much more beautiful and natural. No wonder he felt interested and

entranced, or that several times his lips parted to give utterance to

the exclamation "Oh!" though he always restrained himself in time.

Was it any wonder this poor, half-starved boy was delighted with the

scene before him? It was, he thought, as different from what he was

used to behold in that part of the city he called his home, as the

heaven his mother often spoke about must be from earth--that heaven

to which his father had gone, long, long, long ago, so long ago that

he couldn't remember him, and always thought of him only as a saint

Up Yonder somewhere, where he himself would go one day if he was good.

So completely are Jack Mackenzie's senses enthralled, that he does

not hear the sound of a manly voice singing adown the broad terrace,

but coming nearer and nearer every moment,--

"'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.

Home, home, etc.

"An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:

O give me my lowly thatched cottage again!"

No, Jack doesn't hear the song. Nor does he see the singer, until he

is suddenly caught by one shoulder and wheeled right round to

confront a well-dressed and handsome man with a huge brown beard, on

which melted snow-flakes sparkle like diamonds.

"Hullo! hullo! so I've caught you, have I?" The new-comer had bent

down, and was gazing straight into Jack's face.

"Caught me, sir!" replied the boy, with fearless innocence; "did--did

you want to catch me, sir?"

"Want to catch you, you young rascal! Come, give an account of

yourself. What are you? A burglar's boy, eh?"

Jack looked a little puzzled. He put his hand up as if to feel that

his cap was on. It was only a little old glengarry, with a hole

where the top used to be, and through which a lock of the lad's hair

always straggled.

"No, sir, I'm nothing yet. Was you looking for somebody to be a

burglar's boy, sir? I would be it if it was nice. I want to work

for mother and Siss, you know. But what do burglars do, sir? Mind,

I'm not afraid of work, and I might get shoes and stockings then."

As he spoke, he held up one red and swollen foot. Not that he was

courting sympathy. Oh no; only standing in the snow had made his

feet cold.

"O you poor wee ragamuffin, are you really so destitute as all that,

and on Christmas eve too? Come now, tell me your name and what you

were after, and if it is all right I'll give you a penny and let you

go."

"My name is Jack Mackenzie, sir; but mebbe, sir, you would know me

better as little Johnnie Greybreeks, because that's what the boys all

call me."

The big man laughed.

"Me know you! Well, that's good. But what were you doing?"

"Oh," cried the lad ecstatically, "I was looking in there at the

fairies. O sir, isn't it grand and beautiful? If you stand here you

can have a see too. They won't notice us."

"Ha, ha! Well, but suppose I don't want to have a 'see,' as you call

it; suppose I live here?"

Johnnie didn't answer immediately. He heaved a big, double sort of a

sigh, and on his eyelashes something appeared that glittered in the

light like the melted snow-flakes on the stranger's brown beard.

"I wish my mother and Siss lived in there."

There was a ring of genuine sadness and pathos in the boy's voice

that went straight to that tall man's heart, and he would not have

trusted himself to speak just then for a good deal. He felt certain

in his own mind that this poor, ragged lad was speaking the truth.

Then he pictured to himself the contrast between the very poor and

the rich in such a city as this. How could he help doing so, when he

glanced from the white and weary face before him to the happy

children at their innocent gambols within?

"It is a contrast," he murmured to himself, "that Heaven permits for

some good purpose, though it is all dark, dark to my limited mental

vision."

But, happy thought! he could do something even to-night to soothe the

sorrows and sufferings of this one wee waif before him. It was

Christmas eve too.

"Tell me, boy," he said first, "how comes it that you can talk such

good English?"

"Because I'm talking to a gentleman."

"But can't you speak broad Scotch?"

"Bonnie yon, to the wee callants on the street. But mother makes

us--Siss and me--speak English at home."

"And what does your father do?"

[Illustration: He crept nearer and nearer to the window.]

"Oh, father's gone to heaven, you know, sir. He's going to stop

there always."

"Does your mother--er--wash or char or anything?"

"Oh no, sir; mother's a real lady."

Mr. Tom Morgan--for that was his name--smiled.

"Now show me your hands. Why, they are quite clean! There, give me

one, and now march along with me."

Jack drew back hesitatingly.

"I hope, sir," he said, with tears in his voice, "I haven't done any

harm?"

"No, no, lad; I'm going to give you supper and send you off. Come."

Somehow, lines from Thorn's beautiful poem "The Mitherless Bairn"

were borne to Mr. Morgan's mind, as he led the boy round through the

garden to the back door of the villa.

Jack was not mitherless, but in other respects he resembled the

subject of the sad song.

"Oh speak him not harshly--he trembles the while--

He bends to your bidding and blesses your smile:

In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn

That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn."

* * * * *

When little Johnnie Greybreeks had left his mother's room that

evening, he had been on business bent. Business of a very important

description, I can assure you, reader. Important to Johnnie, at all

events. A few weeks before this, when wandering in the western

outskirts of the town, which at the time our story commences--namely,

away back in 1849--were beautifully wooded and with very few houses

indeed to be seen, he had come upon the ruined walls of a mansion

that had been destroyed by fire. It was open to the road, and

probably people as poor as Johnnie had been here before, for every

rag and piece of wood had been carried away. But to the boy's

delight he had come across an ash heap, over which a large elder tree

drooped, half hiding it, and here were at least two dozen

medicine-bottles, many smashed but many whole. What a find if they

could only be his! Next day he had wandered that way again, and was

glad to find a man there who was about to clear the heap. The man

laughed when Johnnie volunteered his assistance, but for sake of

company, he said, permitted the boy to help him. The job was

finished in a couple of hours, and Johnnie had the bottles as his

wages.

He took as many as he could down to the burn and washed them, then

came back for more, and by-and-by they were all nice and clean and

hidden away where he was sure no one could find them but himself.

Then a good-natured chemist in the street where the boy lived had

promised him ninepence for the lot. Ninepence! what a fortune! He

had never seen so much money before. When he got it, he tied it up

in a handkerchief--it was all in pennies and half-pennies--and

resolved not to tell his mother till Christmas eve, when he would go

quietly out and purchase something nice for next day's dinner.

And it was with the view of making these purchases that Johnnie had

come out to-night. He had come too early though, for in the shops he

was to favour with his custom, things were never at their very

cheapest till nearly closing-time. So he had treated himself to a

walk in the west end.

Then the snow began to fall, and we know the rest.

Mr. Tom Morgan had his reasons for taking Johnnie in by the back door

and through the kitchen. He really wanted to know if the boy was in

the slightest degree presentable.

He was better pleased with his appearance than he had expected to be.

Johnnie's nether garments of hodden grey were patched at the knees

and tattered and short at the ankles; his jacket was torn, too, and

out at the elbows; but the lad was clean, even to his shirt, which

left neck and red chest exposed to the weather.

Johnnie's features were regular and far from unpleasant, but his dark

eyes were very large and sad.

"You'll do, lad, you'll do. Come along; it is Christmas eve, and

mother is kind anyhow."

CHAPTER II

LIFE IN SUMMER LOANING.

"O children," cried old Mrs. Morgan during a lull in the frolicsome

riot, "here comes your uncle Tom. I can hear his voice in the hall.

Now we'll have a song and a dance!"

She rose and walked towards the drawing-room door, and the bairns

crowded after, with joyful, expectant faces.

But when the door was opened, and they found Uncle Tom standing there

holding little ragged Johnnie by the hand, astonishment and wonder

seemed to deprive everybody of speech. Miss Scraggs, an elderly

spinster, nearly fainted.

"What on earth--" began one elderly gentleman.

"As I live---" exclaimed the other.

Neither got any further, but both burst into a hearty fit of laughing.

Mrs. Morgan, Tom's mother, found voice first.

"Tom," she cried, "who or what have you gotten there?"

"Well, mother, I couldn't say--at least, not exactly. He is a sort

of mitherless bairn--well, not exactly that either, because he has a

mother, but no father. And you see how poor the child is. Look at

his naked feet, mother and children all, and we so happy and jolly

and everything. And this Christmas eve, too, mother. I thought we

might--that is, I might--do some little thing for him--a supper, or

anything like that--and then send him home."

"My own good-hearted Tom!" said the old lady, smiling. "And did you

pick him up in the street?"

"No, not exactly in the street, mother. Fact is, he was in the

grounds, and looking in at the window."

"In the grounds, Tom! Oh, do you think he was after the spoons, or--

"No, no, dear mother," interrupted the stalwart son. "He was peeping

in at the dancing and the Christmas tree. He said the children were

just like fairies."

"Droll boy. What is his name? Jack?--When did you see fairies?"

"When I was a god, big lady."

"When you were what?"

"He means," said Mr. Tom Morgan, "when he had a seat in the gallery

of the theatre at a pantomime, I suppose."

"Oh yes.--Are you a good boy?"

"No, ma'am; very wicked. For 'there is none that doeth good and

sinneth not, no, not one.'"

The elderly men-people behind laughed loudly and heartily.

"What do you think of that, Dawson?" said one, nudging the other in

the ribs.

"Good, good!--Capital, Mrs. Morgan!"

But Miss Scraggs said, "Dreadful!"

"What are you going to be when you grow up to manhood?" continued

Mrs. Morgan.

"I'm not quite sure, big lady. I think I'd like to be a bu'glar."

It is no wonder that Miss Scraggs screamed, or that "big lady" lifted

up her hands.

"Oh, take the dreadful creature away!" cried Miss Scraggs; "he may

kill us all before morning."

But when Tom Morgan laughingly explained that poor little Jack knew

not what he was saying, and had no idea what a burglar was, he was

restored to favour.

"Well, Tom," said the elder Mr. Morgan, who was Tom's father, "take

your little sans-culotte away and give him a feed. I'll warrant he

won't say 'no' to that on a Christmas eve."

"And some dood tlothes too," lisped a wee maiden of six--"some dood

tlothes, Uncle Tom."

Then Jack made a bow such as he had seen actors outside caravans in

the Green make. He took off the remains of his glengarry solemnly

with his right hand, put his left hand to his heart, and bent his

body low.

"I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, as Tom led Jack off, "that isn't any

ordinary boy. Blame me if I don't think there are the makings of a

little gentleman about him. What think you?"

"Well, Dawson, you never can tell what a boy of that age may turn to

or be. He might turn out a burning and a shining light in church or

state, he might become a leader of armies, or he might give--Jack

Ketch a job."

* * * * *

Young Tom Morgan--for he was not above four-and-twenty, although his

beard was so big and strong--was the younger of two sons who both

lived with their parents, the house being very large. The elder son,

Grant Morgan, was married, and occupied the northern wing with his

wife and three children. The wee lass who had proposed that Jack or

Johnnie should have "dood tlothes" was the youngest; then there was a

boy of eight and one of eleven.

When Tom returned to the servants' hall, he succeeded in interesting

every one there, even the somewhat supercilious butler, in Johnnie

Greybreeks; and between the lot of them they succeeded in working

quite a transformation in the boy. In fact, they took great fun in

doing it.

"Ulric's clothes will just fit him, cook," said Tom.

"Yes, sir; but--"

"Oh, bother the 'but'! this is Christmas eve, cook. There, now; you

take him into your own room and see to his hair and his poor little

feet. I'll be back in a minute."

Half an hour after this nobody would have taken Johnnie for the same

boy, but for his pale face and sad, dark, wondering eyes.

"I'm not going to go away with all these grand things on, am I, sir?"

he asked.

"Oh yes, you are."

"I can go to church now!" cried Jack jubilantly. "I tried one time

before; but they thought I'd come after the coppers, and chased me

away. O sir, mother and Sissie will be pleased; you've made such a

happy boy of me!"

Johnnie began bundling up his old clothes in his red handkerchief as

he spoke; and when he departed, about an hour after this, he took

that bundle with him, and another too, containing more provisions and

nice things than would do for several days' dinner.

"Now, Johnnie Greybreeks--" began Tom Morgan.

"Oh, if you please, sir," said Johnnie, "that is only my _sobriquet_."

"Well, Jack, then," laughed Tom, "I'm going to take you to have a

look at the Christmas tree, and it is just possible you may have

something off it for your Siss--eh?"

Jack's heart was too full to speak, and there were tears in his eyes.

Everybody said that Miss Scraggs was cocking her cap at young Tom

Morgan, though everybody took care to add that she was old enough to

be his grand--well, his aunt at least. Tom could not stand her. Not

that he hated her--he was too good-hearted to hate anybody--but he

just gave her a wide berth, as we say at sea.

But when he returned to the drawing-room with the intention of

placing his little _protégé_ in a corner to look at the fun for a few

minutes, Tom had his revenge, for he had not felt pleased at the way

Miss Scraggs talked to or at the poor ragged boy.

The spinster lady happened to be standing near to the door when Tom

entered. She did not see Jack just at once, but as soon as she did

she smiled most condescendingly on him.

"How do you do, my little friend? I know your face, but can't

recollect where I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.--Oh,

goodness gracious!" she cried immediately after; "it's the horrid

little burglar boy!"

It was rude of Mr. Dawson and Tom Morgan to laugh so loudly, but they

could not help it. As for poor Jack, he crimsoned to the very roots

of his hair. I think there is always some good about a boy who can

blush. However, Jack never forgot Miss Scraggs. But he thought no

more about it for the present, because wee Violet Morgan tripped up

to speak to him. There was no pride about Violet.

"So," she said, "you's dot you dood tlothes on. You is so pletty now

I tould almost tiss you."

"Violet!" screamed Miss Scraggs; "come here this instant."

But Violet had a will of her own; besides, it was Christmas eve, and

she had a right to do whatever she pleased.

"I won't tome there this instant," she said, stamping her tiny foot;

"this is Tlismas eve, and 'ittle dirls can do as they pleases, Miss

Staggs."

But all eyes were now drawn towards Violet and Jack, and there was

momentary silence.

"I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, loud enough for every one to hear,

"did ever you, in all your life, see such a remarkable resemblance?"

"'Pon honour, Dawson, I never did!"

"Why, Violet and that little fellow might be sister and brother!"

Same contour, same hair, same eyes, same everything.

"Hush! hush!" said Mr. Morgan the elder; "remember the boy's station

in life."

Jack drew back into his corner a little abashed. Half an hour

afterwards, when Tom went round that way, the child stole his hand

softly into the brown-bearded big man's.

"Take me away now," he beseeched; "I'm tired."

The fun was then getting fast and furious; but Tom and the boy

slipped out as quietly as they had come, and in a few minutes more

Johnnie Greybreeks found himself once more out in the snow. As he

passed through the gate, he paused to look back.

"Heigh-ho!" he sighed; "I've been in fairy-land. What a story I

should have to tell mother and Siss! only, long before I get home I

shall wake and find it is all a dream."

Then away he went, feathering through the snow, and keeping a good

hold on his bundle, but nevertheless expecting every minute to awake

and find himself in his own bed.

* * * * *

It is needless to say that Jack didn't awake, and that his adventure

wasn't a dream; and it is quite impossible to describe the

astonishment of his mother and sister when he told all his wonderful

story.

That Christmas dinner, next day, was the best and most delightful

ever Jack or his little sister Maggie could remember partaking of

since they had come to reside at No. 73 Summer Loaning.

Summer Loaning, indeed! what a cruel misnomer! Well, to be sure,

there might have been a time away back in the past when this street

was a kind of loaning, or even a lover's lane leading right away out

into the cool country. Green hedges might have grown where now stood

houses gaunt and grey and grim; hedges of wild hawthorn, trailed over

in summer-time with dog-roses pink and red; hedges in which birds in

early spring may have sung--the sweet wee linnet, the spotted mavis,

the mellow blackbird, or madly-lilting chaffinch. Trees, too, may

have waved their branches over Summer Loaning--the rustling ash and

the oak and chestnut, and the spreading rowan to which the poet sings

and says,--

"Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring,

Thy flowers the simmer's pride;

There wasna sic a bonnie tree

In a' the country-side."

Yes, this may have been the case long, long ago; but now, alas! the

change.

Summer Loaning went straggling up a hill, or brae, for fully half a

mile, and one glance at the street would have convinced you that,

although not a slum by any means, it was the abode of the

hard-working poor. People lived here on landings and flats, many

families occupying but two rooms, many having to content themselves

with only one. The common stairways, generally of stone, went

winding up and up from closes--called in England courts--often five

or even six stories high. If the landlord of these tenements

happened to be a good sort of a fellow, then the staircases might be

lighted in winter by tiny jets of gas no bigger than farthing

rush-lights; but as often as not they were shrouded in darkness and

gloom, and the dwellers in these stone castles had to "glamp" their

way up, as it is called, by feeling along the damp, cold walls.

There was poverty enough, though, in Summer Loaning when sickness

came, or when the want of work induced it; for trouble haunts the

abodes of the hungry and needful. Many a little coffin, in times

like these, was manoeuvred down those steep stone stairs, and borne

quietly away to the cemetery or Necropolis, which was not a great

distance off. Usually a few neighbours went along, and then a kind

of funeral procession would be formed. But often, when the coffin

was very tiny indeed, the father himself would trudge along with it

under his arm, accompanied, perhaps, by his sad-eyed wife; both

dressed in black clothes that, more than likely, had been borrowed

from kindly neighbours for the occasion. Yes, I said kindly

neighbours; for the poor to the poor are ever kind.

This was the sort of neighbourhood in which Jack Mackenzie had

hitherto spent most of his young days. And hard indeed his life had

been, pinched for food, ragged in clothes, and often cold as well as

hungry. Jack had never been to school in his life; but his mother,

though in poverty now, had seen far better days, and right well she

knew the advantage of a good education in enabling either boy or man

to do battle with the world, and so she spent half her time in

teaching her two children. It was stitch, stitch, stitch with her

now all day long just to get ends to meet. From her poor, thin face

you might have said she was not long for this world, and that while

sewing at a shirt she was making her shroud. But even while at work,

Jack and his sister would be busy at their books, or with their

slates.

They lived in one room, and every article in it betokened poverty,

although all was cleanly. The ferns and flowers in the window above

the "jaw-box," where water was drawn and toilets performed, threw a

little of nature into this poor apartment, and a solitary canary made

it even cheerful, for he sang as joyously as if his cage had been of

gilded wire and all his surroundings the best in the city. Neither

of the children was unhappy, and they dearly loved their mother.

They never grumbled, either, at their scanty fare--and, O dear

reader, it was scanty enough at times. A little oatmeal porridge

washed down with a halfpennyworth of blue skimmed milk was all their

breakfast; and their supper, too, was much the same.

But Jack was a brave provider, and a capital hand at marketing. No

one knew better than he how to make a bargain, or how far six or

seven pence would go in the purchase of meal, coals, herrings, and a

little tea and sugar for mother. In fact, the whole outdoor

management of the family devolved upon little Johnnie Greybreeks, as

everybody on the great staircase called him. And very proud indeed

he was to be looked upon as purser or paymaster. Often his sister

went out with him on his foraging expeditions; but although she was

some years older than Johnnie, she had not the boy's knowledge of the

world and of mankind. It seems almost ridiculous to talk of a boy of

eight years of age knowing anything about the world; but poverty

sharpens the wits, I do assure you.

It is said that poverty is a hard taskmaster. Well, perhaps,--and

doubtless it is a very exacting one; but, nevertheless, some of the

greatest geniuses, generals, statesmen, and thinkers have been

brought up in just such schools as Johnnie's, and have been all the

better for it. So poor boys must never let down their hearts, but

just work, work, work; read, read, read; and think, think, think.

Remember the story of Dick Whittington. It is only a kind of fairy

romance, you may tell me. Ah! but there is a deal of truth in it;

and some very poor lads have become presidents even of the great

American republic, and a president is a cut above Lord Mayor of

London. So, hurrah! who cares for poverty? Don't forget those

spirited lines of Robbie Burns, the great Scottish poet. Yes,

Scottish poet, but the British people's poet as well, and the poet of

the people of every country where true freedom reigns.

"Is there for honest poverty

That hides his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!

* * * *

"What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that;

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er so poor,

Is king o' men for a' that!"

CHAPTER III.

MRS. MALONY'S WEDDING-RING.

Poor Mrs. Mackenzie's story had been a very sad one. And it was one

that is, alas! too common. It does not take long to tell.

She had been well educated and delicately reared in the lap of wealth

and luxury. She was an old man's only child, and her father

considered there was nothing on earth too good for her. When the

girl was about sixteen, her father was in the heyday of success in

life. A speculator he was, and lived in a beautiful house on the

Borders, and on the banks of the winding Tweed. He was very much

looked up to, as wealthy men generally are, simply because they are

wealthy. But to have seen Mr. Noble's house and grounds, his retinue

of servants and his carriages and horses, would have caused you to

think, as everybody else thought, "Here is a man that can never be

moved."

At this time, or soon after, he had a winter establishment in

Edinburgh, and used to give as good parties as any lord in the city;

and Euphemia--his daughter, and she had no mother--used to be the

presiding goddess. She was very beautiful; she is beautiful even as

we know her now, though poverty and want have hollowed her cheeks,

and given a lustre to her dark eyes that her good neighbours on the

stair say is hardly "canny."

Euphemia, when only seventeen, had several suitors for her hand, and

might have made what is called a very good match. But there was one

she cared for above them all. He was a dashing young officer of a

Highland regiment at that time stationed in the Castle.

The two became engaged.

Lieutenant Mackenzie was of very good family, and would one day be

wealthy; only just at that time he had nothing but his pay, his

prospects, and the allowance his mother made him. He couldn't afford

to marry for some time. What did that matter? they were both young,

and could wait.

So away went the gallant 93rd to India, and with it went Lieutenant

Donald Mackenzie, with hope and love to buoy up his heart.

He had not been away a year before a crisis came, and then a

crash--oh, such a terrible crash! I suppose Mr. Noble had got too

daring, or too something or other, in his speculations. I really do

not know all the outs and ins of the matter, but I do know that his

house and all his property, down even to Euphemia's pet canaries,

were sold, and that after this poor Mr. Noble--poor now indeed--had

barely enough to pay the passage-money for himself and daughter to

America, where, with the help of some friends or distant relatives,

he intended to start afresh. Just think of it--an old man of seventy

starting life afresh!

Well, the end seemed to have come, indeed, when Euphie's father died.

She was a brave Scotch lassie, however, and would not give in; so she

wrote to India to Donald--her Donald now no longer--releasing him

from his engagement, then she hired herself out as a governess.

Donald's regiment fought in Afghanistan and the borders of India, and

he was wounded. He lost his left arm, brave fellow, and was sent

home to be invalided, and retired.

A whole year passed away, and Donald lived at his mother's Highland

home--Drumglen--an estate that had been left entirely to her, to will

or to do with it as she pleased. Donald was the only son, and a very

great favourite. She, the mother, too, was exceedingly jealous of

his attentions to any fair maiden that she did not approve of. In

fact, she had her eye upon a lady who would make a capital wife for

her son. A little older, it is true. What did that matter, the

mother told herself; she would be all the more fitted to advise and

guide her son through life. Rather dark and stately, too, she was,

not to say forbidding. But she owned broad Highland acres, and

moorlands, forests, and glens. The absence of beauty, Donald's

mother thought, would be an advantage rather than otherwise, for

Donald could not well be jealous of a wife ugly enough to stop the

church clock.

But, woe is me! Donald still languished and prayed for Euphemia

Noble. And one day in Glasgow, lo, he met her! She was only a

governess to some very young children. What of that? All Donald's

love returned in double force, and he determined to marry her.

It is the old story: the girl consented at last. Then Donald tried

to win his mother over. But that stern Highland dowager was

inexorable. If he married this wretched governess--doubtless some

designing minx and hussy--he should never again darken the doors of

Drumglen.

Donald looked at her in sadness and sorrow, and though one sleeve was

empty, a very gallant and soldierly man he was. But there was no

relenting in his tall, stern, and dignified mother.

"Good-bye."

That was all Donald either said or sighed. He just turned on his

heel and walked away as he was--and never once looked back.

The mother gazed after him through the window, till the trees hid him

from her view; then she shut herself up in her rooms for days, and no

one, not even her maid, knew all that proud woman suffered during

this time.

After her marriage with her one-armed soldier, Euphemia and he lived

in a tiny cottage down the Clyde. They were so poor that it was

difficult indeed to get ends to meet, even in a semi-genteel kind of

way. But they were rich in each other's love. And so they struggled

on and on for years.

Alas that I should have to tell it! Lieutenant Mackenzie in an evil

hour was induced to enter the betting ring. From that hour his

downfall may have been dated. It is too sad a story to tell.

Instead of the pretty little cottage on the banks of the romantic

Clyde, his wife and he were soon occupying rooms in a somewhat

squalid quarter of great Glasgow.

How it happened I do not know, but one evening Donald was missing,

and he did not return all the next day; but in the gloom of the

gloaming a strange man called on Mrs. Mackenzie, and when she saw him

she burst at once into an agony of grief that cannot easily be

described.

It ended in her leaving her two children to the charge of a neighbour

and going away in a cab with the stranger--to a mortuary.

Yes, that was he--that was Donald, pale and draggled and dead; her

Donald, with his poor, empty sleeve pinned across his breast!

Oh the pity of it! oh the anguish! But there, the curtain drops on

that act, and I am glad it does. Let me just add that ill-health

after this reduced Mrs. Mackenzie more and more, till we find her

living in this one room, her boy and girl alone to cheer her, and

give her some little excuse for hanging on to life.

But compared with many of the large houses in many parts of Glasgow,

No. 73 Summer Loaning was very quiet.

Yes, it was quiet, except perhaps on a Saturday night, when, it must

be conceded, one or two working-men did come up the long stone stair

singing to themselves. Although a lady by birth and education, Mrs.

Mackenzie, in her one room, did not keep all her neighbours at bay.

They called her the "shuestress," which is a kind of Scotch for

dressmaker. They knew she had seen far better days, and that she was

poorer now than any of them, because she was unable to do much work.

As the song says,--

"The poor make no new friends,

But ah! they love the better far

The few the Father sends."

Now, it might be thought by some that, for sake of her children, Mrs.

Mackenzie ought to have written to her late husband's mother or rich

relations, and asked for help.

Asked for help? No, a thousand times no; that would have been

begging! Mrs. Mackenzie was far too proud to do that. Sooner would

she die. But her pride did not forbid her from courting the

companionship of the neighbours on the stair. If they were, like

herself, poor, or not so poor, they were honest. And really

neighbours like these need to be friendly. If you are in the grip of

grim poverty, and sick and ill, you will find few more attentive to

you, and few whose attentions you will more readily suffer, than

those of neighbours who are just as poor as you.

Well-meaning ladies sometimes called upon the Mackenzies with bundles

of tracts and Pharisaical advice, and out of politeness Mrs.

Mackenzie suffered them. When, however, about a year and two months

after little Jack's adventure at the Morgans', his poor mother fell

sick, and was confined for weeks to bed, it wasn't to her rich

visitors in sealskin sacks and gloves of kid she had to look for

comfort and help.

Luckily, in expectation of just such an illness as this, Mrs.

Mackenzie had saved a little money. But there lived on the stair

immediately below a Mrs. Malony, whose husband was a blacksmith, who

sometimes, sad to say, took a dram. He wasn't by any means a bad

fellow, however, and often took Johnnie Greybreeks off with him for a

whole day to the smithy to see the sparks fly, and always shared his

dinner with Johnnie. The blacksmith had no family, and his wife used

sometimes to go out charing, so her hands were hard and rough. But

her heart wasn't.

Mrs. Malony would often come up to borrow a flat-iron or a "brander,"

or even a red herring for her man's supper, when hard up. On the

other hand, if she happened to make a good bargain down town on a

Saturday night, she would never forget to bring "the shuestress" some

portion of it--a piece of fish, a few potatoes, a couple of sausages,

or a bundle of greens. Often, too, in the long, dreary winter

forenights, Mrs. Malony would spend hours in her neighbour's room.

She would at times bring her husband also, when he was washed and

tidied up; and he did nothing but sit in a corner and smoke and

smile. But Johnnie and his sister would "hurkle" down by the fire,

nursing the cat between them while they listened to Mrs. Malony's

wonderful tales of Ireland and the down-trodden Irish. Evenings like

these passed pleasantly enough away.

The children had a younger neighbour, though, a pale-faced,

roll-shouldered boy who lived in the garret with his old mother, and

used to play the fiddle on the street to support her. Very sweetly

he did play, too, though his airs were very sad.

Little Peter, as he was called, used to come downstairs frequently to

tea, and bring his fiddle. Well, the tea was almost an imaginary

entertainment. It was a delightful sort of a make-belief. To be

sure, there was bread and a scraping of butter, and thin, thin tea,

with but little milk and less sugar; but then there were

oyster-shells and round "chuckie-stanes" to take the place of cakes

and currant-buns and all kinds of nice things. And with Maggie

presiding in such a dignified and lady-like way, it was quite easy

for Little Peter to imagine that an oyster-shell was a slice of

delicious tea-cake, or a "chuckie-stane" a pasty.

Then there were really more laughing and fun at these make-believe

tea-parties than if everything had been edible.

But that fiddle of Little Peter's was real. There was no mistake

about the musical part of the entertainment. But when poor Mrs.

Mackenzie fell ill, the sealskin-sack people came but seldom. It

might be something catching, you know. The young minister was kind,

however, though somewhat too solemn for a sick-room.

It would have been a sad and dreary time, then, for the little family

but for their kindly neighbours. Poor Mrs. Malony, with her rough,

red hand and her plain face, became a sort of a saint. She allowed

Malony to take his "pick" of dinner out of doors, and made him always

take Johnnie Greybreeks with him, and keep him all day--there were no

Board schools in those days, you know. Malony had also to make his

own cup of coffee when he returned at night, buying a polony and a

roll on the way to eat with it. But Malony had his pipe, and took

things very easy. How gentle Mrs. Malony was with the poor invalid;

how softly she spread the bed and softened the hard, small pillows!

Ah, it was indeed a treat to have her there. She was very

plain-spoken, however. Here, for example, was a specimen of the kind

of verbal comfort she used to give Mrs. Mackenzie:--

"An' sure, Mrs. Mackenzee, ye needn't be throublin' yourself aboot

dyin' at all. For whin ye're dead and in the soilent grave, it's

meself and Malony will be lookin' after the childer. Indade I'll

bring thim up as me own, and it's the beautiful blacksmith that

Johnnie will make; so niver be grievin', but die whin ye plaze wid an

aisy mind, an' sure it's the angels will be waitin' for ye evermore."

Was it any wonder that as she listened to consolation like this, and

her mind reverted to her father's beautiful home, or to her life with

Donald in the wee cottage by the banks of the bonnie Clyde, tears

stole down her pale cheeks? But then she would say to herself, "Oh,

how ungrateful I am!" and so she would seize and press Mrs. Malony's

kindly hand, and cry,--

"O dear Mrs. Malony, how good you are to me! I'm sure I don't

deserve it."

"Is it good ye're sayin', Mrs. Mackenzee? Sure I need all me

goodness. An' after all, isn't it the same you'd be doin' for me if

I was sick and ill? There now, don't cry. Indade it's just as wake

[weak] as a baby ye are."

* * * * *

The young doctor was very attentive, but one evening he left the

bedside looking more thoughtful than usual. Mrs. Mackenzie seemed to

be dozing, so after keeping his fingers on her pale wrist for a time,

he had let the hand drop gently on the coverlet. He looked at Mrs.

Malony as he passed out, and she followed him to the landing.

"I don't think," he said, "we can keep her."

"Och and och!" cried Mrs. Malony, with her rough apron to her eyes.

"Och and och, dhoctor dear, is it come to this?--so soon and sudden."

"I fear," he said, "she cannot last long."

"And is there no physic ye can think av at all, at all, that--"

"Oh, hang physic!" cried the doctor. "It isn't physic she wants,

Mrs. Malony, but good wine and beef-tea."

"An' would the tay and the wine take her from the bhrink av the

grave, dhoctor dear?"

"It would give her a chance. Don't leave her, Mrs. Malony; don't

leave her! I fear I can do little more."

Mrs. Malony went back to the quiet room. Her patient seemed

sleeping, and so she moved about like a mouse, lest she should

disturb her.

The spring sun was shining in through the window and falling on a

bunch of early flowers that Little Peter had brought the invalid,

because he knew she loved them. It fell also on the canary's cage.

Even Dick had given up singing lately, as if he knew there was

sadness and grief in the air.

Mrs. Malony drew the blind a little way down, then left the room.

She stole downstairs on tiptoe. Maggie was there, keeping house.

"Go up," said Mrs. Malony, "as quate as a weasel, and sit by your

mother till I come back."

Poor Maggie had been crying, but she now did as she was told.

Mrs. Malony went straight to her cupboard, now her clothes-cupboard,

and very soon made up a bundle.

"Och and och," she said to herself, "they won't go far at all, at

all."

They were the woman's Sunday clothes for all that, and she meant to

take them to the poor man's banker at the sign of the three golden

balls.

Then her eyes fell upon her stubby left hand.

"Set you up wid a gold ring indade, Mrs. Malony," she said, "when a

brass one would do for a toime! Ill-luck? I won't belave it."

A tear fell on the ring nevertheless, for it brought back memories of

happy days of the half-forgotten past. No wonder then she sighed as

she screwed it off.

"You've been crying, Mrs. Malony," said the burly pawnbroker as she

laid the ring on the counter.

Then the tears sprang afresh to her eyes, and she told him all the

story.

"Put that ring back on your finger again this moment, Mrs. Malony,"

said the man. "I'm going to let you have just double on the dresses.

Oh yes, they're worth it. I won't lose by it. Now off you go and

buy the wine."

"Lord love you, Mr. Grant," said the poor woman as she picked up the

money. "An' I belave it's yourself that's saved a loife this blissid

day."

* * * * *

When Mrs. Malony returned, she found Maggie silently weeping by her

mother's bed. Then a great fear got possession of her heart. Had

her sacrifice been all in vain? Was the invalid gone? She hastily

deposited her purchases on the little table and approached the bed.

Mrs. Mackenzie looked very still and beautiful. She might have been

made of wax, or her features chiselled from purest marble.

Mrs. Malony touched her hand that still lay on the coverlet. It was

cold. She bent over her, and could hear no breathing.

Was as this indeed death?

CHAPTER IV.

"I'LL BE A SAILOR OR A SOLDIER."

As she bent over the bed in grief and sorrow, Mrs. Malony was

rewarded and startled at the same time. For the poor patient heaved

a sigh, and slowly opened her eyes.

Then a faint smile stole over her lips.

"I had such a happy dream!" she whispered.

"Hush, dear; don't spake another word."

It wasn't the first, nor the second patient either, that Mrs. Malony

had nursed, so she had all her wits about her.

She knew that at this very moment Mrs. Mackenzie's life was hanging

by the merest thread, and there was no time to lose.

She quickly squeezed some of the juice of the meat into a saucer, and

mixing it with a little wine, put it tea-spoonful after tea-spoonful

into her patient's mouth.

Mrs. Mackenzie slept after this, a real not a dreamful sleep, and

towards evening she awoke refreshed. A cupful of warm beef-tea was

ready, and she smiled her thanks as she sipped it.

All that night Mrs. Malony sat up and nursed her, and when next day

the doctor came, he was more than satisfied.

"She will do now," he told Mrs. Malony on the landing--"do for a

time. If she could only be got down the Clyde to a cottage hospital

I know of--Well, I'll do what I can."

"Do, sorr; and may heaven be your portion evermore!"

* * * * *

"I'll tell you how I think it can be managed," said Dr. Gregory, a

few days after this. "There is a cottage hospital, or rather a home

for poor convalescents, down the water. It is partly supported by

voluntary contributions, but the patients have to pay a little

themselves."

"But," interrupted Mrs. Malony, "the crayture here is as poor as a

church-mouse, sorr, and not able to pay. Och, and och!"

"Wait a minute, Mrs. Malony. I have noticed how deft and handy

little Maggie here is. She seems really cut out for a nurse. Now,

at the home they want just such a wee lass, and she would have food

and keep, and wages enough to maintain her mother at the

hospital.--Would you like to go, dear?"

"Oh," cried Maggie, "I would be so delighted."

"All right then; I'll see about it at once."

And the doctor did see about it. For a fortnight, however, if not

more, Mrs. Mackenzie was not strong enough to be moved. But during

all this time she was slowly improving. This was perhaps as much

from the fact that she now had hope as from the extra nourishment she

received.

Little Johnnie Greybreeks, however, much to his sorrow, was to remain

in Glasgow, and live for a time with the Malonies.

Johnnie kept up very bravely, though. He wouldn't have shed a tear

before his mother or sister, not even when the day of parting came,

for anything. But when in his little bed at night--ah! then I must

confess the lad did give way to grief. We must remember he was

little more than a child after all.

"I'm going to learn to be a big man," he told his mother proudly on

the last evening, "and Mr. Malony says I'll soon be able to shoe a

horse. And, O mother," he added, rather sadly, "shoeing horses is a

fine thing, but I would rather be a Highland soldier and wear a

feather bonnet, like what father wears in his picture."

"Dear boy," replied his mother, "we must all try to do our duty in

the line of life God has appointed us to."

* * * * *

Mrs. Malony had a friend who was skipper of a small sailing schooner.

Old Skipper Ross used to pride himself in the beauty and sailing

qualities of his little craft, and had rebaptized her _Queen of the

Clyde_.

When this honest, red-faced seaman heard the story of poor Mrs.

Mackenzie, he took his pipe from his mouth, and his face puckered

with smiles under the blue Kilmarnock night-cap he always wore.

"Dear Mrs. Malony," he said, "instead of the puir lady gaun doon the

Clyde in a smoke-jack steam-boat, I'll tak her mysel'. Splinter my

jib-boom if I dinna."

This was very good of the skipper, and Mrs. Malony gladly accepted

the offer.

Malony himself got a day off. They were all to go down the Clyde

together, and make a kind of pleasure-trip of it. They would even

take Little Peter with them, to give them music during the voyage.

Well, it wasn't very often that a cab was seen to draw up at 73

Summer Loaning, so when the jarvey stopped and turned his horse at

the "close mou',"* young and old flocked out and lined the pavement.

When the poor wan invalid was got inside, many a rough voice wished

her God-speed, and they even raised a cheer as the cab drove off and

away.

* Mouth of the court.

It was a lovely spring morning when the _Queen of the Clyde_ caught

the light breeze, and began manoeuvring down the river, Skipper Ross

himself holding the tiller. The old man declared he could steer his

ship through a hundred herring-boats and never run foul of anything.

Mrs. Mackenzie and party had seats on the deck. And everything was

as clean and tidy, too, as the duke's yacht itself, not a rope's end

or belaying-pin out of place, and the paint-work as bright as a

gipsy's caravan.

The invalid heaved a sigh of relief when at long last the great noisy

ship-building yards were left behind, with the awful din of their

ringing hammers, and the bonnie river began to open out before them

broad and wide, with the sunshine glittering on its bosom, and the

greenery of trees and far-off hills bounding the horizon.

Mrs. Mackenzie was thinking sadly of her dear departed husband, who

was buried at the lovely town of Helensburgh, and Maggie and Jack

were seated on deck at her feet. Then Peter drew out his fiddle.

"Ah! man, ay," cried the skipper. "Play up, lad, do. Sweeter to me

is the soond o' the fiddle and its lang-drawn melody than the cry o'

the sea-birds, sailin' tack and half-tack roond ma wee bit shippie.

Play, laddie, play!"

So down the Clyde they dropped, floating as easily as cormorant on

the wave, past villages, past towns, and wilds and woodlands green,

and it was quite near eventide when the _Queen_ at last got alongside

the pier.

They had indeed enjoyed the voyage. And Jack had spread the banquet

on the white planks of the deck, and everybody enjoyed that also.

Just after it was done and cleared away, Skipper Ross drew out a

black bottle from a handy locker.

"Ye'll tak a wee skyte, Malony; winna ye?"

But Malony shook his head.

"I've sworn off," he said. "Indade, it's the truth that I'm tellin'

ye. For this wee lad here has now to look on Patrick Malony as his

father. But thank ye all the same."

* * * * *

The parting was over, and Mrs. Mackenzie was alone in a delightful

little ward with her daughter Maggie. They had brought the canary,

and he began to sing the very next morning. And no wonder; for

everything around was sweet and white and clean, and honeysuckle

waved its dark-green foliage around the window, while afar off were

the grand old purple hills, with many a glen and wood between.

The cottage home was near to the sea too, for flocks of gulls and

rooks together could be seen out in the fields yonder.

"You feel better to-day, mother?"

"Yes, dearie; I feel I shall get well now. But, child, I dread to

think of the future."

"Ah! that is only because you are ill, you know. God provides for

the rooks and gulls yonder, mother, and he won't forget us surely."

Maggie spoke cheerfully and sincerely. She was not one of your

old-old-fashioned children, nor was she given to preaching either.

The girl was tall and ladylike, though very young, and pretty

besides; but she had a thoughtful and serious look in her eyes, that

showed she had not been reared in the stern school of poverty and

adversity in vain.

Maggie's faith was very simple. Her little Bible had for many a day

been her friend and companion. She went to it for consolation and

guidance at all times and under all circumstances, opening it at

random, and believing that the very first verse her eyes fell upon

was an answer to the thoughts that filled her mind.

There really is much to be said for this simplicity of faith, often

present not only in the very young but in their elders. Science as

yet is but groping in the dark, although it seems inspired, and may

be. But here, in this Book, we have all we appear to want for our

happiness laid down in a way that goes straight to the heart. It was

concerning such simple wee folks as Maggie, surely, that our Saviour

spoke when he said, "Suffer little children to come unto me: for of

such is the kingdom of heaven."

* * * * *

When little Johnnie Greybreeks returned to Glasgow, he found life for

a time very dull indeed, though the kind-hearted Mrs. Malony and her

husband did all they could to cheer him up. But he used to lie in

his bed at night, awake and thinking, till long past twelve. What

should he be? That was the question that puzzled him to answer.

To tell the truth, Johnnie, as for the time being we may continue to

call him, was just a trifle ambitious. At all events, working in the

blacksmith's shop was very monotonous, although he did all he could,

and really earned his food. He didn't like it though, and told

himself so every night of his life, he considering himself dreadfully

ungrateful to the good people with whom he lived for doing so.

Whenever Johnnie had an hour or so to spare, Little Peter and he used

to go wandering away down by the Broomielaw to look at the ships.

Our young hero was better clad now; for since good Tom Morgan had

given him that Sunday's suit, his former Sunday's clothes became his

week-day wear, and he looked by no means a gutter-snipe or

tatterdemalion.

Little Peter was as fond of ships as Johnnie, and as he always took

his fiddle with him, the Jackie-tars used to invite him on board

sometimes, to play to them while they danced or sang.

"O Johnnie," said Peter one day, as they were going back towards

Summer Loaning, "if I wasna a miserable little hunchback, I'd be a

sailor mysel'."

Johnnie felt sorry for Peter, so to comfort him he made answer,--

"Well, Peter, if I could play the fiddle as well as you, I wouldn't

care what my back was like. Anyhow, I've made up my mind either to

be a sailor or a soldier. I'd like to wear a feather bonnet.--Hark!"

he continued. "Peter, here come the Highlanders. Can't you hear

them?"

"Ay, fine can I hear them. The skirl o' the bagpipes maks my bluid

run dancin' through ilka vein in my body, and if I had a sword and

was big enough, I could fight to music like that."

A few minutes after, the Highlanders came marching and swinging

along, their glittering bayonets flashing in the evening sunshine

high above their nodding plumes. Even Peter pulled himself an inch

taller as the two lads marched side by side with the regiment all the

way to the barracks.

Then they came sadly away.

"Which is it now?" said Peter.

"Oh, a soldier; but I'll have to wait till I grow."

"Unless you learn the drum, Johnnie Greybreeks, Then you could go at

once."

But Johnnie only shook his head.

"No, no, Peter," he said; "I must be a real fighting soldier, just as

poor father was."

Little did Johnnie know that at that very time there was a tidal wave

advancing towards him that might lead on to fortune. Or on to death,

who could tell? So true is it what Shakespeare says,--

"There is a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will."

CHAPTER V.

"HULLO, JOHNNIE GREYBREEKS! I'M YOUR UNCLE."

"Hullo, Johnnie Greybreeks! Why, my little man, I've been looking

for you for the last six months."

It was Tom Morgan himself the two friends had run up against at the

corner of Jamaica Street--big Tom Morgan, brown waving beard and all.

"Why did you never come and see me?"

"Please, sir, mother wouldn't let me. You see, sir, you were very

good to me that Christmas eve, and mother said if I went back it

would look just like--begging, you know, sir."

"Fiddlesticks, Johnnie Greybreeks! But talking about fiddlesticks,

who _is_ your little friend here carrying the fiddle?"

Johnnie told him.

"Now, come along, both of you," said Tom. "I know an eating-house

near here where they have such capital beef."

And a splendid feed Tom ordered them; and it seemed to do the honest

fellow's heart good to see them eat.

"Now," said Tom, "will you play me a tune, Peter? and then I'll be

off, for time is precious."

Peter gladly did as suggested; but I am sure that big Tom Morgan

merely asked him to play that he might have an excuse for giving the

poor lad that half-crown.

"Now, Peter, you can run home; but I want to take Johnnie Greybreeks

with me for an hour or so. Good-bye, Peter. See you again.--Come

on, Johnnie."

* * * * *

In about a quarter of an hour's time Tom Morgan reached a tall,

handsome building in a quiet street; and upstairs the two went

together, and entered a room without knocking. It was a

well-furnished office, and at a table, littered with papers and

bundles of documents tied up with red tape, sat a white-haired,

elderly gentleman, with a very pleasant face of his own.

When he looked up with a smile, Johnnie could see it was Mr. Dawson,

whom he had met on that Christmas eve at the house of the Morgans.

"Come along, Tom, and take a seat. Ha! so you've found little

Johnnie Greybreeks at last, have you?--How do you do, my little

man?--I say, Tom, how is business?"

"Fairly good."

"Well, lad, let me tell you this: it will soon be better, or it will

get a send back that will astonish us all."

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Dawson. There must always be ships

on the sea, and it is father's business to float them."

"True, true, Tom; but being a lawyer, you know, I perhaps can see

farther off than you. Now, believe me, Tom Morgan, when I tell you

we are drifting into war with Russia, and our country isn't prepared

for it."

Tom Morgan laughed.

"We've got the money and the ships, the sailors and the soldiers.

Why, Mr. Dawson, let war come, and we'll flog the Russians on shore,

and whip them off the seas."

"Well, I'm not so sure; but then I'm getting old, you know. But

you'll see. The Russian privateers and legalized pirates will cover

the ocean, and British commerce won't have a show."

"Did you see that noble Highland regiment march past, Mr. Dawson?

Man, that's the stuff!--Did you see them, Johnnie?"

"O yes, sir; me and Peter marched all the way with them. O sir, I

want to be a soldier or a sailor, and help to whip the Russians.

Dear father was a soldier, you know," he added sadly.

Mr. Dawson and Tom Morgan exchanged glances.

"Tell us more about your father, Johnnie."

"Oh, I don't know much. I hardly remember father; but poor mother

has his picture, and, O sir, he looks so noble, with his kilt and his

sword and his feather bonnet. He only had one arm, you know,

and--and he was drowned in the Clyde."

"Now tell us about your mother and sister. Where are they, and what

do they do?"

Then Johnnie told all the sad story of sickness, of struggle, and of

poverty that the reader already knows. More than once the tears

stole into his eyes as he spoke, and very patiently indeed did the

two gentlemen listen to all he said.

"Tom," said Mr. Dawson, when Johnnie had finished, "I think we're on

the right lay."

"I think so too; indeed, I'm sure of it."

"How pleased the old lady will be:'

"If there is any 'please' in her."

"Well, she has some strange ways with her; but I think that she

really means well."

"She is extremely orthodox, Mr. Dawson."

"True; and conservative to a degree."

All this was Greek to little Johnnie Greybreeks, who sat there on a

high stool waggling his legs, and looking from one to the other,

uncertain whether he ought to smile or not. Ever feel in that

position, reader? I have.

"Weren't you struck with the remarkable resemblance between Johnnie

here and your brother's wee lassie, on the night you brought the boy

home?"

"That, indeed, I was," said Tom Morgan; "and so was every one else,

especially my father. So, you see," continued Tom, figuring the

sentence out on his fingers, "if my oldest brother married Johnnie's

father's eldest and only sister--

"That sounds rather Irish, Tom," interrupted Mr. Dawson; "but go on,

my boy. Johnnie's father's eldest and only sister--"

"Well, I never was good at counting kin, as it is called, but my

brother Fred did marry Johnnie's father's sister--all the world knows

that: so little Tottie--Violet, you know--is Johnnie's cousin--no

wonder she is like him; and my brother Fred's wife would be Johnnie's

aunt; and--and--why, Dawson, I myself am Johnnie's uncle.--Hullo,

Johnnie Greybreeks! I'm your uncle. I'm your uncle Tom; shake

hands, old man."

At this moment Johnnie really could not have affirmed whether his

head or his heels were uppermost, or whether this big, jolly

gentleman with the big brown beard wasn't having a joke at his

expense. However, he shook hands almost mechanically.

"Hush!" cried Tom; "there are little footsteps on the stairs, and the

sound of childish laughter. I believe it is Violet and her

governess. Talk of angels, and they appear."

Next moment in rushed Violet, screaming with delight. She kissed

Uncle Tom somewhere about the beard.

"Oh," she cried, "doverness has been so dood, and buyed me such a lot

of pletty fings."

Then she noticed Johnnie.

She stuck one finger in her mouth thoughtfully, but recovering her

self-possession almost immediately, she advanced and held out her wee

chubby hand.

"I fink," she said, "you is Dohnnie Dleybleeks? How d'ye do, little

boy? You and me has met before."

Johnnie jumped off the stool and shook hands as politely as a

nobleman would have done.

"Aren't they like now!" said Tom.

"Miss Gibb," he continued, addressing the governess, "we--that is,

Mr. Dawson chiefly--have made a wonderful discovery. This boy you

see before you, and who is called Jack Mackenzie, is my niece--no, I

mean nephew--by the brother's side, as it were, and consequently

first cousin-german to--I say, Mr. Dawson, bother it all, I'm getting

a bit mixed again."

Miss Gibb laughed.

"So you's my fist tousin, 'ittle boy, is you?--Miss Dibb, tiss my

fist tousin for me; I can't be boddled tissing 'ittle boys."

Miss Gibb dutifully did as she was told; at which condescension

Johnnie was more puzzled than ever. He would have given three of his

best marbles at that moment to any one who could have told him where

he was in particular, and what day of the week it was.

But the interview was soon brought to an end; and when Johnnie went

back to his home in Summer Loaning, a very droll story indeed he had

to tell Mrs. Malony.

"Och, sure," she cried, "I always tould Malony that poor dear Mrs.

Mackenzie wasn't the same as us at all, at all; that she was a lady

under a cloud, sure enough. And troth and I'm roight. And it's a

foine gintleman you'll be, Johnnie, some day entoirely."

* * * * *

Old Mrs. Mackenzie of Drumglen in Perthshire was certainly all that

Tom and Mr. Dawson had said. She was nothing if not orthodox and

conservative to a degree.

She belonged to a very old and aristocratic family in the north of

Inverness-shire. The family, however, had the misfortune to be

somewhat poor, and ill-natured people did say that when Miss Stuart

married Mr. Mackenzie, a Jamaica merchant, it was more from love of

money and what it could bring than from love of Mac himself. But, of

course, ill-natured people will say anything, and charity is a flower

that is not half so well cultivated as it ought to be.

Never mind. Miss Stuart was at the time of her wedding stately,

tall, and handsome, and--a stanch Jacobite. Mr. Mackenzie, on the

other hand, was on the weather-side of forty, and though wiry enough,

he was about the same colour as a cake of gingerbread. That is what

Jamaica and the West Indies had done for him.

He took his bride out with him at first to the beautiful islands of

the West. She admitted they were very beautiful, but she didn't like

life there, and she went in a constant state of fear and horror of

the creepie-creepies. The flowers were gorgeous, but often from the

very centre of a lovely bouquet brought by her black maid a centiped

as long as a penholder would wriggle. In the centre of huge bunches

of luscious fruit little wicked snakes would be asleep, and even as

she stood admiring the fruit, one would protrude a tiny triangle of a

head and venomously hiss in her face. Oh, it wasn't nice.

Fire-flies were pretty flitting about among the bushes at night, like

stars that had lost their way; but she found creatures indoors even

in her bedroom that were not fire-flies, and whose perfume was not

like that of attar of roses. She even found things in the soup that

the _chef_ couldn't account for, and cockroaches' legs are not the

thing in a cup of coffee.

So she told Mackenzie, gently but firmly, that she was going home;

that she would not give one glimpse of the purple heather for all the

beauty and wealth of the Indian Isles.

Mac was very fond of his aristocratic bride. If she had asked him to

live in Kamschatka or build her a mansion in lonely Spitzbergen, he

would have done so. Therefore, like a dutiful husband, he came home.

He brought with him a black servant-man, or boy who eventually became

a man, just to remind him of those sunny isles in the beautiful West;

and soon after his return he bought the mansion-house and broad lands

of bonnie Drumglen.

Not long after Johnnie's father was born, Mr. Mackenzie died one

wild, stormy winter's morning. After being so long in the tropics, I

suppose, the climate of the Scottish Highlands hardly suited him. He

was found asleep in his library chair, with his hands folded, his

toes on the fender, and a red bandana laid as usual over the bald

patch on his crown.

His black servant shook him--once, twice, thrice. It was the laird's

last sleep, and shaking was unavailing.

So Snowball went and reported the circumstance to his mistress.

"Pore massa done gone dead, I fink, milady. I shakee he, one, two,

tree time, but he not sware at me. I fink, milady, he nebber wake no

mo' in dis world."

* * * * *

It was somewhat strange that Mrs. Mackenzie never seemed to take to

her daughter, who was about five years older than Donald her

boy--Johnnie's father. Her whole life and love seemed bound up in

her son.

Under the plea of giving her the best education it was possible to

obtain, the girl was sent to a school in Edinburgh. There she lived

and grew up, only coming home at holiday-time.

It was at Edinburgh, too, that Flora met Fred Morgan, the son of the

wealthy ship-broker. Flora, of course, asked her mother's consent to

marry Fred--meaning to marry him, anyhow, for the Mackenzies had

always been a self-willed race.

The letter bearing the mother's reply came in due course.

"Oh, certainly, my dear."

That was the gist of it when shorn of its studied and stately

verbiage.

At the same time that Sambo, _alias_ Snowball, posted this letter, he

dropped one into the box for Mr. Dawson, the family solicitor.

Mr. Dawson went through at once to Drumglen. He arrived early in the

afternoon.

But "milady" was as politely reticent as a Mohawk Indian. She said

nothing about business that day.

He dined in state--with Snowball behind his high-backed chair,

arrayed in a crimson waistcoat and immaculate coat and neckerchief.

Next morning Mrs. Mackenzie accorded her solicitor an interview

within the gloomy precincts of the library. The lady came to the

point at once, and with as much force and precision as Malony made

use of when beating a red-hot horse-shoe.

"My daughter is going to be married, Mr. Dawson," she said.

Dawson bowed and smiled.

But Mrs. Mackenzie brought him up with a round turn.

"No palaver, Mr. Dawson, please," she jerked out. "My daughter is

going to be married. She did me the courtesy of asking my leave--a

mere matter of friendly formality, of course. She is going to marry

a Morgan. The Morgans are Welsh. I don't like the Welsh; they are

mere business people. I don't like that. I believe a daughter of

mine might have married a lord. _N'importe_; it is no fault of mine.

But, Mr. Dawson, these Morgans are said to be wealthy Welsh. Well,

my estate is my own, is it not?"

"To have and to hold, my dear lady; to do absolutely what you please

with."

"Well, Mr. Dawson, I can leave all to my dear boy if he continues to

love and obey his mother as he does now; but I come of a very

independent family, and, if I choose, I can leave my riches to build

an hospital, or, what is even more needed, a new ship of war. Now,

sir, make out a cheque for £5,000 to my daughter, and I will sign it.

Write also a letter, couched in friendly but not too friendly terms,

to accompany this cheque. I want my daughter, or rather the Morgans,

to understand that there is a gulf fixed between the mansion-house of

Drumglen and their shop in Glasgow."

And Mr. Dawson had obeyed her orders to the very letter.

He had, however, always since then managed to keep on the very best

terms with the Morgans, as well as with Mrs. Mackenzie herself.

* * * * *

Long, long years, as we know, had gone by since that day when Mrs.

Mackenzie turned her soldier son out to face the wide world and

poverty, and the stern old dame had somewhat softened as she grew

older.

Perhaps if Donald had gone to Drumglen and begged her forgiveness,

she would have relented and received him into favour once more. But

the same proud blood ran in the veins of both mother and son.

Mr. Dawson went very often to Drumglen, and sometimes spent weeks

fishing or shooting on the estate. He enjoyed this, although the

house itself and the company were hardly free and easy enough to suit

the jolly solicitor.

Dawson was summoned rather hastily once. This was after the body of

poor Lieutenant Donald Mackenzie, her son, had been found in the

river.

The solicitor found her looking older than ever he had seen her. She

seemed broken, not as to physique, but mentally.

She talked a deal about her younger days and her married life, and

Dawson guessed rightly that she was working the subject round to her

late son.

"O Mr. Dawson," she said at last, "I don't mind confessing to you

that I have been just a little too hasty, and that if poor Donald

were alive again I--I might consider the whole subject. But there,

Mr. Dawson, my regrets are vain; and now I wish you to make my will,

for I feel I must soon follow my husband to the grave."

"Why, Mrs. Mackenzie, you are not at all old yet, However," he added,

"it is as well we should all be prepared."

"Yes, and that was just what good Mr. M'Thump, our minister, said in

the pulpit yesterday. His text was, 'For ye know not the day nor the

hour.' A good man and a learned is Mr. M'Thump, and he'll dine with

you to-night, Mr. Dawson."

I fear the solicitor did not look overmuch pleased at the

information. However, he proceeded to take pencil notes of the

lady's will, and that very evening he drew it up.

It was brief in the extreme. She left all she possessed to build a

new ship of war, to assist in protecting the freedom of her beloved

country.*

* It would be a good thing if wealthy millionaires who have no family

would follow the old lady's example. Britain stands sadly in need of

more ships of war.--AUTHOR.

* * * * *

Years flew by. The old dame appeared to have renewed her age, as she

certainly had her sternness and aristocratic composure. She never

mentioned her son now; but Dawson took good care to tell her all

about the discovery of little Johnnie Greybreeks, and how strangely

he had turned up at the Christmas party. He told the story so

feelingly that more than once during the recital he fancied he saw a

tear in the stately lady's eyes.

Half a year after this Dawson was once more summoned to Drumglen.

"I had a strange dream last night," she told him. "I thought I saw

Donald my boy. He held his little son by the hand, and looked at me,

oh, so pleadingly. Heigh-ho! I suppose I am old and soft and silly;

but, Mr. Dawson, I am not sure I should not like to see that boy Jack

you spoke about--just for once, if you can find him."

"I will do my best, madam," said Dawson.

Dawson, however, was not much of a detective, else he might have

found Johnnie before that day on which Tom Morgan met him

accidentally near the bridge.

And now we shall see what this accidental meeting led to as far as

Johnnie was concerned.

CHAPTER VI.

"THE OLD LADY HAD A WOMAN'S HEART AFTER ALL."

"_Veni, vidi, vici_" (I came, I saw, I conquered).

So said Cæsar of old, by way of describing the ease with which he

gained a victory against his enemies.

"_Veni, vidi, vici,_" Johnnie Greybreeks might have said, after his

first interview with that stately and aristocratic dame his

grandmother.

But wait a minute, reader. I fear I must call our little hero

Johnnie Greybreeks no longer--at least not while he is under the

lordly roof-tree of Drumglen. He must be Jack.

Well, it was Dawson himself who brought Johnnie--no, I mean Jack--to

the mansion-house, and led him into the presence of his grandma.

Johnnie--that is Jack; you see I can't get into the swing of it all

at once--was very neatly dressed in Highland tweeds, and brave he

looked. The old lady sat erect in her high-backed chair. She could

not but notice the striking resemblance between the boy and her

Donald of the olden days; yet she had meant to receive him most

soberly and stately.

"This is Jack," said Dawson, leading the boy, who was looking shy,

forward.

The grandam drew herself up. She looked at Jack once. She looked at

him twice. Then she opened wide her arms; and as Jack flew like a

bird to her embrace, she pressed him to her heart and fairly burst

into tears.

Even Dawson was affected, and wisely withdrew.

Old Mrs. Mackenzie had a woman's heart then, after all.

* * * * *

What a long, delightful letter that was Jack wrote to his mother and

sister next day! It did both their hearts good.

Mrs. Mackenzie, junior, was glad, for her boy's sake, that he had

found a friend that would advance him in life. For her own part, she

would have died at the foot of a pine tree rather than accept a

favour from the proud owner of Drumglen, albeit she was her late

husband's mother.

Ah! pride, and especially Scotch pride, is a bitter feeling, and

often even a cruel. Pride has been called the devil's darling sin,

and by Pope

"The never-failing vice of fools."

Says Goldsmith,--

"Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,

I see the lords of humankind pass by."

Well, I do believe that with Grandam Mackenzie the stream of life now

began to run backwards for a time. She had invited Jack to stay but

for a week or two; but the sweet summer-time was coming on, and the

boy required no second invitation to make Drumglen his home for a

time. The words "for a time" are Mrs. Mackenzie's own, and perhaps

she hardly knew the full meaning of them herself.

Jack wasn't going to forget old friends, however, and he wrote to

Mrs. Malony, and to Little Peter also, and promised to write again.

I think that young Jack had not been at Drumglen for even a week

before the rigidity of the mansion began to thaw.

Jack was jolly, but never with a jollity approaching to vulgarity.

Indeed, in company and at table, thanks to his mother's tuition, the

boy behaved himself like a little lord. But he often said droll

things that made everybody laugh, and caused even the orthodox Mr.

M'Thump to smile.

As a rule, the ladies and gentlemen who assembled at a dinner-party

here were as stiff and straight in the back, physically and morally,

as the chairs in which they sat.

When the ladies retired, however, the men folks did unbend, and some

of them drew Jack out; and Jack--he did not require a very great deal

of encouragement--gave his ideas about life and things in general in

such a comically philosophical way, that old-fashioned lairds thumped

the table and laughed aloud.

There was just one subject, however, on which Jack was wisely

silent--namely, his sad life of poverty and distress in stony-hearted

Glasgow.

Some things are better left unsaid, some stories better left untold.

And Jack knew this instinctively as it were, and held his peace--for

his grandma's sake.

Moreover he kept his own counsel concerning the whereabouts of his

mother and sister, even when so eminent and dignified an individual

as the Rev. Mr. M'Thump endeavoured to draw him out.

[Illustration: "This is Jack."]

In this, again, Jack pleased his grandma very much. Drumglen

mansion-house was in itself a somewhat antiquated and dreary abode,

although situated in the midst of the most beautiful Highland

scenery--hill and dale, river, loch, scaur, and wild wood.

The weeping birch trees were nowhere of sweeter, softer green in

early spring than on the banks and braes around here; and among their

branches the mavis and blackbirds trilled their songs with a joy that

seemed half hysterical, while from far aloft, skimming the clouds,

the laverock showered his notes of love. Nowhere did the primroses

grow bigger, cooler, sweeter, than by the banks of the bickering burn

that went singing over the stones on its way to the loch, forming

many a clear pool wherein the minnows darted hither and thither, and

where the crimson-ticked trout loved to bask in the sunshine. Then

in autumn the hills around were purpled and encrimsoned with heather

and heath high up their sides, till their rugged heads were lost in

the clouds.

But the garden walls of Drumglen were high and strong, and the gates

of ponderous iron. It seemed as if they had been built to stand a

siege in the stormy days of old.

Inside these walls the garden itself was wide and wild, and away

aloft, in the black and gloomy foliage of the pine trees, the hoody

crow had his nest, and eke that bird of ill-omen the magpie.

The walls of the house itself were very thick and the windows small.

Not a sound did your footsteps make as you glided about the rooms.

So silent did you move on the thick, soft carpets, that you could

scarce help thinking at times that you were your own ghost.

The furniture of this gloomy house seemed a thousand years old at

least. The stairs were of oak; and when Jack first beheld his

grandmother's bed, he gazed at it with a feeling of awe. It was a

huge, dark, and curtained edifice, with drapery of the snowiest

white. To have slept under such a weight as that would have made a

stranger dream he was about to be smothered alive.

The old dame's servants had always been chosen for their solemnity,

one would have said, and their reverential stateliness. They had

never been heard to laugh till Jack went to reside at the mansion.

But now things were a little bit altered. For the boy moved about

the house like a ray of sunshine, and you could no more have kept him

from laughing, or singing the fag-ends of old Scotch songs, than you

could have prevented a lark from trilling his love-lilts in May.

I may tell you that Jack knew well enough that his grandam wished him

to keep his place if ever he entered the servants' hall. So he did;

and yet his presence there never failed to bring sunshine, light, and

music, and oftentimes now the dark oak ceilings re-echoed the mirth

of servants who had ever before been as sad and solemn as church

beadles or funeral mutes.

With all her orthodox conservativeness, however, Mrs. Mackenzie

seemed to know that boys like Jack cannot live without amusement, and

so at no time was she averse to the visits of youngsters of his own

age. She even gave entertainments, and invited to them the children

of neighbouring lairds, so that on the whole Jack's life was not so

solemn an affair as it might otherwise have been.

In the evenings when alone together, the old lady used to make him

draw his low stool up close beside her knee and talk to her. She

would even encourage him to tell her about life in what might well be

called the lower regions of the great city of Glasgow.

The disinterested kindness of Mrs. Malony and poor Little Peter, the

hunch-backed fiddler boy, visibly affected Jack's grandmother.

"I did not think," she said, "that the poor could be so kind to each

other as that. I will send Mrs. Malony, and Peter too, a

Christmas-box when the time comes round. And so they were going to

make a blacksmith of my brave boy, were they?"

"Yes, grandma; but I love work."

"How terrible!"

Jack bent down to smooth an old grimalkin that snoozed upon the rug.

"Malony wasn't so very terrible, though," he said; "and I suppose,

grandma, if nobody was a smithy-John, nobody's horses would have any

shoes to wear."

"True, my dear, quite true. As the potter makes his wares, some to

honour and some to dishonour, so are we too made, and we should do

our duty in the station of life which God has appointed us to fill."

Jack didn't reply. He was gazing into the bright fire of peats and

coal that blazed so cheerfully on the low hearth, and wondering what

station in life it would be his to fill.

"Jack," she said, after a pause, "did it ever occur to you that you

would like to be something?"

Jack looked up at her now with glowing, happy face.

"Oh yes, indeed, grandma!"

"And what have you thought of?--the church?"

"Oh no, grandma."

"But think of the honour and glory of serving Him even in this world,

and the richness of the reward hereafter. Think of our minister, the

Rev. Titus M'Thump. He has ere now been honoured by dining even with

royalty."

"I daresay I'm not good enough," said Jack simply.

"Well, child, the law affords facilities for rising to eminence in

the world. Mr. Dawson, my own solicitor, is both a great and a good

man. But," she added, as Jack did not reply, "how would you like to

be a leech?"

Jack looked up astonished, with eyes about as big as billiard-balls.

He had seen Malony apply a leech once to his sister's neck when she

was ill of quinsy, and did not know that "leech" was the old name for

physician.

"A leech, grandma! a nasty, black, creepie-crawlie, blood-sucking

leech! Oh no, grandma. You are making fun, aren't you?"

"Well," said the old dame gravely, "you are quite right. I don't

care for the profession myself. Your strictures on the leech are

probably somewhat severe, however. I had one to dine with me a few

months back, and really he seemed fairly intelligent."

"Dine with a leech!" thought Jack; "why, grandmother must be going

out of her mind."

"Well, Jack, what would you like to be?"

"I would like, grandma, to be a Highland soldier, and wear a feather

bonnet."

Grandma smiled sadly, and for a time gazed silently at the fire.

"No, Jack, no. I would not like you to be a soldier. Anything else?"

"Oh yes," replied the boy, eagerly enough. "You see, grandma, Mr.

Dawson says there is going to be a big, big war with Russia."

"Perhaps so, dear, perhaps."

"Well, sailors fight as well as soldiers, and dress all in blue and

gold, for I've seen some. They don't have feather bonnets,

though--only just cocked hats and long swords. Well, I would like to

be a sailor like that; and I'm sure when I grow bigger I could cut

off an enemy's head beautifully."

"O boy, boy, how horrible! Well, I'll think about it; and if your

mother will let you stay with me for a time, I will get you a good

and clever tutor."

Jack did not answer, but he took his grandma's soft hand in both his,

and leaned his cheek upon it in a gently caressing way.

"Strange," thought old Mrs. Mackenzie; "that is the way poor Donald

used to caress my hand when he was quite a boy. Surely the Lord has

given me this child's love to cheer my old age, and to prove that he

has forgiven me."

* * * * *

Dawson and Mrs. Mackenzie the elder had a consultation soon after

this. The subject to be considered was this: How best could she do

something for her daughter-in-law that would not wound her pride?

"I felt sure," said the solicitor, with straightforwardness, "that

you would put this question to me, and I have thought it well out.

The doctor has told me that she is now almost well, but that if she

returns to her life of poverty and hard work in Glasgow, she will

soon find her last home in the mools."

"Well, Mr. Dawson?"

"Well, my dear madam, the cottage hospital down the Clyde is turning

a great success; if you could add two beds to it--"

"Nothing would please me better. I will build a small additional

wing to it, with a little cottage and garden near for the matron."

"Oh, thanks. You quite anticipate what I was going to say."

"Yes--that my daughter-in-law could be appointed manageress, with

Jack's sister as nurse."

"That is it."

"Well, it is as good as accomplished. Only let it be between

ourselves. No one is to know who the donor is."

"Agreed."

"It is to be our little secret, Mr. Dawson; and, after all, I think

one may just as well do good with one's money while alive as after

death."

"It certainly is more satisfactory. How about the man-o'-war ship,

then?"

"Ah! that is another subject I hope to discuss with you one day.

Perhaps--but--well, the matter needs further consideration, so for

the present we shall dismiss it."

* * * * *

Jack stayed all the summer at Drumglen; but when the autumn came

round, his grandmother, one evening as they sat by the fire, opened

the conversation by saying,--

"My dear boy, your tutor, Mr. Newington, tells me you have been

working very hard, and made capital progress in your studies; so I am

going to send you home for six whole weeks to your mother and sister,

at the Cottage Hospital. I hear there has been a new wing built to

it, and a little house and garden for the matron, and that your

mother has been appointed to that position. Well, dear boy, write

and tell them you are coming; and I'll give you an envelope with

something in it, so that you can pay your way, and be quite the

little gentleman."

Jack took her hand in the old caressing way; but he did even more--he

drew her arm right round his neck and nestled more closely up to her

knee.

"Dear grandma," he said, "you are so good to me."

Mrs. Malony was busy making her husband's supper one evening about a

week after this, when the door opened, and in bounced Jack.

"Och, sure," she cried, "and is it me own dear bhoy, Johnnie

Greybreeks? Indade and indade it was only this blissed morning I was

talking to Phatrick about ye. An' how well you are looking, alanna!

troth it's the foine young gintleman ye are already entoirely. See

there, the very cat knows ye; and won't Peter be plazed!"

And so she rattled on. By-and-by the husband himself came in,

smiling all over his black and smutty face, and right heartily

Johnnie shook his hard and brooky fist.

After supper Peter came down, and brought the fiddle too. That was

one of the happiest nights ever Johnnie remembered spending.

Next day he went to see Mr. Dawson and the Morgans, but only for a

hurried visit. Then the steamer _Iona_ took him down stream, and at

sunset he was seated beside his mother's cottage fire, with the

dearest ones on earth beside him--one on each side.

How cosy and home-like everything looked around him! even the canary

and the cat seemed as if they had been specially ordained for the

cheerful room. There were flowers, too, everywhere, inside and out;

but Maggie Mackenzie was the sweetest flower of all--so even her

brother Jack thought.

She was dressed primly, it is true, as became her position as a

nurse, but that did not detract in the slightest degree from her

lady-like appearance.

Jack's mother, too, was looking well.

"Strange how things come about, dear boy," she said. "You see the

Lord heard our prayers, and has raised us up friends. For ever

blessed be his name!"

As she spoke she wiped away a tear with her white apron. It was a

tear of joy and gratitude, however.

For this evening Jack's mother felt that her heart was full to

overflowing.

CHAPTER VII.

"HARD A-PORT!"

"Eep--peep--peep--eep--eep--ee!"

It was the bos'n's pipe sounding loud and shrill high over the

howling of a nor'-wester and the song of the storm-stirred waves.

"Eep--peep--eep--ee!"

First forward, then further aft amidships.

"All hands shorten sail!"

"Tumble up, my lads--tumble up; it's going to blow a buster."

And hardly had the last notes of the pipe ceased as quickly as if

they had been cut off clear and sharp by the wind, than the men came

rattling up the ladders to duty.

There was every need for haste too, for the storm had suddenly

increased to almost the force of a tornado. The sun was sinking red

and angrily away in the west-sou'-west, his last rays luridly

lighting up the foam and spume of each breaking billow, and casting

rusty rays even on the spray that was now dashing inboard high as the

top of the funnel itself. There was no steam up, however, nor were

there even banked fires, albeit the ship was not very far off land.

The _Gurnet_--for that was her name--was a screw gunboat of the very

largest build then on the list, with six good Armstrongs on her deck,

besides a monster pivot-gun forward.

She was a model. I don't say that because, many a long year after

the date of my story, I myself sailed in her. But a model of beauty

the _Gurnet_ was, as good as ever sailor would care to look upon.

Low in the water, with none too much freeboard, perhaps; rakish as to

masts; bows like a clipper, without any merchant-service flimsiness

about them though; and jib-boom like part of a picture. Solid and

strong was she though, and as black all over as the wing of a rook,

except where, just on the edges, her ports were picked out with

vermilion.

"All hands shorten sail!"

Yes; and it is indeed time, with the wind howthering like that,

tearing at the sails with angry jerks, and trying the strength of the

sturdy ship from stem to stern, from bowsprit to rattling

rudder-chains.

And she on a lee-shore!

Yes: the _Gurnet_ had crossed the Bay of Biscay on the wings of a

beautiful wind a trifle abaft the beam. She had passed the Gulf of

Corunna, and was now just off Cape Finisterre, or Land's End as we

would call it; but nobody, two hours ago, could have believed that

the wind would pop round a point or two and come on to blow like this.

"Where in a' the warld are you goin' to, laddie?"

It was the doctor who spoke--Dr. Reikie, assistant-surgeon in

charge--and as he sang out these words he caught young Midshipman

Mackenzie by the lower part of his uniform, as he was struggling up

the companion-ladder.

The clutch that he made at him was a very unceremonious one indeed,

but a most effectual, for he hauled the middie right back and down

into the steerage.

"Where were you off to, eh? Are you going daft?"

"Why, sir, it's all hands on deck, isn't it?" said Jack Mackenzie,

for it was he. "Mustn't I keep my watch, and help to reef topsails?"

Dr. Reikie laughed loud enough to be heard high above the trampling

of feet and shouting of orders on deck.

"Ha! ha! ha! Well, I declare, that's about the best thing I've heard

for many a day. Man," he added, leading Jack straight off into the

cosy little ward-room, "what use d'ye think a vision of a thing like

you would be on deck? No more use, man, than a cat in front of a

carriage and four. Sit down on the locker there, or, what is better

still, lie down, and thank your stars you've gotten a countryman o'

your ain to look after you."

"Well," said Jack, mournfully, "I suppose I must do as I'm told."

"I'll take care you do, youngster. You may disobey anybody else in

the mess, but if you dinna do as I tell you, man, I'll lay you across

the table and lunner the riggin' o' you. But there," he added, more

kindly, "I'm only in fun, or half in fun, you know. Only, dinna

forget I'm senior in this mess, and sit at the head o' the table. If

I hadn't hauled you down the companion, you'd have been washed

half-way to Finisterre afore now."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"Well, mind you're a kind of in the sick-list, and never a watch do

you keep--except that bonnie gowd one in your pocket that your granny

gave you--till I give you leave."

"Thank you, sir," said Jack again. "But what is supposed to be the

matter with me?"

"A touch of sea-sickness--your gills are as white as a

haddock's.--Inexperience, and the want o' sea-legs.--Hark! listen!

We've carried away something."

This was indeed true; although reefed, the maintopsail had gone.

I could not say how many ribbons it was rent into, but the noise

those ribbons made was indescribable. It was like the rattling of

platoon-firing when a regiment of soldiers is being drilled.

"I told the skipper the glass was going down like tea and scandal,

and he only laughed at me. If a man refuses to obey the dictates of

science, well, he deserves to lose his ship--that's all I've got to

say."

"You don't think we're going to be shipwrecked, do you, sir?"

"Laddie, how can I tell? If the wind changes, and we don't get up

steam in time, our ribs may be dang in on the rocks before mornin'.

But don't be afraid. I daresay it will all come right. I'm going on

deck to see how her neb is pointing. Keep quiet, and think about

your mammy."

And away the doctor went, steadying himself by bulkheads or anything

he could lay hold on.

It was now getting very dusk indeed, but so quickly had the men aloft

done their duty, that the ship was already snug, and all hands had

come below. The captain, Commander Gillespie, was himself on the

quarter-deck. He was comparatively a young man, probably not thirty,

or about three years the surgeon's senior. He was a smart enough

officer, but he had good friends in England in high quarters, and

this had got him a separate command; so he walked his own planks,

lord of all he saw.

The surgeon and he were already very friendly, only the captain did

not put much faith in the weather prognostications advanced by the

worthy Scotch medico.

"I told you what was coming, sir," said Dr. Reikie.

"Um--yes--well, I think you did mention something about the glass.

But we're all right."

"Just shave Finisterre, won't we, sir?"

"Just shave it! why, we can walk ten miles to windward of it."

"Well, the _Gurnet_ is a beauty anyhow, I will admit that; but still,

sir--"

"Look here, doctor: come down below and dine with me--eh?--and we'll

have a jolly good talk, and leave service alone; shan't we?"

This was a very pretty way of telling the doctor to mind his own

business; and he wisely took the hint, and went off down below to put

on his mess-jacket.

The good fellow, however, was not altogether easy in his mind. He

did not like the look of the glass, nor--as he told the lieutenant,

whom he met as he passed through the ward-room to reach his

cabin--the look of things in general. The clouds this evening were

racing across the sky, although it was now almost too dark to see

them; the wind was unsteady, though very high; and there was a

jerkiness in the motion of the brave little ship that Dr. Reikie did

not half like.

Lieutenant Sturdy was putting on an oilskin coat and a sou'-wester.

He was a rough-looking sea-dog at the best, but arrayed in this

style, his round, red, clean-shaven face smiling rather grimly as the

doctor spoke to him, he looked more like a North Sea pilot than the

first officer of a British man-of-war.

Sturdy was a year or two older than the captain, but he had no great

friends at head-quarters, nor anywhere else for the matter of that.

He came of a good, honest Newcastle family. His father owned quite a

small fleet of coal-steamers that plied between that great city of

the north and London or elsewhere. In fact, these coal-ships coasted

everywhere, going high up as far as Aberdeen, and south even to

Plymouth itself.

There was a larger steamer in which, being fond of the sea, Mr.

Sturdy, senior, had himself coasted for years. His wife was a tiny,

delicate bit of a body, and feared to venture much upon the ocean;

but Lieutenant Ben Sturdy here had sailed with his father from the

time when he was hardly as tall as the binnacle. It was a rough kind

of a school to learn in, but it made him a sailor, and even in the

royal navy an officer is none the worse of being a sailor. What do

you think, reader?

Well, Sturdy had entered the service before he was fourteen, and had

not been a deal on shore in England since, because he had no interest

to get him nice ships that had only a three years' commission.

Sturdy's ships had mostly been rotten old tubs that were kept on a

station may be for five years and then recommissioned, two or three

of the officers being left out in them, perhaps. So you see the

service is not all a bed of roses, but it is the best service in the

world for all that. An old sailor like myself may be excused for

thinking so, at all events.

Sturdy was a good-natured fellow anyhow, although sea-beaten and

rough. His daily life and intercourse with his messmates proved that.

"That's right," said the doctor, patronizingly; "you're dressing up

to fight the weather, I see."

"Dressing up to fight fiddlesticks, Reikie. It's going to be a bit

of a blow, that's all, and I want to be snug. See!--Hullo, little

man!" he added, patting Jack on the head; "a bit squeamish, eh? No?

All right; keep below for a few days."

Mr. Gribble, the assistant-paymaster, was entering the ward-room

dressed in a uniform pilot-jacket, with his cap well reefed, and his

hands fathoms deep in his trousers pockets.

He stuck himself right in the doorway, spreading his elbows to steady

himself.

"Hullo!" he said, screwing his mouth and eyebrows about as if his

face were india-rubber--"hullo! Who are you? Hey?"

"Gangway, Mr. Cheek," answered Sturdy, "unless you want me to give

you a fair wind down the hatchway there. You'd look nice riding

stride legs on the shaft."

"Why, my blessed eyes, if it ain't you yourself, Lieutenant Benjamin

Sturdy! Blow me sky-high if I didn't think it was old Neptune come

on board. I say, young man," he continued, "do you know that a

yellow oilskin and sou'-wester ain't uniform? I'll be obliged to

take notice of it. Sea-boots and all!"

Sturdy lifted a huge brown fist and made pretence he was going to cut

Gribble clean through the steerage.

Gribble dodged. "Don't hit a little chap," he cried. "I'll let you

off this time."

"I say, Sturdy," cried the doctor.

"Yes."

"I'd get up steam if I were you."

"Humph!" grunted Sturdy from the depths of his capacious chest; then

he went stumping up the ladder singing to himself,--

"Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the billows howling,

For death hath broached him to."

It did everybody good to hear Ben Sturdy singing; but on the

quarter-deck, except at night, this jolly officer could be as polite

as in a drawing-room.

"O Mr. Sturdy," said Captain Gillespie, who was still on deck; "here

you are."

"Yes, sir. Been bending my foul-weather gear, you see."

"Quite right. Well, I think the old _Gurnet_ is safe."

"As safe as can be, sir."

"Looks beastly thick to windward, though. Think we should get up

steam?"

"As you please, sir."

"I was asking you."

"Well, I wouldn't. We'll keep her up a point or two; she'll weather

anything."

"There!"

It was a bright flash of lightning that illuminated everything on

deck, till brass-work stood out like burnished gold.

This was followed by a peal of thunder that appeared to roll the ship

up and crush her from stem to stern as one would an empty match-box.

"That'll do good."

"Eh?"

"It'll bring rain, and rain will lay the wind and sea. Hail will

anyhow, and there it comes."

And there it did come too. It was early spring; but for as long as

he had been to sea, Sturdy had never before seen such hail as this.

In a few minutes' time the decks were covered inches deep. The

_Gurnet_ might have been a ship in the Greenland seas. The

lightning, too, was incessant, and hail or snow never looks more

beautiful than when lit up in this way.

The thunder rolled on almost incessantly, but the wind now seemed

less in force, and the sea for the time being was as smooth as if

covered with oil.

The man at the wheel cowered beneath the terrible storm, while the

hands forward were fain to seek the protection of the

weather-bulwarks.

"I'll go below now," said the captain when the sky cleared once more

and the thunder went muttering away to leeward. "Come down, Mr.

Sturdy, when your watch is over, and have a glass of port."

"I'll be with you, sir."

At eight o'clock he was as good as his word. Dinner was over, but

there were biscuits and dessert.

"Come along, Mr. Sturdy. The doctor and I have been having long

arguments on scientific subjects. Sit down."

"Ahem!" said the surgeon. "But, Captain Gillespie, 'argument' is the

wrong word. I was expatiating."

"Expawsheeatin'," mimicked Sturdy, as he helped himself to the

biscuit. "You wouldn't listen to argument, eh, from such as us? You

are learned. You must just expawsheeate. Says you,--

"'I am Sir Oracle,

And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!'

--Well, sir, what was Dr. Reikie teaching you?"

"Oh," said the captain, laughing, "just as you came down we were away

somewhere in the star depths--beyond the nebulæ, I think."

Sturdy had poured himself out a glass of rum in a tumbler--a sort of

bos'n's nip, four fingers high. This was a chance for the doctor to

have a shot at the lieutenant.

"I say, Sturdy," he said, "talking about _nebulæ_, if you drink all

that rum you'll have a nebulous noddle in the mornin'."

"Yes," continued the captain, "we were off and away into the vastness

of the star depths. We had got far beyond Sirius, and never gone

once on shore. The doctor was telling me that light travels at the

rate of 186,000 miles a second! I say, Mr. Sturdy, how many knots is

that an hour?"

"Computations like that, sir," said Reikie, trying another shot, "it

would be in vain for Sturdy to attempt in his present condition.

Wait, sir, till he has another nip."

Sturdy was silent.

Sturdy was hungry. The biscuits disappeared before him as if by

magic. Then he attacked the nuts, and presently settled quietly down

to the raisins.

Captain Gillespie's cabin was right abaft the wardroom, with a

separate staircase to it, and a steward's pantry at the foot thereof.

It was very tastefully furnished--at his own expense of course--and

at one end stood a small but good piano, and hanging near it a

fiddle. The captain was very fond of music, and so was the surgeon;

and the fiddle belonged to the latter.

"Do play, sir," said Sturdy now, "to drown the raging of the

storm.--Come, Auld Reikie," he continued, "screw up your Cremona."

"If you'll sing 'Tom Bowling.'"

"Oh, I'll sing anything."

"By the way, sir," said Sturdy, after he had finished that glorious

song, which has never yet been beaten, "would you mind me asking poor

little Mackenzie in for half-an-hour? I am taking a great liberty,

but--"

"Not at all, my good fellow.--Mr. Reikie, will you run for him?

you're the younger."

"_Mr. Dr._ Reikie will be delighted, sir."

This was a shot at the captain himself. Reikie really was a doctor

of medicine, and he was just young enough and Scotch enough to resent

being deprived of his title.

Jack was a little shy at first, but he soon brightened up, and his

pleasant and innocent chatter enlivened the little company. Jack

even sung a song.

"Well," said the captain at last, "this is only our second night at

sea, though I have known you two gentlemen before. Well, we've spent

a very pleasant evening, and if I can have my wish it won't be the

last by a long way. We are going on particular service, and are

likely to be shipmates for a long time. Why, Midshipman Jack here

will be a man before he gets back to his mother."

Jack really fancied he had been a man for over three weeks--ever

since, in fact, he had set foot on the _Gurnet_ in Plymouth Sound.

"Well, gentlemen, I like to begin a cruise on commission as we hope

to end it--every one doing his duty, every one pleasant, and loving

his neighbour as himself. So, good-night. See you all in the

morning."

* * * * *

But the wind grew wilder and wilder, and at seven bells in the first

watch it was found necessary to get up steam.

The night was very clear now. A half or three-quarter moon had

arisen, and every star shone like a diamond.

Hark to that shout!

It is three bells in the morning watch, and the senior midshipman's

watch too.

Shoal water ahead.

"Hard a-port!"

Not a man fore or aft that did not hear that shout, not a man fore or

aft that did not spring at once from cot or hammock.

And yet there was neither panic, fear, nor confusion; and if every

one did hasten on deck even before the bos'n's pipe commenced to

sound, it was only because he knew he would be needed, and because he

wanted to know as speedily as possible the extent of the danger, and

the chance, if any, of safety.

CHAPTER VIII.

JACK'S SEA-DADDY.

Midshipman Jack was among the first on deck. All he could see was

the star-lit, wind-tossed waves that, at each dip of the good ship's

prow, rose like mountains right ahead, or, as she leaned to leeward,

seemed ready to engulf her.

But away on the port bow he could now and then catch a glimpse of

huge black boulders, over which spume was dashing white and high.

These boulders were the rocks on which the good _Gurnet_ might soon

be dashed, and go to pieces.

In each lull of the gale, even already, the boom of the breaking

waves could be heard--a sound that had been to many and many a sailor

ere now the last he had ever heard on earth.

Jack began to say his prayers, and to think of those at home. One

and all of his friends and relations seemed to rise up before his

mind's eye at this moment, and seemed to speak to him, to beckon to

him, to pray for him.

Poor Jack! his brain was all in a whirl, but suddenly he remembered

that he was guilty of a breach of faith. He had no business on deck.

The surgeon had given him orders to remain below. He must hasten

down, therefore, though it did seem dreadful to be drowned in the

dark--drowned like a rat in a drain. The companionship of even those

brightly-shining stars would have made death appear less terrible.

But--yes, he must go below. The first duty of sailor or soldier is

obedience.

He found his way at last into the ward-room, in which the lamp was

still burning, and threw himself down on the sofa.

He could pray; ah! there was comfort in that. After he had said his

prayers--no, but prayed his prayers; for there is a deal of

difference between saying a prayer and praying it: in the one it

comes welling up from the heart itself, in the other it is but

lip-worship--after he had prayed, he began to repeat a psalm to

himself, one that he had learned at his mother's knee:--

"God is our refuge and our strength,

In straits a present aid;

Therefore, although the earth remove,

We will not be afraid:

Though hills amidst the seas be cast;

Though waters roaring make."

It was just at this line that the young sailor boy's thoughts were

wafted away and away to hills and glens and streams and woods, all

basking in the sweet light of the summer sun.

Jack was asleep and dreaming.

* * * * *

But a terrible time of anxiety was being passed by those on deck.

The captain and Sturdy himself were both on the little three-plank

bridge, hanging on to the rope-rail as if to a life-line.

Again and again Sturdy had shouted down the tube, "Get up steam as

fast as possible!" Yet down there he knew the engineer and stokers

were fighting like furies in the fierce heat of the engine-room.

Well they knew how precious every minute, nay, every second, was.

Bacon and even bladders of lard were put into the fire, but

apparently without any result, although the flames roared high, and

there was even danger of firing the padding betwixt boilers and

bunkers.

Nearer and nearer loom the black rocks. Can they weather them? All

that brave ship can do the _Gurnet_ is doing. She is sailing as

close to the wind as gull or frigate-bird. All that brave men can

think of to save her has been done.

Again and again they imagine that they have passed the worst; again

and again whale-back rocks rise ominously further ahead.

The captain, and even Sturdy, are now in despair, and the last

command is given,--

"Stand by to man and lower boats!"

In such a case this would be the sailor's last resort. In such a sea

it would be all but hopeless.

Sturdy draws closer to the captain, and pointing with one arm ahead,

shouts in his ear, "We can't weather it. Our only chance is to keep

her away and try to sail between the rocks into the open water

beyond."

The captain is about to assent, when a dark figure is seen struggling

up through the companion-hatch. He is waving his hands aloft and

shouting. But the wind cuts the words short off; they cannot be

heard. He rushes now to the bridge-ladder and clutches the rope and

shouts again.

Sturdy bends towards him. He catches the words.

"Saved!" he cries, creeping back towards the captain.

Saved? I doubt it. The ship's fore-part even now touches ground,

and the waves leap madly over her.

But the screw is revolving at last, and slowly the good ship begins

to forge ahead. It is a fight now, and a hard one, betwixt wind and

steam, and for a time no one can tell which will be victor.

But, hurrah, science has conquered! The useless sails are taken in,

and in less than half an hour the _Gurnet_ is clear, and away from

the terrible reef.

* * * * *

There was nothing talked about at breakfast next morning except the

danger the ship had come through. But what signifies danger to

sailors, especially when it is past? The wind and sea had now gone

down, the fires were banked, and all sail was being made for

Gibraltar, that impregnable fortress whose splendid story may never

all be told, and the possession of which is begrudged to us by almost

every civilized nation on the globe.

Britain means to hold it nevertheless, as long at least as she rides

mistress of the seas; as long as there floats over us, in sea-fight

or in tempest,

"The flag that braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze."

By the time the _Gurnet_ reached the Rock, Jack was permitted to keep

his watch. He was attached to Sturdy's, luckily for him. Under this

brave fellow he would learn seamanship, a science that I am sorry to

say naval officers of our day do not know too much about.

But Jack's hopes of spending a day on shore on the historical Rock

were doomed to disappointment. For the _Gurnet_ had not a clean bill

of health. One or two cases of cholera had taken place, it was said,

at Plymouth before she sailed. She had therefore come from an

infected port, and no one would be allowed to set foot on shore. The

utmost indulgence permitted was to post their letters. A boat came

alongside for these. They were handed over the side and taken with a

pair of tongs, being soon after fumigated with tobacco smoke and the

fumes of burning brimstone.

Fruit, however, was handed up, and many other dainties from shore.

The money received was immediately plunged into a vase containing

some acid disinfectant. Well, all this was provoking enough,

especially as there was not a sick man on board.

From the place where they lay waiting for important documents, etc.,

they could see the soldiers on the Rock and the promenaders near to

the shore, and at morn and eventide the sound of music stole sweetly

over the waters from military bands in garrison or barracks.

Early though the season was, everything in and around Gibraltar

looked semi-tropical, and Jack Mackenzie would have given a good

deal, he thought, to be allowed to land. The sky was blue, and the

sea and scenery far and near lay quivering in the glorious sunshine

all day long.

When Jack turned out to keep the middle watch for the first time,

although rather sleepy when aroused, he speedily pulled himself

together, dressed, and went on deck. The stars were shining, but no

moon, and afar off was the town with its twinkling lights, rising

higher and higher up the hill. Lower down, closer to the water's

edge, the lights were more abundant; for sailing ships and steamers

lay there, and not far away a man-o'-war or two.

But the lights in the town grew fewer and fewer, and the silence

greater, till, after a time, little was to be heard except the

sentries calling, bells solemnly tolling the hour, and now and then a

wild, unearthly yell which Jack could not account for.

He was leaning over the bulwarks, gazing towards the great looming

Rock, when a hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked quickly

up to find it was Sturdy's.

"Am I doing right?" said Jack. "You see, I'm not up to keeping watch

yet. Should I keep constantly tramping up and down?"

Sturdy laughed.

"You'd soon have Auld Reikie using language if you did. It is while

lying at anchor like this that sailors sleep most lightly, and Reikie

is nothing if not a sailor. Perhaps if you did much of the tramping

business, he'd come up the hatch and shy a boot at you."

"Shy his boot at me! Would he, sir?"

"Well, I didn't say _his_ boot, but _a_ boot. I daresay Auld Reikie

would just as soon shy somebody else's, because when one does this

sort of thing the boot nearly always flies overboard.--But come and

sit down here on the skylight. In keeping your watch, you know, the

main thing is to keep your weather eye lifting, and to note what goes

on high and low, fore and aft. See?"

"Yes."

"Well, now, let us yarn. Tell me about your brothers and sisters,

mother and aunts, and--oh, but of course you are far too young to

have a sweetheart."

"Nearly fourteen," said Jack proudly. "Yes, I have a

sweetheart--just one."

"Well, one at a time is all I ever have--in the same port, I mean.

And what is your young lady's name?"

"She is the first young lady ever I spoke to in all my life. She is

my cousin, eight years old, and her name is Tottie Morgan. Tottie

isn't her baptismal name, you know, only her brothers and sisters

call her that. Her mother calls her Violet."

"And are you going to marry her?"

"Oh yes, I suppose so."

"He, he! Well, it's a long time to look forward to."

"Tottie's oldest brother is a perfect man; Llewellyn is his name. He

is sixteen, and going to be a soldier, and wear a feather bonnet."

"Fine fun that'll be. Well, Jack, they say we'll soon have war.

Then you will meet your cousin Llewellyn, if he isn't killed in the

first off-go. Young fellows often are, because they are so foolishly

rash. Soon may it come."

"What, sir?"

"Why, the war. I want my promotion; and if we had plenty of

fighting, in two or three years' time, Jack, you too would win your

epaulettes, and exchange your toothpick for a cheese-knife."

"I'm afraid, sir, I didn't hear you aright; did I, sir?"

"Exchange your dirk, I mean, for a long sword; that is, if we didn't

have to expend a hammock on you--bury you at sea, that is."

"Oh yes, I see, sir. Then I couldn't marry Tottie, could I, sir?"

"No; you'd get out of that engagement."

"Well, sir, I thought once I would like to be a soldier, and wear a

feather bonnet like father did; but grandma said 'No!' so I had to be

a sailor. But I feel sure I shall like the sea."

"Don't talk, Jack. Why, you haven't been a dog-watch* in the

service."

* The two shortest watches on board ship, from 4 to 6, and 6 to 8

p.m., are so called. They are thus arranged that the same men should

not come on deck always at the same hours.

"No, sir, I didn't know there was a dog on board."

"Ha, ha, ha! Well, we have an old sea-dog in the shape of a bos'n,

and we have a cat too, a beauty, but I don't like to see her taken

out."

"Don't you like cats, sir?"

"Not cats with nine tails. But heave round, Jack."

"Heave what round, sir?"

"O Jack, you'll be the death of me. I mean heave round with your

yarn. Tell me all about your people while I light my pipe. Never

you learn to smoke, Jack," he continued, lighting a match, and

holding it to the bowl of his meerschaum. Puff, puff, puff. "It is

one of the worst habits out"--puff--"it weakens the

heart"--puff--"weakens the nerves"--puff, puff--"and I don't know

what all it doesn't do, but Dr. Reikie could tell you"--puff, puff.

"Heave round, lad!"

Jack kept Lieutenant Sturdy interested for hours. Somehow the boy

felt that he had found in this straightforward English sailor a true

friend, and so he never hesitated to tell him all the events of his

young life--all his trials and sufferings, and even his aspirations.

And Sturdy listened attentively, sometimes patting the boy's hand

with true sympathy.

"Well, well, well," said the lieutenant at last. "I thought I had

roughed it in my young days, but your story has the weather-gauge of

mine, Jack--the weather-gauge of mine.

"Ah! well, dear lad, I hope the worst is past. You've just got to do

your duty now, keep your weather eye aloft, obey orders, and trust in

God. Your life afloat won't be all beer and skittles, I assure you.

But a sailor's life isn't a bad one after all. I love it, Jack, oh

yes, dearly. You've got to rough it now and then, but then you are

here, there, and everywhere, over all the world. You see so much and

you learn so much, so that in many ways sailors are far wiser than

landsmen.

"Well, as long as you and I are shipmates, Jack, just look upon me as

your sea-daddy. Come to me if you have any difficulty, and I'll show

you how to steer out of it; and what you want to know about the ship

I'll tell you."

"Thank you, sir. You are so good I shall always look upon you as my

sea-father."

"Right; and if you want a sea-uncle--and that is handy too at

times--why, there's the bos'n. He is a roughish old swab like

myself, but his heart is as soft as a girl's. He'll put you up to

the ropes, and show you how to splice and reef and steer. Never

despise knowledge, no matter where it comes from; and if you keep

your place without being uppish, if you are brave and bright, depend

upon it, the men will love you and respect you. But I say, Jack,

weren't you a bit afraid the other night when it was blowing big

guns?"

"Well, you see, sir, at first when all hands were called to shorten

sail, I thought I should go upstairs and help."

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"I was just going up, sir, when Dr. Reikie caught me by--by a part of

my dress, sir, and pulled me down. He made me a prisoner. But I did

escape when I thought we were all going to be drowned."

"Yes?"

"Well, then, I went downstairs again and--"

"Yes, you went below and--"

"Well, sir, I fear I was very wicked; for I began to say my prayers,

and fell asleep in the middle of them."

"Why, Jack, it's eight bells--four o'clock.--Forward there! Eight

bells! Call the watch!"

Ring-ding, ring-ding, ring-ding, ring-ding.

Jack went quickly down below, and began to undress. He felt tired

and sleepy now, and could almost have gone to bed with his boots on.

His chest--it was not a large one--stood outside the dispensary door.

There Jack knelt to pray.

Then he quickly caught hold of a ring in a beam, and swung himself

into his hammock. He could do so now without tumbling out again at

the other side.

I think his head had hardly touched the pillow when he was fast

asleep--a happy, dreamless, sailor's slumber.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE GOOD OLD "GURNET."

Before Jack Mackenzie came to sea, he had received, as far as any boy

could, a thoroughly theoretical education. His grandmother had seen

to that. Much she would have liked to have the boy constantly with

her, but she knew that this would not be to his advantage; for when

the very best has been said about the system of what I may call

fireside education under a tutor, it must be confessed that there is

no emulation about it. So Jack had been sent to one of the best

schools in Glasgow, and had private tutors as well, one of them being

an old naval commander, who saw nothing derogatory in coaching a few

young fellows who were to serve afloat. For six months every year

Jack had been in Glasgow; the rest of the time he spent at Drumglen

and his mother's pretty cottage.

While in Glasgow, as was only to be expected, he had spent many a

pleasant day and evening at the villa of his uncle and cousins the

Morgans. On Sunday he never failed to put in an appearance dressed

and ready for church. But the Sabbath evenings he had used to spend

as often as not with Mrs. Malony and Little Peter.

During his intercourse with his cousins, independent of his falling

in love, as he termed it, with the tiny but old-fashioned Tottie, he

had cemented a close and enduring friendship with the elder boy,

Llewellyn.

Ah, reader! friendships like these are very sweet. Wherever in all

the wide world we roam, we never, never forget them.

Llewellyn at sixteen was very tall and handsome, and in every way,

one would say, cut out for a soldier. If his father was Welsh, his

mother was a true Scot; he was therefore Celtic to the core. It is

no wonder, then, that he should prefer a cadetship in a Highland

regiment to that in any other. The 93rd is most assuredly one of the

grandest and gallantest of our Scottish regiments, and has maintained

its high renown on many a blood-stained field.

Just one thing I must say in favour of Jack's conservative old

grandma. Although then she neither loved the Welsh nor liked

business people, she did not now go the whole length of ostracizing

her daughter and her family. I suppose old age has a softening

effect upon the heart, for she even went so far as to invite her

daughter and children now and then to Drumglen. The latter went

frequently to see the old lady, but her daughter very seldom, for the

simplest and best of reasons--namely, that her husband had not been

included.

However, Llewellyn became a special favourite with this stern old

dame, and so did Baby Morgan--that is, Jack's wee sweetheart, Tottie

or Violet. What glorious days the two boys had spent together on the

loch, by the riverside, in the forests--dark even in daylight--or

wandering over the purple hills! Never, never would they forget

these dear days while in camp or field, in the trenches, or far away

on the lone blue sea.

There had been tears of genuine grief coursing down Jack's cheeks

when he bade Llewellyn farewell at last; and though older, it must be

confessed that the young cadet was glad in a measure when the parting

was over, for there was a big lump in his throat that he had tried in

vain to swallow.

Little Tottie, now nearly nine years of age, was not, truth compels

me to say, so very much affected at bidding her lover good-bye as

Jack, who had a large spice of romance in him, would have liked. She

did not cry--not she. Her last words, as the train was starting and

Jack was leaning over the window, might have been said to smack of

selfishness and gore.

"Mind, Johnnie," she cried, "to bring me home somefing very nice, and

don't fo'get to kill lots and lots of dead sailors."

* * * * *

There was no naval instructor on board the _Gurnet_, of course; but

Jack determined to study, nevertheless, theoretically as well as

practically. Well, he found himself among good friends, always

willing to help him out of a hole. There were the doctor and second

master down below, and there was Lieutenant Sturdy, his sea-dad, on

deck, and the rough but kindly bos'n forward.

Mr. Fitzgerald, the senior midshipman, was a tall, lanky young

fellow, the younger son of a lord, and though no doubt clever enough

after a fashion, he did not see the fun, he said, of studying

anything in particular. "Zeal for the service!" he told Sturdy once;

"I haven't got any. There is no extra screw for that; and if my

brother dies, I shall go on shore and keep my hunters."

Mr. Gribble, the assistant-paymaster, was the tease of the mess. He

could sing a rattling good comic song, however, and spin good

yarns--all true, he said, because he himself had made them up. So he

was rather a favourite in the little mess.

On the whole, the members of the ward-room mess were fairly well met,

and lived as jolly a life as the same number of young fellows could

live anywhere.

From Gibraltar they went cruising away down the Mediterranean, for

the _Gurnet_ carried important dispatches for Malta. They were not

put in quarantine here. They just escaped that, having been detained

at sea by contrary winds. Yes, they might have steamed; but Captain

Gillespie's orders had been to save coals if possible, and never to

light fires if there was wind enough to carry the ship along.

At Malta, then, much to his delight, Jack got on shore. The doctor,

who was assistant-surgeon in charge, and could do very much as he

liked, took Jack with him.

What long letters our little hero had to write about this strange

town, with its streets of stairs, its quaintly-dressed inhabitants,

its bumboat men and women, its churches, with bells that

jangle-jangled on for ever and ever; its bazaars and fortifications

and ships, and its hill, or rather brae, on which a wood was said to

exist. Dr. Reikie went to this wood on a butterfly expedition, and

in search of fossils. Well, the wood itself seemed a fossil, a most

forlorn and dilapidated belt of trees indeed. But the doctor and

Jack came back laden with specimens, white with dust, and with faces

that seemed to have been rubbed with a wet brick.

The only thing worth seeing about Malta, said Lord Tomfoozle, as the

doctor called Fitzgerald, the senior mid, was the opera. So he did

not miss that for a single night of the ten days the _Gurnet_ lay in

Malta. I fear that in one respect Fitzgerald rather gave himself

away, as the Yankees express it; for he assured everybody before

coming to Malta that he could speak Italian. Well, when he aired

this language for the first time at a good hotel kept by a native of

sunny Italia, the landlord shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"De Rooshian langwidge," he said, "I not can; but de Engleese mooch

plenty, sare."

Dr. Reikie, who was there, guffawed. It was very rude. Fitzgerald

turned red in the face, then he called the doctor a bear, and left

the hotel.

But the doctor, or doctor's mate as some old tars on board would call

him, was too good a fellow to take offence at being called a bear by

young Tomfoozle; so at dinner that day he was extra civil to him, and

asked him twice if he would have some more pudding. Dr. Reikie knew

the mid's weakness, and what would soften his heart; so presently my

lord smiled.

"I accept your apology, doctor," he said.

"Apology, Tomfoozle? I didn't make one."

"Oh yes, you did. You asked me twice to have pudding. Pudding and

apology are--er--"

"Synonymous?"

"That's the word. I called you a bear to-day, doctor, but I meant a

brick."

"Oh, he meant a brick, did he?" chimed in the A.P.*

* A.P. is the abbreviation for assistant-paymaster.

"Mr. Sturdy, please take note; Lord Tomfoozle meant a brick."

"Shut up, you A.P.," cried the mid, "or rather you APE. I'm talking

to a gentleman.--Yes, doctor, I did mean a brick; so there!"

"I say, doctor, you look out," said the mischievous quill-driver.

"Old Tomfoozle expects you to put him on the sick-list next--"

"Next what?" said the mid.

"Next gale of wind."

"Avast heaving now, you youngsters," put in Sturdy.--"That's the

worst of having babies in the mess, doctor."

"I didn't heave anything," said Fitzgerald; "but if the biscuits had

been handy, Mr. A.P., without the E, would have had to duck his

somewhat empty head."

* * * * *

I cannot say that Jack Mackenzie was over-well pleased with the city

of the Templars. It was foreign enough and romantic enough, and

military enough also, but it lacked greenness and vegetation. True,

the orange-trees bloomed bonnie in many of the gardens, and flowers

too, rich and rare, but on the whole it was a parched and sunburnt

town. The sea all around, however, was very blue and beautiful, and

perhaps no one was sorry when the _Gurnet_ was once more off and away

on the bosom of the broad Levant, and bound for Alexandria.

The ship was now all that a little ship of war should be. Sturdy

took a pride in her. And he would have her clean alow and aloft,

outside and in; and the men seeing this, did all they could to please

their good lieutenant. The principal warrant or non-commissioned

officers on board the _Gurnet_ were the bos'n, who was so good a

friend to Jack, the quartermaster, and sergeant of marines. There

were ten at least of these redcoats on board; and although they were

very plainly dressed indeed on week-days--just sloped about anyhow,

as the bos'n phrased it--still, drawn up on the ivory-white deck on a

Sunday morning in line with the blue-jackets, all with rifles and

white bayonets ready for inspection, the effect was very pretty.

On the Sabbath morning, as Dr. Reikie solemnly called this holy day,

divisions of course formed quite an event. The officers were all in

frock-coats and swords, except Jack, who was lashed to his dirk. The

best and biggest flag floated gaily aloft, and if a breeze was

blowing, the _Gurnet_, with every white sail bellying out before it,

looked indeed a thing of life and beauty. Down below on deck there

wasn't a rope's end out of place; the hammocks were neatly arranged

above the bulwarks, and the brass-work shone like the inside of a

good gold watch.

Solemnly along the line of sailors and marines marched the captain,

followed by Sturdy, followed in his turn by Dr. Reikie, and there was

nothing that escaped the eagle eyes of any of the three. The men's

very faces and ears came in for inspection, and even the cut and

length of their hair, the hang of their knives, the lay of their

lanyards; and if a bluejacket's collar was badly and carelessly

spread, or if it were too broad or too narrow, the quartermaster's

attention was drawn thereto.

To appear with a dirty face on a Sunday morning was indeed a crime.

The captain would call attention to it, perhaps as follows: "Is that

man's face clean and wholesome, Dr. Reikie?"

"It's waur* than a brookie's, sir; and look, his lugs[dagger] are

like midden creels."[double dagger]

* "Waur," worse.

[dagger] "Lugs," ears.

[double dagger] "Midden creels," baskets used in the Highlands of

Scotland for carrying manure to the fields.

There were times, you see, when the English language would hardly

meet the demands of the case, and then the honest doctor permitted

himself to drift into his dearly-beloved native dialect.

"Bring that man before me to-morrow forenoon, quartermaster."

That man would next day be planked accordingly, and perhaps his grog

stopped for a week, or, if the ship were in harbour, his leave

stopped.

A milder punishment for milder offences was three-water grog. In

this case the men to be punished were drawn up amidships, each with a

basin in his hand; and into this was poured his grog, very much

diluted indeed. Then came the command, "Caps off. Queen!"

"Queen!" each man would repeat, and thus toasting Her Gracious

Majesty, toss off his three-water grog.

I have already said there was no naval instructor on board, neither

was there a parson. Now, the duty of reading prayers in such cases

devolves, I think, on the captain himself, but on board the saucy

_Gurnet_ it was turned over to the first lieutenant. He had a deep,

strong voice, which he could make singularly impressive when reading

the lessons.

It was rather more than impressive on one particular occasion,

shortly after the ship sailed from Malta. It was a very lovely day

indeed, and church service was, as usual, held on the upper deck

abaft the mainmast.

Sturdy stood by the capstan reading, and more than one officer had

been noticing the antics of Fred Harris, a young blue-jacket, a

first-class boy, who was doing all he could to make his comrades

laugh. His conduct had evidently given Lieutenant Sturdy the

fidgets; for, much to everybody's surprise, the service did not

conclude that morning with the simple "Amen," but Amen with a pennant

to it, as a sailor would say. It ran thus, all in one breath, mind

you: "Amen!--Harris, confound you, sir, I've been watching you all

the time. You'll have the cat for your shocking irreverence, as sure

as my name's Sturdy.--Pipe down!"

Well, it was time to pipe down after this.

_N.B._--The above anecdote is perfectly true, but any reader who

doesn't like the tone of it is welcome to skip it.

* * * * *

If the reader will take a glance at the map, he will notice that

Sicily is a large island lying to the south and west of the extreme

end of Italy, which good-naturedly curls round as if to meet it and

bid it welcome. Sicily is principally celebrated, Mr. Sturdy told

Jack one night in the middle watch, for good fruit, bad garlic, fried

fish, brigands, and a burning mountain.

"That would be Mount Etna," said Jack.

"Yes, old Jack; that's her name. There is a navy yarn told about

that mountain which I'm not sure I should tell you, although I was

told it myself by a priest."

"Oh yes, tell me."

"Well, it's a warning to all contractors anyhow, who sometimes supply

very bad biscuits to England's fighting navy. Once upon a time,

then, when the gallant _Roarer_, a shoudy-boudy old seventy-four, and

terribly badly found in the matter of hard tack--her biscuits being

half dust, half weevils--was cruising around here, the officer of the

watch, one dark night in the middle watch, called all hands to

witness a terrible but somewhat ridiculous sight.

"The ship was sailing close past Sicily, and not far from Etna, which

had been in eruption for some weeks; only they appeared to be burning

up the slack and the cinders in the crater just then, because there

was plenty of light but not much smoke.

"Well, all hands came tumbling up, thinking perhaps a Frenchman was

bearing down upon them, and that they wouldn't have any more sleep

till they sent her to Davy Jones's locker.

"But it wasn't that.

"The captain himself stood on the poop, with his battered old

telescope to his eye, and turned towards the mountain top.

"The eyes of all the crew were now bent in the same direction. No

wonder that they stared in astonishment, rubbed their eyes, and

stared again. For there, on the very brink of the crater, stood two

tall figures, wrestling, as it were, for the mastery. One was

speedily made out to be Mr. Pipeclay, a baker of Portsmouth, who

supplied biscuits to the royal navy--biscuits that had been once or

twice on a voyage round the world in the merchant service.* The

other figure was soon discovered by the captain to be none other than

Auld Nickie Ben himself.

* I know for a fact that, not longer ago than the sixties, old

ship-biscuits that had been several cruises in whalers and sealers to

the Arctic regions, and condemned, were bought up and sold to the

navy. Poor Jack!

[Illustration: Mountain]

"'Yes,' shouted the captain, 'it is Nick himself. I can distinctly

make out the cloven hoof.--Bravo, Nick, that's got him!'

"Then he took the glass from his eye and shouted to the commander,--

"'Heave her to, Mr. Deadlight; we must see the end of this.'

"The ship was hove to very quickly indeed, and the crew lined the

bulwarks and hung like bees to the rigging, and meanwhile the

terrible struggle on the mountain top went on.

"Now, Britons are proverbially lovers of fair-play, and in this case

they extended their patronage to the baker and Nick without favour.

"The baker was evidently trying to pull away from the crater, while

the object of the other combatant was to get his antagonist down the

awful pit.

"On board the ship there was wild shouting or cheering, as one or

other seemed to gain an advantage, with loud cries of 'Pull, baker,

pull,' or 'Pull, Nick, pull,' as the case might be.

"But at last, terrible to relate, the baker was floored and flung in;

Auld Nickie Ben, with an eldritch scream, dived after him, the last

portion of him seen being his hoof.

"A clap of thunder followed, and soon after that it came on to blow

such a fearful gale that for four-and-twenty hours the good ship

_Roarer_ was scudding under bare poles, and it is just a wonder that

she survived to tell the tale."

CHAPTER X.

PADDY'S ADVENTURE--FRED HARRIS PROVES

HIMSELF A HERO.

Though far wilder scenes and adventures must soon engage our

attention, I shall linger just a little longer in the blue Levant

before we sail away south and round the world. Alexandria, then,

where Jack was permitted to land and enjoy himself pretty much as he

pleased, he liked, probably on this very account. Our hero was

certainly not allowed an unlimited amount of pocket-money, but he had

enough; besides, you know, it was impossible to spend any at sea, for

no card-playing for money was permitted on board the _Gurnet_.

An Egyptian offered to be his guide, and Jack accepted his services.

A lithe and saucy-looking tatterdemalion he was, from his greasy

skull-cap to his bare brown toes. He took Jack everywhere, and

showed him all the sights. At Pompey's Pillar he met a crowd of

blue-jackets not belonging to his own ship. They had flown a kite

over the pillar and drawn a rope up, and several sailors went hand

over hand up to the top. They danced on the top, and they drank on

the top. It made Jack's head giddy to look at them, for he could not

help noticing that some of them were not perfectly sober.

Presently he was horrified to see one young sailor lose his balance

and topple over. What followed illustrated the presence of mind of a

British tar in a way that I think has never been beaten. He was

standing near Jack when the man fell.

"Haul taut above!" he shouted.

Then in the twinkling of an eye he loosened the rope below. It is no

exaggeration to say that in less than two seconds he had full command

of the line, and in two seconds more he had coiled a bight of it

round the falling sailor.

"Now lower away from aloft!" he shouted.

The man had been caught by body and legs when about half-way down,

and was now lowered easily to the ground.

He was partially insensible, but otherwise intact.

"That's the way we catches Cape pigeons," said the man who had so

cleverly saved his shipmate's life.

Jack begged him to explain.

"Why, young sir," he said, "it's simple enough. Near the Cape, you

know, and up the 'Bique, the birds come sailing round astern of the

ship to pick up the crumbs. Well, we just tie a line to a chunk o'

wood and pitches it overboard. When a bird flies near it, we loosens

the line like, and a turn of the wrist entangles him; then on board

he comes straight off the reel."

In a hotel in one of the beautiful squares Jack dined that day in

solitary grandeur.

When he went on board again, he told his adventures to his messmates.

"I say, little 'un," said Gribble, the assistant-paymaster, "you're

getting on. I thought I was a bit of a liar myself, but-- Steward,

another cup o' tea."

"Well," said Jack, in a disheartened kind of way, "I don't see the

value of truthfulness if one isn't to be believed."

"Bravo, Jack!" cried Dr. Reikie. "I believe you. What you have told

us is doubtless true. The clever feat is scientifically possible;

but, alas! to talk science to Gribble there is like throwing pearls

before--"

"Before what, Mister Learned Scot?"

"Before-- Steward, another cup of tea."

The advantages of temperance are nowadays well recognized by the men

themselves in the royal navy; but in those times it was nothing

unusual to find the men come off in the liberty-boat "fechtin' fou,"

as Dr. Reikie called it--that is, to put it plain, "fighting drunk."

Sometimes they had to be put in irons on account of their violence.

This was not perhaps so much owing to the amount they disposed of as

to the vile nature of the stuff they drank.

When Midshipman Jack was one day sent on shore with a boat's crew and

some letters at Alexandria, he felt himself a very important officer

indeed. He had orders also to make a call and wait for a reply, but

to be off again within two hours. He got down to his boat in plenty

of time, singing to himself. He sang another song, though, when he

found only one man at the boat.

He lowered his brows, and demanded to know where the others were.

"Only gone up to drink the Queen's health, God bless her!" said Paddy

O'Rayne.

"But I gave them strict orders not to leave the boat."

"Bhoys will be bhoys, yer honor. But if you'll stand by her head

here, sorr, troth I'll bring them all in a minute."

Away went Paddy.

In an hour's time, and when Jack was almost in tears, down came two

men--they were singing. Then came Paddy--he was reeling. Then two

more--one with a black eye. Jack would wait no longer, but shoved

off.

Three times did the stroke oar catch a crab; the third time he

couldn't get up, and Paddy took his place.

In order to get alongside safely and gracefully, he made a kind of

admiral's sweep, much to the amusement of Dr. Reikie and Lieutenant

Sturdy, who were both on the quarter-deck.

"In bow!"

"Way enough! Oars!"

The bow stood up, boat-hook in hand.

He tried to do so very gracefully--too gracefully in fact; for in

reaching out to catch on, he lost his balance. He was fished out

after a time; and so Jack and his merry men got up the side.

Our young hero made his report very sadly; but Sturdy only laughed.

"I merely sent you," he said, "to give you experience. Sailors are

just like babies, you know, and want a lot of watching to keep them

out of mischief."

"That's true," said Reikie. "Why, I remember once when in the old

gunboat _Rattler_, on the coast of Africa, having ten men down with

sickness all in one day. I thought we were struck with cholera till

I made inquiry, and found it was 'pine-apple ailment.' They had all

been on shore at Zanzibar, and pine-apples were cheap. Well, Sturdy,

would you believe, one man told me that '_sure, he'd only eaten

nine!_'"

* * * * *

In two months' time the _Gurnet_ was at anchor at Constantinople.

This was Jack's first visit to the capital of the Turk, but it wasn't

to be his last by any means.

Just one little story here concerning Paddy O'Rayne.

Paddy was a sailor-soldier, you must know; in other words, he was a

red marine. He belonged to the R.M.L.I., or Royal Marine Light

Infantry. They are called infantry, not to distinguish them from

cavalry--for there are no horse marines--but from the R.M.A., or

Royal Marine Artillery. These red marines are really splendid

fellows, and, as a rule, men of grand physique. It is said that they

take up as much room on parade as the "gallant Forty-twa," though my

own opinion is that the Highlanders could give them yards and beat

them. Never mind, Paddy was a capital specimen; and he "did for the

doctor"--that is, he was the worthy surgeon's servant, and sometimes

even assisted in the sick-bay.

As regards drinking, Dr. Reikie had always considered him fairly

temperate, and had never missed a drop out of his own bottle of rum,

which was taken up for him once a week.

"I never saw you the worse of drink yet," said the doctor to him one

day, by way of compliment.

"Indade! thin, sorr," said Paddy, "the raison is just this: I niver

dhrink more than one glass at a time. Sure, sorr, me mouth wouldn't

hould a dhrop more."

But, alas! during this visit to Constantinople proof was forthcoming

that even Paddy was not invariably infallible.

Paddy was granted a day's leave then to go on shore and see the

"unspakeable Turk." He was as natty as a new pin when he passed over

the side to take his place in the liberty-boat.

But when that same boat came off with the liberty-men at night,

behold Paddy was not there. Nor did he appear next day, nor till the

middle of the next, when he came on board. His appearance as he came

in over the side was, to say the least, sufficient to make him the

cynosure of all eyes. He had nothing on at all except a pair of old

blue drawers and a brass cavalry helmet. His face was fearfully

disfigured. But heedless of the peals of laughter that greeted him

from all hands, he marched boldly aft to where Dr. Reikie stood on

the quarter-deck, saluted, and reported himself.

"It's me, sorr," he said, "and sorra a one else."

"Well, Paddy, I wouldn't have known you. Get down at once to the

sick-bay, and I'll see you there."

There were three parallel scars on Paddy's face--brow, nose, and

chin--thus [3 bars]. The excuse he pleaded, when asked how he

managed to injure himself, was as droll as Paddy himself.

"You, see, sorr, it was like this. I was aslape on the floor as

innocent as an unborn lamb, sorr, and when I awoke I found the stove

had thrown itself down and the bars had burnt me face."

But he spoke as if the stove had been lying on his face for quite a

long time.

Dr. Reikie forgave him.

The officers of the _Gurnet_ managed to enjoy themselves very much at

Constantinople, and were everywhere well received. There were other

ships here too, and so the fun was pretty general.

After leaving the Turkish capital, the _Gurnet_ returned to

Alexandria and Malta and Gibraltar.

The reason was that there was then no Suez Canal, else the saucy

craft would have steamed right away through into the Indian Ocean.

Round the Cape she must go therefore, but nobody minded this. The

Cape of Good Hope is rather a pleasant station than otherwise; and,

besides, time is of no object with a ship just newly commissioned,

for throe or four years being a very long time to look forward to, no

one thinks of looking.

The ship touched at Madeira, then stood straight away south--with not

much easterly in it--for Ascension and St. Helena.

After many days' sailing they sighted the beautiful Canary Islands,

and then the Cape de Verd Islands, getting pretty close to one which

I think was St. Antonio. But they did not land, for the breeze was a

spanking trade, and carried them on and on all day and all night, as

if their ship had been a fairy ship and the sea around a fairy sea.

There was certainly not much in the shape of adventure, however, and

not a deal to be seen; although Dr. Reikie, ever busy in the pursuit

of science, found much in that deep-blue sparkling ocean to interest

him: for he trailed little open gauze nets overboard, and the

animalcules that he caught thus and spread out on black card-board

with the aid of needles were extremely beautiful to behold. It

needed good eyes to see some of the worthy medico's specimens,

however. Here, for instance, were tiny transparent fishes,

seemingly, all perfect and complete, yet so small they could have

swum easily through the eye of a bodkin; little star-fish too, and

the drollest and daftest looking shrimps you could imagine, and these

were no bigger than the head of an old-fashioned pin. Under a large

magnifying-glass, however, you could see even the hearts of these

little fishes beating.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful!" Dr. Reikie would say; "and to think that

God made them all, and every tiny blood-vessel in their bits of

bodies."

One night about five bells in the first watch there was a cry of,

"Man overboard."

This was quickly followed by the bos'n's pipe--"Away, lifeboat's

crew."

But who was it? Everybody looked about on deck or below to see if

they missed a messmate.

Rattle-rattle, rumble-tumble, how those good fellows fly on deck!

Hardly a minute elapses ere the boat reaches the water on a level

keel and with a dull plash. Then there are the swish of the oars,

and the clunk-clunk in the rowlocks, as she speeds away astern.

The life-buoy has been lit and let go, and is burning brightly enough

far away astern yonder, and as speedily as possible the ship is hove

to.

For that life-buoy the men are now steadily pulling as if their own

lives depended on the strength of their brawny arms, while the

sub-lieutenant himself as coxswain stands tiller in hand in the stern

sheets.

What a long pull it seems to be! But they reach the beacon light at

last.

No soul is clinging there!

But a huge shark appears for a moment in the bright starlight, swims

half-way round the buoy, and disappears with an ugly plash.

"Ah, lads," says the officer, "that tiger of the seas has had his

supper. We can do no more. Stand by to ship the buoy."

This was got inboard and steadied forward in the bows, and after

pulling around slowly for a short time, the lifeboat was headed once

more for the now distant ship.

"Pull easy, men--pull easy."

The poor fellows were terribly pumped.

"Hark!" cried the first-class boy Harris. "Did you hear that cry,

sir?"

It was the same lad who had been planked by Sturdy for skylarking in

church: a bold and fearless young fellow he was.

"Hark, sir, there it is again!"

"Lie on your oars, men.--You must have 'cute ears, boy. I heard

nothing."

There wasn't a sound now except the "jabble" or lapping of the water

as the boat moved slowly up and down. The night was delightfully

clear; the stars so bright and near it seemed as though they were not

many oars' lengths overhead. The Southern Cross was particularly

brilliant. No clouds in the sky except a few rock-and-tower-shaped

ones low down on the western horizon, behind which the tropical

lightning played intermittently.

But never a sound.

"Hark again!" cried Harris.

Yes; every one heard it now--far down to leeward.

"It is but the cry of a bird," said the officer.

"It's only a Mother Carey's chicken," said the stroke.

"Round with her, lads," cried Sub-Lieutenant Wilson. "Give way port.

Off she dances. We'll soon see."

The beacon light was out, but a lantern was hung up, and away went

the lifeboat. Though I say life-boat, reader, remember she was but

an ordinary whaler.

After pulling for some time, they could hear the cries ahead

distinctly enough.

They answered with a vigorous shout, and redoubled their efforts, for

the cries were unmistakably those of a drowning man.

They ceased entirely after a time.

The good crew were in despair. They listened and listened in vain,

and were just putting about, when Harris dropped his oar, to the

astonishment of everybody, and sprang overboard like a flash.

In the side of a dark curling wave he had seen a white face. Next

minute he was ploughing along back towards the boat with one hand,

while with the other he supported the form of the drowned or drowning

man.

It was the doctor himself. While hauling in his net as he sat in the

dinghy that hung from the davits astern, he had somehow slued it and

gone head foremost into the sea.

For a long time he gave no signs of life. But his wet clothing was

speedily taken off, and he was laid on the men's coats. After fully

half an hour of rubbing and rolling, he gave a sigh and opened his

eyes. A little flask of brandy was held to his lips, a portion of

which he managed to swallow. He speedily revived now, and by the

time they got him on board he was able to tell his story. He did not

swim to the life-buoy, he said, because it was watched by a demon

shark that would undoubtedly have taken him down.

Next day he was able to resume his duties; but that boy Fred Harris

was the hero of the ship for many a week after this strange adventure.

CHAPTER XI.

A TRAGEDY--AULD REIKIE PURSUES SCIENCE

UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

For nine months, if not longer, the _Gurnet_ cruised around the Cape,

and along the east coast of Africa, as high up as the tropics, and as

low down as Algoa Bay. She took a run round once as far as Simon's

Bay.

Jack Mackenzie felt himself now to be a boy no longer. He had grown

taller, broader, and, I may add, browner.

Who could have foretold that the little ragged guttersnipe boy whom

big Tom Morgan found on that snowy Christmas eve, and took pity upon,

would have developed into so manly a young officer, walking the

quarter-deck of one of Her Majesty's cruisers, and feeling fit almost

to keep a watch all by himself.

We next find the _Gurnet_ at anchor in Bombay roadstead or harbour.

She looked small, indeed, beside some of the great East Indiamen

lying here, and almost hidden in the forest of masts everywhere

around her.

At this time the walls of Bombay were still standing, and a ditch ran

round a great portion of it. The British town was therefore far more

gloomy than it is now, and the native town perhaps a deal dirtier, if

that were possible. Nevertheless, Jack used to enjoy a run on shore

with his friend the doctor, for there was much to be seen and much to

study from a natural history point of view. So they never came off

without specimens of some kind.

"If I had a year to myself," said Dr. Reikie, "I would spend it in

studying anthropology and zoology in the old and new towns of Bombay."

Well, as regards these, one might go further and fare worse.

But every creature and human being, except restless Europeans, seemed

calm and contented here. The doctor and Jack, after a time, got into

a habit of just wandering about in the glorious sunshine and looking

at things, or they would hire a buggy and make the buggy-wallah drive

slowly about. A palkee or palanquin was another method of

progression the two sometimes adopted. They made the bearers walk

abreast, so that they could converse from their respective windows,

or ports, as Dr. Reikie called them.

A palanquin is really a kind of sedan chair, borne along on a long

bamboo pole by half-naked natives; only, instead of sitting you lie

at full length. My own experience of palkees leads me to say that in

such a mode of travelling one enjoys the _dolce far niente_ to

perfection, and people and things flit past you as if they were part

and parcel of a beautiful dream, or the transformation scene in a

pantomime. The natives are picturesque in the extreme--turbanned

Arabs; swarthy Parsees; fat Hindus; native servants of every

description; lazy blue-dressed native policemen; British soldiers in

scarlet coats; British blue-jackets; solemn-looking little cows with

humps and gilded horns; rings of workmen squatting on the foot-path

smoking opium; droll-looking birds called adjutants, that, assisted

by the bluebottle flies, do all the scavenging; and, last but not

least, rows of pretty maidens, dressed in rolls of silk of various

colours; with here and there bevies of beautiful children. The whole

forms a picture that never passes from the mind away.

The _Gurnet_ next went to Ceylon.

While on her voyage thither some stock-taking was done, and, to

Captain Gillespie's astonishment, the rum was short.

Who could the thief be? No one could get into the spirit-room

without the assistant-paymaster's orders or Lieutenant Sturdy's. It

was extremely puzzling. A watch was kept on the door, nevertheless;

but nothing was found out. Still the rum disappeared--more, that is,

than was taken out honestly. A small cask was taken up every day at

twelve. The bung was started, and the spirit drawn off with a

siphon. Then the cask was returned.

It was a case for a detective.

And that detective was forthcoming in the person of Auld Reikie, as

his messmates frequently called the honest doctor.

"I have it, Sturdy, I have it," he cried one forenoon, rushing into

the ward-room. "Man, there is nothing in a' the warld to beat the

glorious licht o' science."

"Well, heave round," said Sturdy, lighting a cigar; "show your

glorious 'licht,' as you call it."

"I'll do that, man. Listen, Sturdy; listen, my Lord Tomfoozle, for

I'll mak the truth apparent to even your feckless noddle."

"Thank you, Reikie," drawled Fitzgerald.

"Every day, then, the siphon is carried away _full_. You've only to

put your thumb on it and the thing's done. Watch the morn, Sturdy,

and you'll put your thumb on the culprits."

And Auld Reikie was right.

But the trick was so simple and yet so clever that the culprits were

allowed to escape with only a nominal punishment.

* * * * *

The bos'n was such a good fellow that no one could have believed he

had an enemy on board. He was, however, a strict-service man, and

nobody at sea can do his duty strictly without making at least one

foe.

It was Christmas time then, and the _Gurnet_ was still lying at

Bombay. Extra liberty had been granted to the men, which they did

not abuse more than usual; and as for the officers, many of them

spent nights on shore at entertainments got up in their behalf by

rich European merchants.

Jack himself was unusually happy on the Christmas eve, because only

the day before he had received a whole bundle of letters from

home--from his grandma, his mother, his sister, big Uncle Tom

himself, and his little cousin Violet, or Tottie as he liked to call

her. He had received a long, delightful letter also from Llewellyn.

His regiment, or a part of it, was then at Fort George.

Probably the memory of a long-gone-by Christmas eve tended to make

Jack all the brighter and happier on this particular night, but

certainly he had never felt brighter or more joyful.

The moon was shining brightly on the water as Dr. Reikie and he came

alongside and got quietly on board, for it was now

"The wee short oor ayont the twal."

They turned in almost immediately, but not before Jack had knelt

beside his chest and prayed for all the dear ones so far away.

It must have been well on towards six bells in the same watch when

the bos'n in his cabin was startled by hearing his curtain drawn back.

There was a feeble light outside, and he could just make out the

figure of a tall man in the doorway.

"Who is it? What do you want?"

"It's me, sir; it's Jack Bisset, the man you reported to the

commander. You were quite right, and though we haven't been friends

since, I couldn't sleep to-night of all nights--for it is Christmas

morning--till I came to shake hands and make it up."

"All right, Bisset. Let us be friends. I bear no ill-will."

He held out his right hand as he spoke.

This the sailor grasped tightly with his left, then aimed a murderous

blow at the poor bos'n's skull, with an iron bar or huge file.

The bos'n fell back; and thinking he had done his murderous work,

Bisset dropped the piece of iron and rushed up the ladder. He flew

past the sentry, and reaching the forecastle, leaped at once into the

sea.

Once again the shout of "Man overboard!" rang fore and aft, and every

one was aroused.

But the would-be murderer was seen but for a moment in the moonlight.

He threw up his arms as if making one last appeal to Heaven, then

sank like a stone.

The bos'n was not killed. The man's blow had missed the skull, but

cut the ear almost off.

So ended that tragedy.

* * * * *

At Bombay one of Dr. Reikie's friends had made him a present of a

photographic apparatus. This was a somewhat recent invention in

those days, and Auld Reikie was delighted beyond measure.

There would be no end to the scenes he might now depict. I believe

the possession of that lens and camera kept him awake for several

nights before he reached Ceylon.

There he refused all offers of sport. Elephant-hunting, anyhow, was

brutally cruel, he said, and he would find plenty of enjoyment with

his camera.

The worthy surgeon, on the ship's arrival at Trincomalee, formed a

resolve to astonish his messmates. He would give them a pleasant

surprise. He had already taken portraits on glass of the captain

himself, of Sturdy, a group of men, the ship's cat, and the mongoose.

He should now do something extra and special. Well, pleasant

surprises are always welcome, more particularly to officers on

foreign stations. So Dr. Reikie betook himself to the woods or bush.

There would be plenty of scope here for an effective picture--a

lovely bit of scenery, a treescape, with the sea and ships beyond,

perhaps. The pictures would aid the advance of science, and prove

even to Gribble, the assistant-paymaster, that mankind with the sword

of knowledge was moving onwards, ever onwards, conquering and to

conquer the world, ay, and the universe itself. Mind, he had told

his messmates a thousand times over, was not matter in motion, as

some shallow-minded philosophers would try to make out. The soul was

as high above the merely material as Sirius was beyond the earth.

The mind made use of matter only as a carpenter made use of a tool.

He went on shore, carrying his camera himself. He would not permit

even Jack Mackenzie to accompany him to-day. For to-day his pictures

would probably be little more than mere experiments. Even science

must advance by gradual steps and slow. When he became a little more

expert in the use of the camera, he--well, there is no saying what he

might not do.

He found at last the spot that suited him--a charming bit of scenery:

trees, rhododendrons just bursting into bloom, early though it was,

great masses of dark foliage, the bend of a stream, a rustic bridge,

and a distant mountain peak. He felt triumphant already. How

tenderly he handled his apparatus, how gingerly he set it up, and how

carefully he placed his head and shoulders under the black cloth!

Yes, there was the picture, upside down of course, but in colouring

complete--the most lovely miniature that ever his eyes had beheld.

And yonder--oh!

The "oh" was an expression of pain. Something had struck him from

behind. He tore off the black cloth and looked round, rubbing

himself as he did so. There was a huge nut lying near him; but who

could have thrown it? There was no one in sight, and no nut-tree

from which it could have fallen. It was strange, but he refused to

be discouraged, So he once more enveloped his head in the dark cloth,

when whiz! bump! another and another. It was serious; he must be

already black and blue.

What could it mean? The place was very lonesome. Not a sound was to

be heard except the ripple of the stream and the piping of a bird in

a bush near by. He was just a trifle superstitious, and he began to

think the wood must be haunted. He dismissed the idea at once,

however, as unworthy to be harboured by any scientific thinker.

To prove to himself that he was not afraid, he once more hid himself,

and began to make sure of his focus. He had got it as nearly perfect

as possible, when suddenly the black cloth was seized from behind and

rolled about his head. He felt a weight on his back, a cold and tiny

hand on the nape of his neck, and in the struggle to free himself the

tripod got mixed up with his legs, and down he rolled, camera and all.

[Illustration: He felt a weight on his back.]

He was white in the face with fear--yes, there is no other word for

it--when he at length succeeded in disentangling himself and getting

up. The matter was serious. There were more things in heaven and

earth and the woods of Ceylon than he had dreamt of in his

philosophy. He determined to retire, and that right speedily too.

So he bundled his things up hurriedly. He would never come here

alone again, he told himself.

But the cap of the camera could nowhere be found. Dr. Reikie was a

man of method and regularity, and he made sure he had laid it down

just there. Well, it must have been spirited away.

He was bending down to pick up a strap, when crack! upon his bare

head came the missing cap. His astonishment now knew no bounds; but

on looking up, behold an old, very old man with a long white beard

bearing down towards him, staff in hand, through a neighbouring glade.

Was this, then, the evil spirit of the place that had wrought all the

mischief? Was this--

"Good-morning, sir. Glad to see you on my domains."

"Thank you; but really, sir--"

"Perhaps you would like to come up to my bungalow and drink a glass

of sherbet. It is quite close. I am a sailor, like yourself, and a

naturalist. I have quite a menagerie up here, and was just coming to

look for two mischievous rascals of baboons that have escaped."

"Baboons!" said the doctor, rubbing himself once more; "did you say

baboons, sir?"

"Ah! there come the rascals."

Next moment two splendid specimens of the agile gibbon (_Hylobates

agilis_) came bounding from a tree with screams of delight.

"Oo--ah--ee!" they cried.

They stood nearly four feet high, and their faces were a study of

blended fun and mischief. Such droll-looking apes Dr. Reikie had

never seen before.

He told the stranger all about his adventure, and as they walked

towards the naturalist's bungalow they had a hearty laugh over it.

Mr. Starley, as he was called, had a wonderful collection of curios

and pets, and at his house Dr. Reikie and Jack also became constant

visitors all the time the ship lay here.

CHAPTER XII.

TOM FINCH AND THE SHARK--SHOOTING IN THE

DISMAL SWAMP--DEATH AND PROMOTION.

It took the _Gurnet_ a year and a half more to complete even

two-thirds of her circuit, and this was in reality a voyage round the

world of a far more complete nature than any offered by ocean racers

nowadays, that do little more than touch at a port, hurry the

passengers through the sights, and go off again. There is a vast

deal of difference, as every man-o'-war sailor could tell you,

between "doing" the world and "seeing" the world. Perhaps the best

way to see the world would be to have a yacht of one's own, and to

forget there is any such word as "time" in the dictionary. But,

alas! few of us are born with silver spoons in our mouths, so we must

be content to stay at home and read.

But the _Gurnet_ sailed for the Chinese seas from Ceylon, then

visited Java, and next straight away for Australia and New Zealand.

After this she steered east and by south straight for stormy Cape

Horn, rounding which, amid terrible dangers owing to a gale that

drove her--after an accident to her machinery--among the icebergs,

she bore up along the coast of South America till past Pernambuco,

when the course was changed to north-north-west; and so we find her

at long last safe at anchor at Port Royal, Jamaica.

Except for the breakdown in the machinery off the Horn, the _Gurnet_

had not met with a single mishap since she had left the China seas.

All had gone well. All hands--thanks perhaps to Dr. Reikie's care

and attention, and to the first lieutenant's regard for cleanliness

and hygiene--were happy and healthy.

* * * * *

It was now the commencement of what may well be called an unhappy

year for Britain--1854--in which we entered upon the war in the

Crimea; a war which proved, if anything ever did, that Britain's sons

can hold their own, can fight and suffer and die by the sword or by

sickness, no matter how badly affairs may be managed by those who sit

at ease at home and pull the strings that move great fleets and

armies.

But war had not yet been declared; and although it seemed to be known

at headquarters here, in garrison and on board ship, that it was

looming in the near distance, no one considered that it would be

otherwise than simply an affair of a few months, a mere military

parade and picnic, a little outing for our troops, with just enough

fighting for them and our blue-jackets to give it zest and flavour.

How greatly every one was mistaken events will show.

Things still went on on board the old _Gurnet_, as she was now

endearingly called, much in the same way as before. Dr. Reikie,

though never relaxing his duties on board, nor neglecting a single

patient, however humble, found plenty of time to continue the pursuit

of science, often, it must be confessed, under the greatest and

drollest difficulties.

The camera, however, he had given up. He had found it unsuitable for

his purposes, and so it lay in the obscurity of a locker beneath his

cot. But just think for a moment, reader, what a power this

instrument has become in our day, what an aid to science and art, in

war as well as peace, and even to the advancement of that greatest of

all sciences, though only in its infancy, astronomy! For by its

assistance myriads of stars beyond the ken of the most powerful

telescopes have been revealed.

Well, as the _Gurnet_ must lie here for a few months, her officers

settled down to take things pretty easy, each according to his own

taste or bent.

There were excursions to be made by land and by sea--these would suit

the doctor at all events; there were parties and balls afloat and

ashore--Jack and the junior officers, including Gribble the A.P.,

would go in for these; and there were whist parties and dinners, at

which both the captain and his first lieutenant were sure to be

present.

Jack's great ambition was to catch a shark. He expected to see them

basking in the sunshine or green transparent sunlit water all around

the ship.

"In the olden times," he asked Sturdy, who had been here before,

"didn't there used to be a very large shark borne on the hooks of the

flag-ship and fed with a ration of pork every day, to prevent the men

from swimming on shore?"

"Yes," said Sturdy, laughing; "though it wasn't in my day. But at

the little village of Twyford in England, in the almshouse, there

used to live, and I think lives till this day, an old sailor who,

being desirous to go a-boozing, as it is called, swam on shore

alongside the shark nearly all the way."

"What! and the shark didn't swallow him?"

"No; I reckon he didn't, Jack, else he would hardly be alive to tell

the story every Christmas evening."

"Well, sir, how did he manage?"

"Oh, simply enough. He chose a clear moonlight night, when you could

have seen down to the very bottom of the harbour. The sentry was in

the know, though not in the swim. In fact, Tom Finch promised to

smuggle him off a drop of grog if he turned his back and kept looking

astern while the daring sailor dropped quietly over the bows.

"Tom Finch was a splendid swimmer, and he had not burdened himself

with a superfluity of garments; but he had three necessaries of life,

as he called them: item--a pretty-well-lined purse; item--a big

canvas bag containing pieces of pork for the government shark; and

item--a big, sharp dagger, with which, he told his messmates, he

would rip that tiger of the seas open from stem to stern if he didn't

play fair."

"But," said Jack, "weren't there other sharks about as well as the

tame one?"

"He wasn't tame, Jack, by any means; but he was king of the water,

and when he sailed round, all the others kept at a respectful

distance. So Tom Finch could have had no better convoy.

"Well, Tom struck out. But he soon found that this swim of his was

going to be no child's play. The distance hadn't looked very

insurmountable from the fo'c's'le-head, nor was it; but Tom hadn't

considered the tidal current.

"He had swum probably fifty yards, when, as silently as a ghost,

there slid up to his very side a great shark. Tom could just see it

with the tail of his eye. Indeed, he says its cold, smooth nose

touched the back of his hand. At the same moment he made the

horrible discovery that this was not the shark.

"Thinking it was all up with him, he was just about to draw his

knife, when dashing through the water came the ship's shark himself.

There was no mistaking him. He made straight for the first comer.

"'That's Tom Finch,' he seemed to say. 'He's my man and my meat, if

he's anybody's.'

"There was no fight between the two sharks, but there must have been

a long race, for it was some time before the huge monster returned.

"Now, Jack," continued Sturdy, "I must tell you the rest of the story

as old Tom Finch himself related it to the ancient dames in the

almshouse not four years ago. I must premise, however, that the poor

people are allowed a drop of beer at Christmas, and Tom Finch had

drunk his own and had a sup from everybody else's mug.

"'"An' did the shark come back, Tom?" said old Sally.

"'Ah! that he did, Sally, and I was main glad to see him too. There

was pork enough in my bag for him, but not for a score, you know.

"'"Good-evening," says Mr. Shark, quite polite like. "It is Tom

Finch, isn't it?"

"'"That's me," says I. "I hopes I sees you. How's the wife and all

the little 'uns?"

"'You see, ladies, I wanted to keep him talking as long as I could,

to make the pork last.

"'"They're all nicely," he says. "But now, Tom, I must do my duty.

I mustn't take the Queen's bounty for nothing. I've got to make a

meal of you!"

"'"Duty's duty," I replies, swimming as hard as I knew how to; "and a

very toothsome meal I'll make. But, my dear friend, how would a nice

bit of pork do to begin with?"

"'"On with you then," says he, "if you've got it."

"'"Lie round on your side then, Mr. Shark, and open your pretty

little mouth."

"'Round he lies as docile as a cat, and opens a mouth as big as the

almshouse door there. I could have slit him down the stomach then

and there; but Tom Finch never did a mean thing--thank you, ladies, I

will taste again--so I just pitched him a piece of pork, and he

caught it like a dog would a morsel of biscuit.

"'Then he winked to me.

"'"More!" he cries,

"'I flung the other piece as far as I could fling it.

"'"Don't do that again, Tom," he says, "else I'll have to begin at

the other end of the banquet."

"'My heart began to quake a little now, and the shore seemed a longer

way off than ever. I tell you what, ladies, I was getting a bit

funky. But there was nothing for it but heave another bit o' pork.

"'"Are you quite ready?" I cries.

"'"Quite ready, Tom."

"'"You're sure?"

"'The shark lashed the water with his tail, and I knew he was losing

his temper; so I sung out, "Play!" and threw the pork.

"'"More! more! more!"

"'La! ladies, I began to sweat with fear. The pork wouldn't hold out

much longer, and then I knew as well what would happen, Sally, as I

know what's in your pewter pot--thanks. So I threw and threw, and

was soon down to the last morsel.

"'"I'm going to give you bag and all this time, Mr. Shark," says I;

"you'll find the bag toothsome and tasty."

"'"Heave away," he cries; and I whips off the bag and takes out my

knife at the same time. The struggle would soon begin. But as good

luck would have it, I now found myself not far off the steps.

"'A light glimmered, and a black sentry appeared.

"'I threw the bag to my friend the shark.

"'"Who goes dere free times?" shouted the sentry. Bang went the

musket immediately. The bullet tore up the water; but as the sentry

had fired at me, of course he didn't touch me.*

* The black sentries on duty at night in or near the dockyards at

Jamaica had orders to challenge "Who goes there?" three times, and to

fire in the event of not receiving an answer. Their plan, however,

was to shout, "Who goes dere free times?" and immediately fire.

"'"Good-bye, Tom," says the shark; "I'm off. Good luck to you till

we meet again!"

"'"And may all the bad weather go with you, you ugly beast," says I.

"But I'm safe now, and hurrah for a jolly time of it!"

"'I landed further down, and--that's all the story. Well, here's

your good health again, ladies.'"

* * * * *

But Jack saw plenty of sharks after a time, and more than one was

captured. It is about as poor sport, however, and as cruel as

shooting alligators in the swamps.

* * * * *

I have now to describe a rather melancholy event which occurred here

at Jamaica on board the _Gurnet_, which no one deplored more than

Jack Mackenzie, although it led indirectly to his promotion.

We must go back a few weeks in our narrative, however, to describe

how it happened, or rather to give you, as Dr. Reikie would have

said, the primary cause of the sad affair.

The _Gurnet_, then, had called at Grey Town, Central America, and had

been detained there for about a fortnight; so to pass the time a

picnic and big pigeon-shoot were determined upon.

On the swampy island on which the party landed--the party consisting

of the A.P. Gribble, the sub-lieutenant, Dr. Reikie, and Jack

himself, with a boat's crew, and plenty of prog and grog--there were

any number of pigeons on the trees, and almost an equal number of

alligators in the swamps. As sly as sin these horrid brutes

looked--they seemed to watch every movement of the sportsmen; and

slow in movement though they appeared to be at the edge of the water,

had any one fallen in they would have darted on him from every point

of the compass with lightning speed, and torn him limb from limb more

quickly than could be described.

The gunning went on all the forenoon, and by mid-day a very big bag

had been made. The exercise, too, had made the sportsmen hungry; so

what more natural than that they should light a fire and have a good

dinner? Pork and roasted pigeons go well together, and neither

biscuits, butter, nor the salt had been forgotten. The birds were

spitted on ramrods and done to a turn, and all hands admitted it was

the best meal they had eaten since they had left old England.

Then all sat round the camp fire smoking and yarning just as sailors

will.

But suddenly the sky began to grow dark; the wind began to moan, and

drive the smoke and fire about. A brilliant flash of lightning

followed, and a startling peal of thunder. Then big drops of rain

commenced to fall, and in a minute more a tropical shower burst over

them in all its fury. Dr. Reikie was fain to confess that this

shower beat all the showers ever he had known, including even a

Scotch mist. There was no shelter, and in a few minutes' time every

one was drenched to the skin.

Almost as speedily as they had banked up did the clouds go drifting

away seaward, and once again the sun blazed out with redoubled fury.

Now, to permit one's clothes to dry on one's back in cases of this

kind is not the best of policy. But what were they to do? Well,

there was only one alternative, and that was adopted. They speedily

built up a huge fire therefore, though being wet the wood took some

time to ignite; then they stripped to the skin, retaining only a kind

of kilt or cummerbund depending from the waist, and while the clothes

were drying they all ran off to the woods and spent the time in

playing at being savages.

The result of this shooting expedition in the dismal swamp was, that

in a few days all who had taken part in it were down with ague.

The doctor himself and Jack soon threw off their attack, but on the

arrival of the ship at Port Royal, both the A.P. and sub-lieutenant

had to be sent to hospital.

Gribble got better from the day he entered, but it was soon apparent

to every one that the sub-lieutenant would not get over it, and one

forenoon Dr. Reikie returned on board with the melancholy

intelligence that the poor fellow was no more.

This cast a gloom over the ship--for all liked the brave young

fellow--that it took some time to dispel.

Sorrow, however, is a plant that thrives but badly in a climate like

that of Jamaica, and I think the same may be said for other tropical

climates--notably, perhaps, that of India. For six weeks I myself

lay ill in Bombay of rheumatic fever, but during all that time I

never had a single fit of depression or lowness of spirits.

Things then soon resumed their usual level on board the _Gurnet_.

Gribble came back from hospital; Mr. Fitzgerald, _alias_ Lord

Tomfoozle, was appointed acting sub-lieutenant; and Jack Mackenzie

became senior, because sole midshipman, of the ship.

CHAPTER XIII.

PADDY'S HYBRID--"A QUARE, QUARE BASTE, SORR"--TRICKY

NIGGERS--BLACK MAN AS COOK--WAR DECLARED.

I think there is no more grateful man than your honest blue-jacket or

marine if he receives a favour; and Paddy O'Rayne never forgot Dr.

Reikie's kindness to him after that accident of his at

Constantinople, when he went on shore to visit the "unspakeable Turk."

"He might have planked me for it," he told his messmates more than a

dozen times, "and got my grog and my leave stopped for months, sure.

But my jewel av a master didn't; and troth it's meself that lives in

the hope of seeing him in the clutches of the lion or tiger, or

drowning in the deep say before my very eyes, just that I may have

the pleasure of saving his loife entoirely."

This might have been, and doubtless was intended as a good wish;

still it was a somewhat strange one. Only Paddy meant it.

And the honest fellow, too, was constantly trying to do little things

to please his master.

Knowing the fondness that the doctor had for getting hold of all

kinds of natural history curios, never a time did Paddy go on shore

without bringing him something. But most of these were of little

use, and speedily found their way overboard.

One day, for example, Paddy came off from shore in great glee. He

and a messmate had been spending the day in the woods.

"You'll niver guess, sorr, what I've brought you to-day. Sure, I'd

have caught it alive if I could; but he wouldn't stop, so I shot it,

and I've got it here in my cap right enough."

"And what is it, Paddy?"

"It's what they calls a hybrute [hybrid], sorr, and it's neither fish

nor flesh nor good red herring. It's got the body of a snake, and

two legs like a lizard. Och, sure, sorr, it's a quare, quare baste

indade."

"Well, turn it out, Paddy, and don't excite my curiosity any more."

Paddy did as he was told, and carefully opened his cap on top of the

skylight, and out dropped what certainly looked like a "very quare

baste indeed." It was getting dusk, so this added to the uncanny

appearance of the creature.

Sturdy, Jack, and even Captain Gillespie crowded round.

"Ugh!" said the latter; "I wouldn't touch it for the world."

Dr. Reikie was delighted.

"Paddy," he said, "you're a jewel."

"Me mother says the same, sorr."

"Gentlemen," said the doctor, "I have all along been a believer in

hybrids. Granted, they may be accidental, even unnatural.

Nevertheless, here you have a specimen before you--a hybrid between

the snake and the lizard. You see the long body; you see the legs

near the creature's shoulder--two legs only. Dissection may probably

reveal two rudimentary limbs farther aft. This specimen, gentlemen,

shall grace the museum at Edinburgh, and I--"

Here he picked the creature up by the tail, when, lo and behold, out

tumbled a frog from the mouth of a snake. The latter had swallowed

the frog, all but the hind quarters. Everybody roared with laughter,

and the doctor's face grew a fathom long, more or less. The frog was

alive, and rubbing one of its eyes; the snake was dead: but the

doctor was never allowed to forget his hybrid.

* * * * *

Having in a former book described the scenery, the tree-scapes, and

mountains and glens in Jamaica, and the beautiful ocean

around--beautiful even in the grandeur of its storms--I have no

desire to repeat, but I must say that Jack Mackenzie lost no

opportunity of going on shore with Dr. Reikie. A day with him in the

woods and wilds, if it were merely bird, beetle, or butterfly

hunting, was a picnic never to be forgotten; and our young hero

learned something every time, and was soon convinced that natural

history is the most pleasant of all earthly studies. Nor did a day

spent on shore ever pass without some little adventure or other worth

remembering. Many of these were rather comical than otherwise.

During their escapades inland the two friends saw a good deal of

black men's life. Dr. Reikie found some of these fellows handy in

carrying specimens; they also acted as guides when the two explorers

went far inland. As regards the ethics of these men, I think they

were what the doctor called them--"honest with good looking after."

They were fond of "a dram," too, and would drink the white Jamaica

rum fresh and hot from the stills. It used to make their eyes start

almost out of their sockets. They liked it for that very reason.

But Dr. Reikie had on board a dram, which he gave them when they

helped him off with his curios, that they liked even better than

this--namely, what is called "Cape smoke," about the strongest and

vilest spirit there is. The surgeon found it handy for keeping small

specimens in.

"Ah, dat is good, massa," a nigger would say as soon as he had

recovered his breath after swallowing half a tumblerful neat--"dat is

good; it makes me say 'Huh!'"

Fond of a good joke some of those niggers were, too. They seemed to

know that man-o'-war sailors will eat almost anything.

One day when the cotton was in "pod" some niggers enticed a party of

blue-jackets into a plantation.

"Dere is some bery good pea to eat heah, gentlemans," they said.

The jackie-tars did not require a second invitation, but began

tearing the "pods" open. When, however, they got the fluff among

their teeth, and the niggers began to laugh, they soon desisted, and

the darkies had to fly.

Was it love of fun or love for cash, I wonder, that was to account

for the following? The John Crow or Turkey buzzard (_Vultur aura_)

is, like all his race, one of the most filthy and disgusting of

birds. But one day, as an Irish merchant skipper was about to sail,

a nigger boarded him.

"I sellee you cheap," he said, "some bery good turkey."

The head of this horrid buzzard, I should tell you, is very like that

of the turkey, and the nigger had plucked the bodies.

After attempting to beat the man down in his price for a minute or

two, the skipper bought these "turkeys," and the nigger came on shore

chuckling to himself.

What the end of the story was I cannot say, but I should have liked

to see that skipper's face when the buzzards were cooked and served

up.

* * * * *

In his pursuit of science--as usual under difficulties--Dr. Reikie

and his young friend Jack went once upon a cruise among some small

tropical islands. They took with them a nigger who assured them he

was an excellent cook.

They took the man on his own recommendation. On the first day this

black cook presented them with an excellent fry of sea-gull and pork.

I suppose the nigger must have skinned the gulls, for if not so

treated they are apt to taste somewhat peculiar.

On the second day they returned to the beach, where they had pitched

their little camp, hungrier than on the previous evening. The doctor

had been successful in making a capital bag, and securing many

specimens that he believed, when placed in Edinburgh Museum, would

hand down his name to posterity. They were looking forward,

therefore, to a good feed.

Sambo met them. He was grinning good-naturedly from ear to ear.

"Ah, massa," he cried, "you hab one bery good dinnah to-day."

So it was served. You will believe me it was a failure when I inform

you that Sambo had made a kind of Irish stew of sea-gulls, pork,

fish, and roots all boiled up together!

* * * * *

Just one other example of negro cookery and negro innocence.

In the grounds of Jamaica hospital there were some fine tamarind

trees, in which the very smallest known species of humming-bird used

to build its nest and rear its tiny young. I do not say it was not

cruel of Dr. Reikie to shoot these birds, but he wanted some

specimens very much. But the smallest shot blew the birds to the

back of the north wind apparently, and the doctor was in despair.

Paddy O'Rayne stood by him. Paddy was scratching his poll in a

considering kind of way.

"Have you got an idea, Paddy?" said the doctor.

"Indade and I have, sorr. If ye want to kill the burds, sorr, widout

injuring them at all, troth it's a pinch of gunpowder and a thrifle

of sago you must be after using."

Paddy was right for once. But now came a new difficulty. How should

he preserve the lovely creatures? They were far too tiny to skin.

He got over this by simply wrapping them in brown paper, and drying

or desiccating them on the hob of the hospital kitchen.

Well, one day he gave three nicely-shot and beautiful specimens to

the nigger cook to do for him. What were his surprise and disgust to

have them brought to him by the black fellow on a plate!

"Him done now, massa," he said.

Yes, indeed, they were done, for he had removed the paper and cooked

them, feathers and all.

* * * * *

There is a species of dove or pigeon out in Jamaica that the niggers

themselves consider rather delicate eating, or at all events are very

fond of. It (_Zenaida amabilis_) suffers much from the biting of

mosquitoes. Well, the niggers know this, and so they make a fire

under a tree and heap green wood thereon to make a smoke. This

drives the insects off; and well the doves know it does, for they

soon come and settle on the tree, preferring the smoke to the

mosquito bites. But, alas! they are out of the frying-pan into the

fire, as they speedily fall victims to the guns of the niggers.

* * * * *

But cases of cholera were getting rife, and so the _Gurnet_ was

ordered to sea at last. She now bore up for the lone Bermudas, a

group of islands that lie many degrees to the north and east of the

West Indies.

The Bermudas are said to be the loveliest islands on this earth.

They are certainly very beautiful; but, strange to say, one always

seems to think every group of tropical islands he comes to, while

sailing here and there across the ocean, more lovely and fairy-like

than the last. The words of the poet rise to my mind, however, as I

think of Bermuda:--

"Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that rowed along,

The listening winds received this song,--

'What should we do but sing His praise

That led us through the watery maze

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?'"

There are more than a hundred islands here, great and small; but at

the time of the visit thereto of the _Gurnet_, probably not more than

a dozen were inhabited.

Steam was up in the ship when she first sighted lights, about four

bells in the middle watch; and owing to the number of rocks and

shoals about, it was deemed advisable to keep well off until morning.

Dr. Reikie and Jack were both on deck early, and the scene that met

their view seemed like one of enchantment. Some of those verdant

isles seemed to be floating in the clouds. But dark rocks were seen

here and there like the backs of monster whales, and over these the

sea-green water broke and moaned and boomed in long lines of

snow-white surf. Farther off to the right and left the ocean was

basking in the sunlight, a deep and cerulean blue, with here and

there a patch of opal or green where the coral or weedy bottom showed

through.

"Man," said Dr. Reikie, "isn't it fine?"

"Oh, it is charming!" cried Jack, with enthusiasm.

"And," added the doctor, "if we only stay here for a month, let alone

two, as Captain Gillespie expects, the Edinburgh Museum will hardly

be able to docket all my specimens."

"But see, on the flag-staff on the fort yonder they are making

signals," said Jack Mackenzie.

"Ay, Jack; but no' to us. They're speaking to that wee vision of a

gunboat far away yonder. I guess they'll talk to us presently."

* * * * *

For once in a way Dr. Reikie was disappointed, and the Edinburgh

Museum must have been a very great loser indeed. For when Captain

Gillespie returned from the flag-ship, the news he brought was very

exciting indeed, not to say startling.

War had been declared against Russia, and the very gunboat they had

seen had orders for the _Gurnet_--which her commander (a lieutenant

he was) had not expected to meet here--to proceed eastwards with all

speed, and wait further orders at Gibraltar.

END OF BOOK FIRST.

Book Second.

_FOR HONOUR AND GLORY._

CHAPTER I.

"BLOW, GOOD WIND, AND WAFT US EAST."

War, war, war! Yes; war was the cry, from Land's End to John o'

Groat's. In England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, war, war, war! In

the drawing-rooms of the wealthy, in the humblest cottar's hut far

away on Highland hillsides, you heard that song; it was sung by

prince and peer and peasant, in theatre and concert and gutter. And

even in churches, bishops, in their sleeves of lawn, prayed to Heaven

to bless our arms, and for the "God of battle" to fight on our behalf.

Oh, Britain was valiant, Britain was brave in those days, just as she

would be were war to be declared to-morrow against any nation, no

matter which.

And we were in the right, too. So everybody believed, so everybody

said.

Turkey, for this once at all events, was a poor, down-trodden

country; Russia the cowardly, Russia the aggressive and grasping, had

her heel upon her neck.

"Holy Russia!" Yes, there were many who made use of those two little

words, and spoke them with a sneer. Holy, indeed! Was she not the

vilest, the most ignorant and tyrannical nation on earth--a nation of

slaves and serfs domineered over by an emperor who, if he could find

no one else to trample under foot, would make war upon his own

people, would throw them into prison if they but dared to call their

heads their own; who tore the newly-married wife from the arms of her

husband, lacerated her tender flesh with the knout, and sent her in

chains to die amidst the snows of Siberia?

Holy Russia, indeed! Nay, but Russia the despot. Every portion of

her bygone history was raked up to help to fill the bill against

her--so far, that is, as Britons knew anything about it; all that

poets told us about poor Poland for instance, and sang to us about

Warsaw's last champion; all about Ivan the Terrible, and goodness

knows what else. And Russia was the same now--just as cruel, just as

dark-hearted, as blood-thirsty, and tyrannical as ever. Down with

her! Back with her to her own Siberian wilds! Crush her, annihilate

her!

Yes, certainly; and after we had done all this we should return

thanks to Him who had given us the victory--feast and _fête_ our

brave soldiers and sailors, or what remained of them--make a kind of

a Christmas-time of it, even though it should be midsummer, and eat

and drink until we should be ill. Hurrah for war!

But was Russia wholly to blame for the sad Crimean War? And was

Russia really so bad as she was called? Did we not rather jump to

the conclusion that this great kingdom was all vile and evil, just

because we knew nothing at all about it? When I say "we," I of

course refer to the ordinary British public.

Nowadays, be it remembered, dear reader, what with school boards,

county councils, extra newspapers, and so on and so forth, the public

is becoming more enlightened; and if we were going to war now, the

people would probably ask their leaders, political and otherwise,

what the quarrel was about, and why they were ordered to peel off

their spare clothes and go for the enemy pell-mell. And their

leaders would feel it incumbent upon them to supply the desired

information--that is to say, if they themselves knew anything about

it. But in old Crimean times the people were more easily pleased,

and took everything for granted that was told them. They were led by

the nose, not by the intellect. If you had asked any body of British

workmen in those days why the country was going to war, their answer

would have been, "'Cause we are. The Russians want whopping--the

papers all say so--and we're going to whop them."

Then if you had said, "But what have they done? what have they done?"

the workmen would have repeated, "Why, what is it they haven't done?

What is it they ain't always a-doing of? Just read the Parleymintary

reports for yourself. Is it likely we would go to war if we didn't

oughter to? Anyhow we're goin' to fight. Fetch 'em out. Hurray!"

I am told--though personally I was but a boy then--that the ignorance

displayed in what is called society, or the "upper circles," was

about on a par with that of the British workman concerning the causes

that led to the war, and that even some so-called statesmen were

densely ignorant on this subject. They had to read up quite a deal

before they dare submit themselves to a "heckling" at dinner-parties

or over the walnuts and the wine.

Over the walnuts and wine, indeed, some of those great statesmen were

less nervous, and could speak more freely, knowing from their own

experience that very little of what was said would be remembered next

day.

And now--although I should be very sorry indeed to hamper this story

of mine by talking politics--it will do you, reader, no harm to know

that at this time the Russian peasant or artisan in town or country

was--and probably is even yet--an ignorant, good-natured, frequently

drink-besotted, credulous, hard-working "sumph," with a good deal of

poetry and romance in his nature, nevertheless, and not a little real

piety. He lived, perhaps, very much the same sort of life as our own

peasantry did before the days of education dawned and the press began

to guide and sway public opinion. Next to things heavenly, this

people considered it their duty to obey the behests of their emperor

and those in authority above them. When I add that ignorance caused

them to have just the same erroneous impressions of us as we had of

them, I think I have said enough to bring the quality of the Russian

peasant before your mind's eye. It was from his ranks that the

soldiery were drawn; only after they joined their regiments they were

led to believe that Britain was a nation of savages, and that the

true faith was not in it; rather, indeed, would its people trample on

the most holy things, murder priests at their altars, and desecrate

and burn temples and shrines. The Russian soldier, if he thought at

all, looked upon his country as a kind of Holy Land, and he himself

as a soldier of the Faith and of the Cross.

Well, my own opinion is that the next best thing to fighting an enemy

is to respect him, and I am quite sure that if we--the Russians and

the British--had known more of each other in those old days, we would

have loved each other a little more, even while cutting each other's

throats. This reads a little paradoxical, does it not? But if my

theory is carried a little further, how then? Why, we should have no

bloody wars at all. For the more nations know each other, the more

they sympathize with each other; sympathy makes us charitable, even

to our neighbours' shortcomings; sympathy begets love, and love makes

us sheathe the sword: so war becomes impossible. It is love of this

kind that is to lead the millennium in; but knowledge has got to go

before--we must not forget that.

* * * * *

"I say, sir," said Jack Mackenzie to Mr. Sturdy one night, as they

sat together on the skylight, while the good ship _Gurnet_ was

speeding onwards and eastwards over the Atlantic, with every stitch

of canvas drawing that she could bear, and stun'-sails alow and

aloft,--"I say, sir, what is our immediate cause of quarrel with

Russia?"

"A very pretty question, Jack; a parson couldn't have put it in

better English. But really, lad, a parson might be a fitter man to

answer it than a rough sailor like me. Seems to me, however, and

from what I learned on board the _Limpet_, that Russia thinks it is

high time to reform Turkey."

"To reform her with the sword?"

"Ay, ay, lad--the old fashion. To improve the greatest portion of

her off the face of the earth, and to sweep all the Turks who won't

turn Christian back into the land of heathendom--that is, clean out

of Europe into Asia."

"Seems very mindful of Russia, doesn't it, sir? And if successful,

does she expect no reward?"

"Reward? why, yes; and a proud reward too. She, and she alone, is to

rule where Turkey now rules; to have complete possession of the

Bosphorus and the Dardanelles--take a look at your map, lad, when you

go below--and thus have the freedom of the Mediterranean, and a

sea-board on the warmer and sunnier southern climes. No wonder that

such a prospect dazzles the Czar, and even his people.

"And no more fitting time, he believes, could be than the present,

Jack. Russia, you see, is trying her hand at the construction of a

new map of Europe. It would be a very handy map for the Czar, but a

very expensive one for other Powers. If we--the British, for

instance--desired to hold our own, to keep Malta, Alexandria, or to

open up a near route to our possessions in India, we should have then

to maintain a fleet in the Mediterranean at least three times as

large as it now is. But France, to say nothing of Prussia and Italy,

has also interests to protect. It would suit neither to see Russia

acquiring a splendid new capital--namely, Constantinople--and

therefore holding the key of the Mediterranean."

"Ahem!" said Jack. "Of course I don't know enough to argue on either

side. But, sir, doesn't it seem a little rough on Russia to be

locked up in the icy north, and to have no outlet to the southern

seas?"

"She might have, lad--she might have, if she could be trusted. But

she won't play fair. She wants to eat all the pie, and give nobody

else a plum. As for Austria, if Russia gets hold on Turkey, she gets

command of the Danube at the same time, and would in time, no doubt,

turn that country, _nolens volens_, into a province of her own."

"The Russians must be very ambitious and aspiring."

"Yes; and now the Czar, having, as he thinks, made a friend of the

youthful or boyish Emperor of Austria, believes the time has come for

a _coup de main_. Well, Jack, if one man desires to pick a quarrel

with another, and to hit him across the bows, some excuse very soon

presents itself. And so war between these two countries--Turkey and

Russia--has been hinged upon some dispute concerning the holy places

of Palestine."

"Holy Russia!" said Jack.

"Holy Russia may be right enough, Jack, as far as the innocent people

are concerned; but I believe the Emperor Nicholas to be a sly,

underhand dog. The dispute was of a very simple nature, lad. There

are in Palestine a Greek Church and a Latin Church. Russia is

champion of the Greek, France favours the Latin Church, and the

question came to be which of these should hold the key of the Church

of Bethlehem; and the Turks, in trying to please both Powers, so

offended Holy Russia that she sent south two great army corps to the

Danubian Principalities, and at the same time dispatched Prince

Menschikoff as an envoy to Constantinople to intimidate, if not to

coerce, the Sultan."

"And what did the Sultan do? bastinado the Prince?"

"That might certainly have precipitated matters. But the Turks are

an indolent, easy-minded kind of a people, who fight well, but only

when forced; so they caved in, as we call it."

"Acceded to Russia's demands?"

"That's better English. But listen, lad. The Czar, seeing now that

he couldn't get ends to meet in one way, tried another. There are a

very large number of Christians in Turkey, and over these the Emperor

of all the Russias next demanded a complete protectorate!

"It was the delusion, Jack, therefore, that we did not see through

his ultimate designs, and that the British lion was harnessed to the

plough-stilts, and never likely to lift an angry paw, which led the

Czar to be so threatening towards Turkey as to cause that country to

declare war against Russia, which she did on the twenty-third of

October 1853. The next thing that happened was that, with the view

of protecting their interests, France and Britain sent their combined

fleets off to the Bosphorus.

"'If,' thought the Czar to himself, 'we can get Britain to keep

quiet, we may snap our fingers at the other Powers, and crush Turkey

up like an empty egg-shell. And John Bull is far too busy attending

to trade and making money to bother about the Ottoman Empire. If

John Bull does, why, I can suggest his having Egypt and Candia.'

"The despatch of the fleets to the Bosphorus was not a declaration of

war, but a kind of a display of physique under the title of moral

suasion, just as when two men peel to fight, Jack.

"Meanwhile, you see the people of our isle have been watching the

manoeuvres of the big bully. To begin with, they didn't like the

insolent arrogance of Menschikoff in Constantinople; but when news

came that the Russians, with six line-o'-battle ships, had attacked a

squadron of light Turkish vessels at anchor in the harbour of Sinope

in the Black Sea, and utterly destroyed them and their crews--a

holocaust, my boy, of between 4,000 and 5,000 men--then Britain cried

'Shame!"'

"It was time," said Jack.

"Yes; and we now brought our moral suasion to bear even on the boy

Kaiser of Austria. Russia must evacuate the Danubian Principalities.

This demand was made by united Britain and France in February of this

year, Jack (1854). At this time it was supposed that the war would

be one on the Danube. But the Kaiser moved 50,000 men up to the

frontier, which the Czar had seized--showing plainly that she means

to join the scrimmage if need be.

"Well, Jack, of course we can't tell what is doing now out there, but

very likely they are all at it hammer and tongs, for in March the

French and British declared war."

"Terrible, isn't it, sir?"

"Well, yes, in a manner of speaking," said bold Sturdy; "only, you

see, war means promotion for you and me. As far as I am concerned,

lad, promotion has been a jolly long time of coming, and I'm not

going to say a word against the war now that I see my captaincy

heaving in sight above the horizon, Meanwhile, Jack--blow, good wind,

and waft us east; for whatever happens, I should, I must confess,

like to see a little of the fighting and a bit of the fun."

* * * * *

Lieutenant Sturdy was in all respects a true sailor, and a warrior at

that. It is, indeed, a blessing for our country that our navy--which

is still the best in the world, though far inferior, indeed, to what

it ought to be--is manned by thousands of hearts as brave as his.

Fear the British sailor does not know--even death has few terrors for

him; because Jack is really a thinking man, and he counts his

chances, and he knows, too, that he has only once to die.

Where, then, can he die better than with cutlass or rifle in hand,

fighting for his dearly-beloved country, either afloat or ashore?

Meanwhile the _Gurnet_ speeds on, and so do events in the East.

In order to understand the first plan of campaign that the Russians

had laid down for themselves, quite relying upon the acquiescence of

Austria, I pray you to take a glance at the skeleton map of the Black

Sea and its surroundings.

When I was a youngster myself I did not like maps, and remembering

this, I have placed neither town, river, bay, nor cape that is

unnecessary in this present map of mine, specially made for you,

reader.

[Illustration: Map of Black Sea and surroundings]

Well, you will easily find out Sinope, where the Russians massacred

the Turkish sailors. I want you to remember that their fleet had

sallied forth from Sebastopol for this purpose. Now, note the river

Danube. It was by this route that the Russians had meant to make

their advance against Turkey. Further south you will observe

Silistria and Shumla, and south still the Balkan Mountains. It was

through the passes of these that the Russians were to extend their

march, and so on to Constantinople.

Our army and that of the French were therefore at first landed at

Varna, and went into camp between that place and Shumla. It was

believed at this time that the Russians would fight us here by land.

But after having laid siege to Silistria, which the Turks bravely

defended, and being hard pressed by Austria, who seemed now

determined to join the allied armies and declare war, the Czar

withdrew his forces and recrossed the frontier.

The truth is that Russia had counted all along upon the friendship,

or at least the neutrality, of Austria. As soon as the Russians had

left the Principalities, the territory was occupied by the Austrians.

They certainly had the most interest in the threatened invasion and

conquest of Turkey by the Czar, and it is believed that even at this

late date the whole business might have been settled without war, and

that Russia could have been compelled, from the pressure put upon

her, to indemnify Turkey for the injuries done her.

But Britain had not the slightest intention of so inglorious an

ending to the great "weapon-show" she had commenced. Were our

splendid troops, eager and burning for fight, to return to their own

country and homes, with, figuratively speaking, their fingers in

their mouths, and without having once drawn a trigger? Perish the

thought!

The Russian Bear must be crushed and humbled, his fleet in the Black

Sea must be destroyed, and Sebastopol, Russia's strongest fortress in

this sea, laid in ashes.

War! war! war!

When I come to think of it now, reader, I don't altogether blame the

people of Great Britain for desiring to humble the overbearing

Emperor Nicholas. Even the _Queen_ herself saw that he was in the

wrong, and talked of the ambition and selfishness of one man and his

immediate subordinates as being the cause of our having to draw the

sword. On the other hand, I do not think that any one who has read

the history of this great war could help pitying the Czar's subjects.

The poet Cowper says,--

"War's a game which, were their subjects wise,

Kings would not play at."

But the sufferings of our own poor soldiers and sailors, all brought

on by mismanagement, strike closer home to our hearts. We can pity

these still more, while we cannot but be angry with those who were to

account for all their misery, and for all the trials they so bravely

bore.

We gained experience in the Crimea, however, and one might almost say

that this is cheap at any price.