We had anchored in the river Irrawaddi, after a tedious passage up
from Melbourne, having on board by way of a crew as fine a sample
of Australian desperadoes as ill-luck in her worst temper ever
brought together on board one ship. There were men of all possible
nationalities, from the swarthy negro to the handsome but treacherous
Levantine sailor; the latter by far the more dangerous animal of the
two. The natural result of this awkward assortment was the ever-present
feeling of mistrust, mutual and deep, that prevailed between these
worthies and ourselves; this latter term including those few men that
had not deserted from the ship while in Melbourne.
The passage from Australia to any East Indian port is, under favourable
circumstances, a journey by no means to be despised. Glorious weather,
grand sunsets, a smooth sea, gentle but steady winds, all combine to
render this one of the most popular of routes. But with us this had not
proved so. Like Ulyssus of old, we longed for the end of our voyage;
and the more we desired, so much the farther away did our beloved
Ithaca seem to retreat. The time dragged wearily on, and the sense of
oppression grew greater.
At our mess-table this was less felt than anywhere else on board; owing
mainly to the presence of one, the subject of this little story--dear
old Tim Baylis. A noble fellow in form, and a rare combination of
gentleness and strength, culture and hardihood. In a word, one of
those men marked out by nature to shine starlike in a profession of
danger like ours. Frank, generous, and unaffected, he had won our
hearts from the moment he had joined the ship; and that trust he had
not for an instant declined or betrayed. Fair weather or foul, gale or
calm, Tim Baylis was ever the same, clear and decisive in action, and
the life and soul of all when off duty. His lightest words and happy
jokes formed the watchwords of the men, the magic of his character and
his manner weaving a spell around the ship. None saw the danger that
threatened, in the miserable assortment of men that called themselves
'the crew,' more than he; none tried so hard to weld the incongruous
materials into shape and order more than he; but like many honest open
natures, he had underrated the power of the passions he had set himself
to calm, and the fire had but smouldered, that under other conditions
would have broken forth long before.
But here we were safe off Rangoon, the first stage in the homeward
journey accomplished in safety; and anchored in as good a berth in the
river as any one could desire. Of course it was dull. Whoever rested
at anchor a hundred yards from the shore, and did not find before the
week was over, that this sort of thing was the very acme of dullness!
The only thing we could do to relieve the monotony was playing
everlasting games of whist; alternated by leaning over the poop-rails,
and speculating on what the dark and tangled jungle held among its
tall grass and leafy branches; the reverie perchance broken by the
shrill shriek of some captured or dying animal; telling us in accents
unmistakable, that beautiful as the mysterious jungle forest might
be to the eye, it certainly would not be a desirable spot wherein to
picnic. We had at last discharged our ballast, and liberty to both port
and starboard watches had been granted. The short furlough had expired;
and the men were turning up rapidly in little batches of threes and
fours, of course pursued by the inevitable 'sampan-wallah,' or river
boatman, whose frantic efforts to obtain extra 'backsheesh' usually
found a rapid and summary recompense in the decided preponderance
of kicks over 'pice' (Anglicè, halfpence), the last resource of
impecunious Jack. Contrary to our expectations, most of our men
came on board in a singularly sober state, so much so as to excite
remark amongst all. It is a time-honoured custom to condone cases
of over-refreshment on the various days of 'liberty' during a long
voyage. John Tar--as time-honoured 'Jack' is now frequently dubbed--on
that day drops his professional character, and, to use his own most
forcible expression, 'lets go the painter,' and enjoys himself after
his own peculiar fashion so long as his dollars or rupees hold out.
There had been a whisper floating about for the past two or three
days, in that unaccountable way that whispers have of floating; the
said whisper coming aft under the fostering care and protecting wing
of Isaac the half-caste mess-room steward, thereby increasing twofold
in its proportions while under transit, Isaac's powers of imagination
being proverbial; and the gist of all this seemed to be that discontent
about something reigned paramount in the forecastle, at least among its
foreign occupants. Now, as luck would have it, we had had this sort
of thing over and over again throughout the passage, and we had grown
rather tired of it all; indeed, it had become too much like the cry
of 'Wolf! Wolf!' to have any strong effect on our nerves, especially
as nothing had ever come of it but talk, and very 'tall talk' too
sometimes; but still no more than--_talk_.
Had there been any real grievance, there would have been some interest
displayed; but somehow the 'casus belli' had a knack of vanishing
when the matter came to be investigated; hence we had grown rather
callous as to these perpetual complaints. Now, however, there seemed
something more in the report than usual; but whether this was really
so, or only owed its importance to Isaac's over-vivid imagination, it
was hard to determine. So feeling secure in our nearness to the shore,
we contented ourselves by awaiting some decisive action on the part
of the malcontents. As it was, the Captain had gone ashore with the
announcement that he intended to accept the proffered hospitality of
the agent, a few miles out of town; and Tim Baylis and I were left on
board, the former enjoying the dignity of full command.
This was just the time of the change of the monsoon, and evening shewed
us that the hitherto calm and unbroken monotony would soon be visited
by the demon of Storm in some one of its many phases. Warning banks of
inky clouds were perpetually revealed by the brilliant streaks of lurid
lightning that played among their depths. Still the ominous calm was
unbroken save by the hoarse croak of frogs, eager for the coming rain.
Erelong the welcome sound of 'eight bells' told of the end of the day
for us; the men were soon mustered and dismissed, the final entry made
in the log, and silence soon reigned fore and aft the ship.
Our hammocks were slung, Indian-coast fashion, in various positions
under the poop awning; and very pleasant it was to lie at ease in the
cool night-air, smoking and chatting. Tim seemed unusually silent this
evening, more inclined to speculate and think, than to tell out aught
from the fund of anecdote, curious and amusing, that he always was so
ready to retail for our benefit.
'Charlie,' he said at length, 'I don't wonder at those niggers being
so confoundedly superstitious and ghostly; a night like this makes one
feel that there _is_ something, of which we know nothing, at work above
and around us. Just look out at those fiery clouds, and answer if there
must not be a Power _there_, compared to which our grandest efforts
seem no more than the croaking of yonder frogs.'
I replied generally, that the works of nature always shone forth
clearly to those who looked upon them as the tokens of a Supreme Will.
Another blaze of dazzling brightness, resting on us for a moment,
leaving us in denser darkness than before. The storm was certainly
nearing us rapidly.
'Ah!' he said, referring to the contrast, 'how true a picture of life;
that glowing light, just for an instant of time, like our own life,
followed by the dense and unknown darkness of death. I am not one to
believe in portents, Charlie; but I am sure that in these things,
if one only read them aright, there lies much that may be taken to
indicate that there is a grand life hereafter of completion and unity
in the powers of mind and body though the truth of it may be kept from
us in the darkness of the future. Yet after all it is only in moments
like these that a man seems either to care for or notice them.'
My reply was lost in a burst of thunder, the first of any power we had
yet heard, and with it came down the rain, as only it _can_ rain in
the tropics. I ran to the gangway, to be clear of the awning, and saw
at once that a hurricane was close upon us. The whirling and eddying
clouds flew at a vast pace across the sky; the low roaring of the
wind, still very distant, confirmed any doubt on that point. I did not
consider that there was any cause for alarm on the ship's account; we
were in an excellent anchorage; and most of our 'top-hamper' was down
on deck undergoing an overhaul. Still the awnings must be furled; so
I hurried below for my oil-skin coat and 'sou'-wester.' Reaching the
main-deck, I was startled by the sound of voices coming from a part
of the ship where I knew they could have no business. Without pausing
to listen, however, I descended the companion-stairs; the voices,
now hushed in whispers, following after. At the fore-cabin door I
encountered the scared face of Isaac, as white as his dark skin would
permit. He was about to say something; but the cry of 'All hands on
deck!' from Tim's lips rang out fore and aft; so I rushed on deck
without waiting to hear what he had to say. My station, as second in
command, being on the forecastle, I made directly for that point, and
awaited the port-watch, in order to let go the second anchor. No one
came! Where were the men? I heard voices aft. I saw the quarter-deck
awning fly up in the air, released from the side-ropes. The hurricane
had struck us by this time; we were leaning broadside over in an
alarming manner, and rapidly dragging our single anchor towards the
shore. Again I listened; I could distinguish the varied cries; they
were not those of men at work. I soon knew. A fierce yell--a wilder
shriek, borne along the gale. It was plain that the smothered volcano
had broken forth at last. The men had mutinied! Seizing a belaying-pin
from out the rail, I managed to knock the gear clear on the 'cat-head,'
and thus releasing the starboard anchor, I ran aft, leaving the chair
careering wildly over the windlass.
The odds were terribly against us; a set of men, each more reckless
than his neighbour, pitted against a few poor fellows, taken at the
utmost disadvantage. Added to this, the howling hurricane, the black
darkness, and the utter impossibility of any signal being seen or heard
twenty yards from the ship. I did not quite understand all this at the
moment. I very soon did, however. No shot had as yet been fired, so
no alarm could reach beyond by that means. Making for the indistinct
struggling mass of human figures, I tried to reach Tim's side. I could
just see him standing on the after-hatch, cutlass in hand, bravely
keeping at bay a dozen or more of the mutineers, who vainly tried to
force him back over the 'combings' of the open hatchway. In another
confused heap I could just distinguish the third officer and boatswain;
how armed, I could not see. My iron belaying-pin proved no bad
weapon--short, round, and heavy, it was easily handled, and did good
service. After all, one had no real chance against long thin knives in
anything like close single combat.
How long this performance would have lasted, and the fearfully unequal
conflict been kept up, it is hard to say, when the sound of cheering
broke upon us. Pausing in the struggle for a moment, we became aware
that the storm had ceased as suddenly as it had begun; in fact it
was almost calm. Another instant, and the cheers resolved themselves
into men swarming up the sides like bees on every quarter, cutlass in
hand, hardly knowing what was the matter. It was soon over. Stepanos
Zenos, George Marco, and Pedro Cenci secured in irons to the main-deck
stanchions, the rest were soon powerless for much harm. A hurried
explanation now ensued. It seemed that after I had rushed up on deck,
in answer to the cry of 'All hands!' never heeding the boy Isaac or his
scared face, the lad ran up after me, taking with him the cutlass that
I afterwards saw in Tim Baylis' hand; in fact he gave it to him without
word or comment. Running to the gangway, he had thrown himself into the
boat belonging to our old sampan-wallah, Ramoon, who always remained
alongside the ship ready for a call. Rousing the old man and seizing an
oar, he let go the boat, which, released from the ship, glided swiftly
down the stream; struck soon after by the hurricane or north-west
squall, they nearly capsized, but managed to reach the mooring-chains
of H.M.S. _Pegasus_, moored half a mile down the river. A rope being
flung to them they boarded her, the boy Isaac telling his tale in
broken accents and incoherent sentences; still, however, the officer
of the watch made out enough of the lad's story to know that mutiny,
and perhaps murder, were going on a short distance up the river; so
without more ado, the order was passed for 'general quarters,' and two
boats' crews piped away to 'board and relieve the stranger.' The squall
luckily dropping at this time, they soon were alongside of our ship,
Isaac acting as pilot, when they gave us the hearty cheer that had so
joyed and surprised us.
But where was Tim Baylis all this time? Surely about the ship
somewhere. No! We found him at last, lying at the bottom of that fatal
hatchway, and a long knife-wound in his side, from which the dark
blood slowly oozed. They brought him gently up, and laid him on the
after-skylight; the rain had ceased, and the tropical moon shone down
on the reeking deck, lending a weird clearness to every object around.
He looked very calm, his dark clear-cut features looked very white and
awful now.
We all stood around while the surgeon that had come with the relief
party from the old _Pegasus_ carefully probed and examined the wound.
It was no use; his face told us silently there was 'no hope!' that dear
old Tim Baylis would soon be at rest for ever. 'Hush! he is speaking.'
Conscious once again, on board the ship he had defended with his life,
the spirit of him we had learned to love so well seemed to return to
us once again ere it went forth into that unknown 'darkness' he had
spoken of so strangely and thoughtfully scarce an hour before. He said
a few words to us all, reminding us of the many bright and happy days
we had spent in times past together--days that had left their pleasant
memories of the foreign shores by which they had been passed, mementos
of a time gone by, but still fresh and vivid in our minds. Asking
pardon of any, then, he might in thoughtless mirth unconsciously have
wounded, and telling us when, in better days and more joyous scenes,
we might chance to review the past and those who had peopled it, not
to forget poor Tim, lying cold and dead on the banks of the Irrawaddi
river. Turning painfully to me, he said in faltering words: 'See my
dear mother, Charlie. Tell her all is over. Tell her that though the
end has come while far away from her, I did not forget her love. Ask
her to forgive my wilfulness, to think of me with pity. And Charlie,
don't let those niggers haul me about before I'm buried. Good-bye, old
fellow. How dark it is getting!'
We laid him next day in his grave in the European cemetery, under the
shade of a spreading mango; a few fellows from the old _Pegasus_ and
ourselves looked last on his coffin; and before we sailed, had laid a
double wreath on the already bright and flowering turf. Reader! should
you ever bend your steps to the sacred city of the Great Pagoda, turn
aside for a moment from the deepening shadows of its ancient temple,
and reading the words on a little marble cross under the branches of
the old mango-tree, pause, and think on the noble death of poor Tim
Baylis.