CHAPTER I

Transcriber’s Note

Italics are enclosed in _underscores_, boldface in =equals signs=.

DEEP-SEA PLUNDERINGS

By FRANK T. BULLEN.

=Deep-Sea Plunderings.= 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

=The Apostles of the Southeast.= 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

=The Log of a Sea-Waif.= _Being Recollections of the First Four

Years of My Sea Life._ Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

=Idylls of the Sea.= 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

=The Cruise of the Cachalot.= _Round the World After Sperm Whales._

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

[Illustration: They met in full career, rolling each over each.

(See page 6.)

]

DEEP-SEA

PLUNDERINGS

BY

FRANK T. BULLEN, F. R. G. S.

AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE CACHALOT,”

“THE APOSTLES OF THE SOUTHEAST,” ETC.

_With Eight Illustrations_

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1902

COPYRIGHT, 1901

BY FRANK T. BULLEN

_All rights reserved_

_Published March, 1902_

TO

DR. ROBERTSON NICOLL

A SMALL BUT SINCERE

TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION AND ESTEEM

F. T. B.

PREFATORY NOTE

Warned by previous experience, I do not propose to make any apology for

the publication of these stories in book form, but I hope my generous

critics will at least pardon me for expressing my gratitude for the

way in which they have received all my previous efforts. Naturally, I

sincerely hope they will be equally kind in the present instance.

F. T. BULLEN.

NEW BEDFORD, MASS., _September, 1901_.

CONTENTS

PAGE

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER 1

THE OLD HOUSE ON THE HILL 17

YOU SING 53

THE DEBT OF THE WHALE 93

THE SKIPPER’S WIFE 117

A SCIENTIFIC CRUISE 127

A GENIAL SKIPPER 141

MAC’S EXPERIMENT 157

ON THE VERTEX 169

A MONARCH’S FALL 179

THE CHUMS 189

ALPHONSO M’GINTY 199

THE LAST STAND OF THE DECAPODS 211

THE SIAMESE LOCK 235

THE COOK OF THE CORNUCOPIA 259

A LESSON IN CHRISTMAS-KEEPING 269

THE TERROR OF DARKNESS 279

THE WATCHMEN OF THE WORLD 289

THE COOK OF THE WANDERER 297

THE GREAT CHRISTMAS OF GOZO 307

DEEP-SEA FISH 319

A MEDITERRANEAN MORNING 329

ABNER’S TRAGEDY 335

LOST AND FOUND 347

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING

PAGE

They met in full career, rolling each over each

_Frontispiece_

The toiling men were breaking out the junk’s cargo 60

Gently she covered their ruddy faces 121

The skipper produced from his hip-pocket a revolver 163

He gasped “In manus tuas, Domine,” and fell 208

He clutched his insulter by the beard and belt 263

She was to him brightest and best of all damsels 309

A huge sailing-ship crushed her into matchwood 353

DEEP-SEA PLUNDERINGS

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER

“What a clumsy, barrel-bellied old hooker she is, Field!”

Thus, closing his telescope with a bang, the elegant chief officer of

the Mirzapore, steel four-masted clipper ship of 5000 tons burden,

presently devouring the degrees of longitude that lay between her

and Melbourne on the arc of a composite great circle, at the rate of

some 360 miles per day. As he spoke he cast his eyes proudly aloft at

the splendid spread of square sail that towered upward to a height

of nearly 200 feet. Twenty-eight squares of straining canvas, from

the courses, stretched along yards 100 feet or so in length, to the

far-away skysails of 35 feet head, that might easily be handled by a

pair of boys.

Truly she made a gallant show--the graceful ship, that in spite of

her enormous size was so perfectly modelled on yacht-like lines that,

overshadowed as she was by the mighty pyramid of sail, the eye refused

to convey a due sense of her great capacity. And the way in which she

answered the challenge of the west wind, leaping lightsomely over

the league-long ridges of true-rolling sea, heightened the illusion

by destroying all appearance of burden-bearing or cumbrousness. But

the vessel which had given rise to Mr. Curzon’s contemptuous remark

was in truth the antipodes of the Mirzapore. There was scarcely any

difference noticeable, as far as the contour of the hull went, between

her bow and stern. Only, at the bows a complicated structure of massive

timbers leaned far forward of the hull, and was terminated by a huge

“fiddle-head.” This ornament was carved out of a great balk of timber,

and in its general outlines it bore some faint resemblance to a human

form, its broad breast lined out with rude carving into some device

long ago made illegible by the weather; and at its summit, instead of a

head, a piece of scroll-work resembling the top of a fiddle-neck, and

giving the whole thing its distinctive name.

The top-hamper of this stubby craft was quite in keeping with her hull.

It had none of that rakish, carefully aligned set so characteristic

of clipper ships. The three masts, looking as if they were so huddled

together that no room was left to swing the yards, had as many kinks

in them as a blackthorn stick; and this general trend, in defiance of

modern nautical ideas, was forward instead of aft. The bow-sprit and

jibboom looked as if purposely designed by their upward sheer to make

her appear shorter than she really was, and also to place her as a

connecting link between the long-vanished galleasses of Elizabethan

days and the snaky ships of the end of the nineteenth century. In one

respect, however, she had the advantage of her graceful neighbour. Her

sails were of dazzling whiteness, and when, reflecting the rays of

the sun, they glistened against the deep blue sky, the effect was so

fairy-like as to make the beholder forget for a moment the ungainliness

of the old hull beneath.

The wind now dropped, in one of its wayward moods, until the rapid rush

past of the Mirzapore faltered almost to a standstill, and the two

vessels, scarcely a mile apart, rolled easily on the following sea,

as if in leisurely contemplation of each other. All the Mirzapore’s

passengers, a hundred and twenty of them, clustered along the starboard

poop-rail, unfeignedly glad of this break in what they considered the

long monotony of a sailing passage from London to the colonies. And

these seafarers of fifty-five days, eagerly catching their cues from

the officers, discussed, in all the hauteur of amateur criticism,

the various short-comings of the homely old tub abeam. Gradually

the two vessels drew nearer by that mysterious impulse common to

idly-floating things. As the different details of the old ship’s deck

became more clearly definable, the chorus of criticism increased,

until one sprightly young thing of about forty, who was going out

husband-seeking, said--

“Oh, please, Captain James, _do_ tell me what they use a funny ship

like that for.”

“Well, Miss Williams,” he replied gravely, “yonder vessel is one of the

fast-disappearing fleet of Yankee whalers--‘spouters,’ as they love to

term themselves. As to her use, if I don’t mistake, you will soon have

an object-lesson in that which will give you something to talk about

all the rest of your life.”

And as he spoke an unusual bustle was noticeable on board of the

stranger. Four boats dropped from her davits with such rapidity that

they seemed to fall into the sea, and as each struck the water she shot

away from the side as if she had been a living thing. An involuntary

murmur of admiration ran through the crew of the clipper. It was a

tribute they could scarcely withhold, knowing as they did the bungling,

clumsy way in which a merchant seaman performs a like manœuvre. Even

the contemptuous Curzon was hushed; and the passengers, interested

beyond measure, yet unable to appreciate what they saw, looked blankly

at one another and at the officers as if imploring enlightenment.

With an easy gliding motion, now resting in the long green hollow

between two mighty waves, and again poised, bird-like, upon a foaming

crest, with bow and stern a-dry, those lovely boats sped away to the

southward under the impulse of five oars each. Now the excitement

on board the Mirzapore rose to fever-heat. The crew, unheeded, by

the officers, gathered on the forecastle-head, and gazed after the

departing boats with an intensity of interest far beyond that of the

passengers. For it was interest born of intelligent knowledge of the

conditions under which those wonderful boatmen were working, and also

tempered by a feeling of compunction for the ignorant depreciation

they had often manifested of a “greasy spouter.” Presently the boats

disappeared from ordinary vision, although some of the more adventurous

passengers mounted the rigging, and, fixing themselves in secure

positions, glued their eyes to their glasses trained upon the vanishing

boats. But none of them saw the object of those eager oarsmen. Of

course, the sailors knew that they were after whales; but not even a

seaman’s eye, unless he be long-accustomed to watching for whales,

possesses the necessary discernment for picking up a vapoury spout five

or six miles away, as it lifts and exhales like a jet of steam against

the broken blue surface. Neither could any comprehend the original

signals made by the ship. Just a trifling manipulation of an upper

sail, the dipping or hoisting of a dark flag at the mainmast head, or

the disappearance of another at the gaff-end sufficed to guide the

hunters in their chase, giving them the advantage of that lofty eye far

behind them.

More than an hour passed thus tantalizingly on board the Mirzapore,

and even the most eager watchers had tired of their fruitless gazing

over the sea and at the sphinx-like old ship so near them. Then some

one suddenly raised a shout, “Here they come!” It was time. They were

coming--a-zoonin’, as Uncle Remus would say. It was a sight to fire the

most sluggish blood. About five hundred yards apart two massive bodies

occasionally broke the bright surface up into a welter of white, then

disappeared for two or three minutes, to reappear at the same furious

rush. Behind each of them, spreading out about twenty fathoms apart,

came two of the boats, leaping like dolphins from crest to crest of the

big waves, and occasionally hidden altogether by a curtain of spray.

Thus they passed the Mirzapore, their gigantic steeds in full view of

that awe-stricken ship’s company, privileged for once in their lives

to see at close quarters one of the most heart-lifting sights under

heaven--the Yankee whale-fisher at hand-grips with the mightiest,

as well as one of the fiercest, of all created things. No one spoke

as that great chase swept by, but every face told eloquently of the

pent-up emotion within.

Then a strange thing happened. The two whales, as they passed the

Mirzapore, swerved each from his direct course until they met in full

career, and in a moment were rolling each over each in a horrible

entanglement of whale-line amid a smother of bloody foam. The buoyant

craft danced around, one stern figure erect in each bow poising a long

slender lance; while in the stern of each boat stood another man, who

manipulated a giant oar as if it had been a feather, to swing his craft

around as occasion served. The lookers-on scarcely breathed. Was it

possible that men--just homely, unkempt figures like these--could dare

thrust themselves into such a vortex amongst those wallowing, maddened

Titans. Indeed it was. The boats drew nearer, became involved; lances

flew, oars bent, and blood--torrents of blood--befouled the glorious

azure of the waves. Suddenly the watchers gasped in terror, and little

cries of pain and sympathy escaped them: a boat had disappeared. Specks

floated, just visible in the tumult--fragments of oars, tubs, and heads

of men. But there was no sound, which made the scene all the more

impressive.

Still the fight went on, while the spectators forgot all else--the

time, the place; all senses merged in wonder at the deeds of these,

their fellow-men, just following, in the ordinary way, their avocation.

And the thought would come that but for an accident this drama being

enacted before their eyes would have had no audience but the screaming

sea-birds hovering expectantly in the unheeding blue.

The conflict ceased. The distained waters became placid, and upon

them floated quietly two vast corpses, but recently so terrible in

their potentialities of destruction. By their sides lay the surviving

boats--two of them, that is; the third was busy picking up the wrecked

hunters. And the old ship, with an easy adaptation of her needs to the

light air that hardly made itself felt, was gradually approaching the

scene. The passengers implored Captain James to lower a boat and allow

them a nearer view of those recently rushing monsters, and he, very

unwillingly, granted the request. So slow was the operation that by the

time the port lifeboat was in the water the whaler was alongside of

her prizes, and all her crew were toiling slavishly to free them from

the entanglement of whale-line in which they had involved themselves.

But when the passengers saw how the lifeboat tumbled about alongside

in the fast-sinking swell, the number of those eager for a nearer view

dwindled to half a dozen--and they were repentant of their rashness

when they saw how unhandily the sailors manipulated their oars.

However, they persisted for very shame’s sake, their respect for the

“spouters’” prowess, and, through them, for their previously despised

old ship, growing deeper every moment. They hovered about the old tub

as they saw the labour that was necessary to get those two enormous

carcases alongside, nor dared to go on board until the skipper of her,

mounting the rail, said cheerily, “Wunt ye kem aboard, sir,’n’ hev a

peek roun’?”

Thus cordially invited, they went, their wonder increasing until all

their conceit was effectually taken out of them, especially when they

saw the wonderful handiness and cleanliness of everything on board. The

men, too, clothed in nondescript patches, with faces and arms almost

blackened by exposure, and wearing an air of detachment from the world

of civilized life that was full of pathos; these specially appealed

to them, and they wished with all their hearts that they might do

something to atone for the injustice done to these unblazoned warriors

by their thoughtless, ignorant remark of so short a time before.

But time pressed, and they felt in the way besides; so, bidding a

humble farewell to the grim-looking skipper, who answered the inquiry

as to whether they could supply him with anything by a nonchalant

“No, I guess not; we aint a-ben eout o’ port hardly six month yet,”

they returned on board, having learned a corner of that valuable

lesson continually being taught: that to judge by appearances is but

superficial and dangerous, especially at sea.

Night fell, shutting out from the gaze of those wearied watchers the

dumpy outlines of the old whale-ship. Her crew were still toiling, a

blazing basket of whale-scrap swinging at a davit and making a lurid

smear on the gloomy background of the night. One by one the excited

passengers sauntered below, still eagerly discussing the stirring

events they had witnessed, and making a thousand fantastic additions

to the facts. Gradually the conversation dwindled to a close, and

the great ship was left to the watch on deck. Fitful airs rose and

fell, sharp little breaths of keen-edged wind that but just lifted

the huge sails lazily, and let them slat against the masts again as

if in disgust at the inadequacy of cat’s-paws. So the night wore on,

till the middle watch had been in charge about half an hour. Then,

with a vengeful hiss, the treacherous wind burst upon them from the

north-east, catching that enormous sail-area on the fore side, and

defying the efforts of the scanty crew to reduce it. All hands were

called, and manfully did they respond; Briton and Finn, German and

negro toiled side by side in the almost impossible effort to shorten

down, while the huge hull, driven stern foremost, told in unmistakable

sea-language of the peril she was in. Hideous was the uproar of

snapping, running gear, rending canvas, breaking spars, and howling

wind; while through it all, like a thread of human life, ran the

wailing minor of the seamen’s cries as they strove to do what was

required of them.

Slowly, oh, so slowly! the great ship paid off; while the heavier sails

boomed out their complaint like an aerial cannonade, when up from the

fore-hatch leapt a tongue of quivering flame. Every man who saw it felt

a clutch at his heart. For fire at sea is always terrible beyond the

power of mere words to describe; but fire under such conditions was

calculated to paralyze the energies of the bravest. There seemed to be

an actual hush, as if wind and waves were also aghast at this sudden

appearance of a fiercer element than they. Then rang out clear and

distinct the voice of Captain James--

“Drop everything else, men, and pass along the hose! Smartly, now! ’Way

down from aloft!” He was obeyed, but human nature had something to say

about the smartness. Men who have been taxing their energies, as these

had done, find that even the spur actuated by fear of imminent death

will fail to drive the exhausted body beyond a certain point. Moreover,

all of them knew that stowed in the square of the main-hatch were fifty

tons of gunpowder, which knowledge was of itself sufficient to render

flaccid every muscle they possessed. Still, they did what they could,

while the stewards went round to prepare the passengers for a hurried

departure. All was done quietly. In truth, although the storm was now

raging overhead, and the sails were being rent with infernal clamour

from the yards, a sense of the far greater danger beneath their feet

made the weather but a secondary consideration.

Then out of a cowering group of passengers came a feeble voice. It

belonged to the lady querist of the afternoon, and it said, “Oh, if

those brave sailors from that wonderful old ship were only near, we

might be saved!”

Simple words, yet they sent a thrill of returning hope through those

trembling hearts. Poor souls! None of them knew how far the ships

might have drifted apart in that wild night, nor thought of the drag

upon that old ship by those two tremendous bodies alongside of her.

So every eye was strained into the surrounding blackness, as if they

could pierce its impenetrable veil and bring back some answering ray of

hope. The same idea, of succour from the old whale-ship, had occurred

to the captain, and presently that waiting cluster of men and women saw

with hungry eyes a bright trail of fire soaring upward as a rocket was

discharged. Another and another followed, but without response. The

darkness around was like that of the tomb. Another signal, however, now

made itself manifest, and a much more effective one. Defying all the

puny efforts made to subdue it, the fire in the fore-hatch burst upward

with a roar, shedding a crimson glare over the whole surrounding sea,

and being wafted away to leeward in a glowing trail of sparks.

“All hands lay aft!” roared the captain, and as they came, he shouted

again, “Clear away the boats!”

Then might be seen the effect of that awful neglect of boats so common

to merchant ships. Davits rusted in their sockets, falls so swollen

as hardly to render over the sheaves, gear missing, water-breakers

leaky--all the various disastrous consequences that have given

sea-tragedies their grim completeness. But while the almost worn-out

crew worked with the energy of despair, there arose from the darkness

without the cheery hail of “Ship ahoy!”

Could any one give an idea in cold print of the revulsion of feeling

wrought by those two simple words? For one intense moment there was

silence. Then from every throat came the joyful response, a note like

the breaking of a mighty string overstrained by an outburst of praise.

Naturally, the crew first recovered their balance from the stupefaction

of sudden relief, and with coils of rope in their hands they thronged

the side, peering out into the dark for a glimpse of their deliverers.

“Hurrah!” And the boatswain hurled the mainbrace far out-board at some

dim object. A few seconds later there arrived on board a grim figure,

quaint of speech as an Elizabethan Englishman, perfectly cool and

laconic, as if the service he had come to render was in the nature of a

polite morning call.

“Guess you’ve consid’ble of a muss put up hyar, gents all,” said he;

and, after a brief pause, “Don’t know ez we’ve enny gre’t amount er

spare time on han’, so ef you’ve nawthin’ else very pressin’ t’ tend

ter, we mout so well see ’bout transhipment, don’t ye think?”

He had been addressing no one in particular, but the captain answered

him.

“You are right, sir; and thank you with all our hearts! Men, see the

ladies and children over-side!”

No one seemed to require telling that this angel of deliverance had

arrived from the whale-ship; any other avenue of escape seemed beyond

all imagination out of the question. Swiftly yet carefully the helpless

ones were handed over-side; with a gentleness most sweet to see those

piratical-looking exiles bestowed them in the boat. As soon as she

was safely laden, another moved up out of the mirk behind and took

her place. And it was done so cannily. No roaring, agitation, or

confusion, as the glorious work proceeded. It was the very acme of good

boatmanship. The light grew apace, and upon the tall tongues of flame,

in all gorgeous hues that now cleft the night, huge masses of yellow

smoke rolled far to leeward, making up a truly infernal picture.

Meanwhile, at the earliest opportunity, Captain James had called the

first-comer (chief mate of the whaler) apart, and quietly informed him

of the true state of affairs. The “down-easter” received this appalling

news with the same taciturnity that he had already manifested, merely

remarking as he shifted his chaw into a more comfortable position--

“Wall, cap’, ef she lets go ’fore we’ve all gut clear, some ov us ’ll

take th’ short cut t’ glory, anyhaow.”

But, for all his apparent nonchalance, he had kept a wary eye upon the

work a-doing, to see that no moment was wasted.

And so it came to pass that the last of the crew gained the boats,

and there remained on board the Mirzapore but Captain James and his

American deliverer. According to immemorial precedent, the Englishman

expressed his intention of being last on board. And upon his inviting

his friend to get into the waiting boat straining at her painter

astern, the latter said--

“Sir, I ’low no dog-goned matter ov etiquette t’ spile my work, ’n’ I

must say t’ I don’ quite like th’ idee ov leavin’ yew behine; so ef

yew’ll excuse me----”

And with a movement sudden and lithe as a leopard’s he had seized the

astonished captain and dropped him over the taff-rail into the boat as

she rose upon a sea-crest. Before the indignant Englishman had quite

realized what had befallen him, his assailant was standing by his side

manipulating the steer-oar and shouting--

“Naow then, m’ sons, pull two, starn three; so, altogether. Up with

her, lift her, m’ hearties, lift her, ’r by th’ gre’t bull whale it’ll

be a job spiled after all.”

And those silent men did indeed “give way.” The long supple blades

of their oars flashed crimson in the awful glare behind, as the

heavily-laden but still buoyant craft climbed the watery hills or

plunged into the hissing valleys. Suddenly there was one deep voice

that rent the heavens. The whole expanse of the sky was lit up by

crimson flame, in the midst of which hurtled fragments of that once

magnificent ship. The sea rose in heaps, so that all the boatmen’s

skill was needed to keep their craft from being overwhelmed. But the

danger passed, and they reached the ship--the humble, clumsy old

“spouter” that had proved to them a veritable ark of safety in time of

their utmost need.

Captain James had barely recovered his outraged dignity when he was

met by a quaint figure advancing out of the thickly-packed crowd on

the whaler’s quarter-deck. “I’m Cap’n Fish, at yew’re service, sir.

We haint over ’n’ above spacious in eour ’commodation, but yew’re all

welcome t’ the best we hev’; ’n’ I’ll try ’n’ beat up f’r th’ Cape ’n’

lan’ ye’s quick ’s it kin be did.”

The Englishman had hardly voice to reply; but, recollecting himself, he

said, “I’m afraid, Captain Fish, that we shall be sadly in your way for

dealing with those whales we saw you secure yesterday.”

“Not much yew wunt,” was the unexpected reply. “We hed t’ make eour

ch’ice mighty sudden between them fish ’n’ yew, ’n’, of course, though

we’re noways extravagant, they hed t’ go.”

The simple nobility of that homely man, in thus for self and crew

passing over the loss of from eight to ten thousand dollars at the

first call from his kind, was almost too much for Captain James, who

answered unsteadily--

“If I have any voice in the matter, there will be no possibility of the

men, who dared the terrors of fire and sea to save me and my charges,

being heavily fined for their humanity.”

“Oh, _thet’s_ all right,” said Captain Silas Fish.

THE OLD HOUSE ON THE HILL

CHAPTER I

There is something in the stress and struggle of tumultuous life in

a vast city like London that to me is almost unbearable. Accustomed

from a very early age to the illimitable peace of the ocean, to the

untainted air of its changeless circle of waves and roofless dome of

sky, I have never been able to endure satisfactorily the unceasing

roar of traffic in crowded streets, the relentless rush of mankind in

the race for life which is the normal condition of our great centres

of civilization. Yet, for many years, being condemned by circumstances

to abide in the midst of urban strife and noise without a break from

one weary year to another, I lived to mourn departed peace, and feed

my longing for it on memory alone, without a hope that its enjoyments

would ever again be mine. Then came unexpected relief, an opportunity

to visit a secluded corner of Wiltshire, that inland division of

England which is richer, perhaps, in memorials of our wonderful history

than any other part of these little islands, crowded as they are with

reminiscences of bygone glorious days.

I took up my quarters in a hamlet on the banks of the Wylye, a

delightful little river, taking its rise near the Somersetshire

border, and wandering with innumerable windings through the heart of

Wiltshire, associating itself with the Bourne and the Nadder, until at

Salisbury it is lost in that most puzzling of all streams, the Avon.

I said puzzling, for I believe there are but a handful of people out

of the great host to whom the Avon is one of the best-known streams

in the world from its associations, who know that there is one Avon

feeding the Severn near Tewkesbury, which is Shakespeare’s Avon; there

is another, upon which Bristol has founded her prosperity, and there

is yet another, the Avon of my first mention, which, accumulated from

numberless rivulets in the Vale of Pewsey, floweth through Salisbury,

and loses itself finally in the waters of the English Channel at

Christchurch in Hampshire. But I must ask forgiveness for allowing the

wily Avon to lure me away thus far.

One of the chief charms of Wiltshire is its rolling downs rising upon

either side of the valley, which in the course of ages the busy little

Wylye has scooped out between them in gentle undulations, a short,

sweet herbage for the most part covering their masses of solid chalk,

coming to within a foot or two of those emerald surfaces. This is the

place to come and ponder over the rubbish that is talked about the

over-crowding of England. Here you shall wander for a whole day if you

will, neither meeting or seeing a human being unless you follow the

road that winds through the Deverills, five villages of the valley,

all, alas, in swift process of decay. Even there the simple folk will

stare long and earnestly at a stranger as he passes, before turning

to resume their leisurely tasks, the uneventful, slumberous round of

English village life. To me it was idyllic. A great peace came over

me, and I felt that it was a sinful waste of nature to shut myself

within four walls even at night. Long after the thirty souls peopling

our hamlet had gone to bed I would sit out on the hillside behind the

cottage, steeping my heart in the warm silence, only manifested--not

broken--by the queer wailing cry of an uneasy plover as it fluttered

overhead. And when, reluctantly, I did go to bed, I was careful to prop

the windows wide open, even though I was occasionally awakened by the

soft “flip-flip” of bats flying across my chamber, dazzled by the small

light of my reading lamp.

The grey of the dawn, no matter how few had been my hours of sleep,

never failed to awaken me, and, hurrying through my bath and dressing,

I gat me out into the sweet breath of morning twilight while Nature was

taking her beauty sleep and the dewdrops were waiting to welcome with

their myriad smiles the first peep of the sun. And so it came to pass

that one morning, just as the eastern horizon was being flooded with

a marvellous series of colour-blends in mysterious and ever-changing

sequence, that I mounted the swell of the down opposite to the village

of Brixton Deverill, with every sense quickened to fullest appreciation

of the lovely scene. Hosts of rabbits, quaint wee bunches of grey fur,

each with a white blaze in the centre, scuttled from beneath my feet,

and every little while, their curiosity overpowering natural fear,

sat up with long ears erect and big black eyes devouring the uncouth

intruder on their happy feeding grounds. Great flocks of partridges,

almost as tame as domestic fowls (for it was July), ran merrily in

and out among the furze clumps, or rose with a noisy whir of many

wings when I came too close; aristocratic cock pheasants strolled by

superciliously with a sidelong glance to see that the erect biped

carried no gun, and an occasional lark gyrated to the swell of his

own heart-lifting song as he rose in successive leaps to his proper

sphere. I felt like singing myself, but Nature’s music was too sweet

to be disturbed by my quavering voice, so I climbed on, all eyes and

ears, and nerves a-tingle with receptivity of keenest enjoyment.

Reaching the summit, I paused and surveyed the peaceful scene. Far

to the left lay Longleat, its dense woods shimmering in a blue haze;

to the right, Heytesbury Wood, in sombre shadow; and behind, the

forest-like ridge of Chicklade. But near me, just peeping over the bare

crest of an adjoining down, were the tops of a clump of firs, and,

curious to know what that coppice might contain (I always have had a

desire to explore the recesses of a lonely clump of trees), I turned

my steps towards it, only stopping at short intervals to admire the

gracefulness of the purple, blue, and yellow wild flowers with which

the short, fine rabbit-grass was profusely besprent. Meanwhile the

sun appeared in cloudless splendour, his powerful rays dissipating

the spring-like freshness of the morning and promising a most sultry

day. Yet as I drew nearer the dark fastness of the coppice I felt a

chill, an actual physical sensation of cold. At the same time there

arose within me a positive repugnance to draw any closer to that deep

shade. This unaccountable change only made me angry with myself for

being capable of feeling such a nonsensical, unexplainable hindrance

to my purpose. So I took hold of it with both hands, and cast it from

me, striding onward with quickened step until I really seemed to be

breasting a strong tide. Panting with the intensity of my inward

struggle, I reached the shadow cast by that solemn clump of pines, and

saw the pale outlines of a wall in their midst. Now curiosity became

paramount, and, actually shivering with cold, I pressed on until I

stood in front of a fairly large house, surrounded by a flint wall on

all sides, but at some yards distance from it. Through large holes

in the encircling wall the wood-folk scampered or fluttered merrily

but noiselessly; rabbits, hares, squirrels, and birds, and as I drew

nearer there was a sudden whiff of strong animal scent, and a long red

body launched itself through one of the openings, flitting past me

like a flash of red-brown light. Although I had never seen an English

fox before on his native heath, I recognized him from his pictures,

and forgave him for startling me. Skirting the wall, I came to a huge

gap with crumbling sides, where once had been a gate, I suppose. It

commanded a view of the front of the house, which I now saw was a mere

shell, its walls perforated in many places by the busy rabbits, which

swarmed in and out like bees upon a hive. No windows remained, but the

front door was fast closed and barred by a thick trunk of ivy, which

had once overspread the whole building, but was now quite in keeping

with it, for it was dead. The space between the wall and the house was

thickly overgrown with nettles to nearly the height of a man, but there

was no sign of any useful plant, and even the roof of the building,

which was of red tiles and intact, had none of that kindly covering of

house-leek, stone-crop, and moss, which always decks such spaces with

beauty in the country. Upon a sudden impulse I turned, and behind me I

saw with a shudder that only a few feet from where I stood there was

a sheer descent of some thirty feet, a veritable pit some ten yards

wide, but with its farther margin only a few feet high. Tall trees

sprang from its bottom and sides, their roots surrounding a pool of

black-looking water that seemed a receptacle for all manner of hideous

mysteries. Involuntarily I shrank into myself, and looked up for a

glint of blue sunlit sky, but it was like being in a vault, dark and

dank and cold. Still, the idea never entered my head to get out until

I had seen all that might be there to be seen, although I confess to

comforting myself, as I have often done on a dull and gloomy day, with

the reminder that just outside the sun was shining steadily.

Turning away from that grim-looking pit, I thrust myself through the

savage nettle-bed, my hands held high so that I could guard my face

with my arms, until I reached the first opening in the house wall that

offered admission. With just one moment’s hesitation I stepped within,

and stood on the decayed floor of what had once been the best room.

And then I had need of all my disbelief in ghosts, for around me and

beneath me and above were a congeries of all the queer noises one could

conjure up. Soft pattering of feet, hollow murmurings as of voices, the

indefinite sound of brushing past that always makes one turn sharply

to see who is near. I found my mouth getting dry and my hands burning,

in spite of the chill that still clung to me; but still I went on and

explored every room in the eerie place, noting a colony of bats that

huddled together among the bare roof-beams, prying into the numerous

cavities in floors and walls made by the rabbits and the rats, but

seeing nothing worthy of note until I reached a sort of cellar which

looked as if it had been used as a bakehouse. Upon stepping down the

decrepit ladder which led to it, I startled a great colony of rats,

that fled in all directions with shrill notes of affright, hardly more

scared than myself. The place was so dark that I thankfully remembered

my box of wax matches, and, twisting two or three torches out of a

newspaper I found in my jacket pocket, I soon had a good light.

It revealed a cavity in the floor just in front of a huge baker’s oven,

into the dim recesses of which I peered, finding that it extended for

some distance on either side of the opening. Lighting another torch,

I jumped down and found--three oblong boxes of rude construction, and

across them the mouldering frame of what had once been a man. At last

I had seen enough, and with something tap-tapping inside my head, I

scrambled hastily out of the hole, my body shaking as if with ague, and

my lungs aching for air. I looked neither to the right nor the left

as I went, nor paused, regardless of the nettle grove, until I emerged

upon the bright hilltop, where I flung myself down and drank in great

gulps of sweet air until my tremors passed away and the tumult of my

mind became appeased.

Without casting another look back at that lonely place, or attempting

to speculate upon what I had seen, I departed for home, and, after a

hasty breakfast, sought out a friend in the next village, Longbridge

Deverill, who had already given me many pleasant hours by retailing

scraps of local history reaching back for hundreds of years. I found

him in his pretty garden enjoying the bright day, with a look of deep

content upon his worn old face--the afterglow of a well-spent life.

Staying his rising to greet me, I flung myself down on the springy turf

by his side, and almost without a word of preface, gave him a hurried

account of my morning’s adventure. He listened in grave silence until I

had finished, and then began as follows.

CHAPTER II

It is certainly a strange coincidence that you should stumble across

that sombre place, because, after what you told me the other day

about your family connection with this part of the country, I have

no doubt whatever that the unhappy tenants of Pertwood Farm (as it

is called even now) were nearly related to yourself. Their tragical

story is well known to me, although its principal events happened

more than sixty years ago, when I was a boy. The house had been built

and enclosed, and the trees planted, by a morose old man who wished

to shut himself off from the world, yet was by no means averse to a

good deal of creature comfort. He lived in it for some years, attended

only by one hard-featured man, who did apparently men and women’s

work equally well--lived there until local rumour had grown tired of

inventing fables about him, and left him to the oblivion he desired.

Then one day the news began to circulate that Pertwood had changed

hands, that old Cusack was gone, and that a middle-aged man with a

beautiful young wife had taken up his abode there, without any one in

the vicinity knowing aught of the change until it had been made. Then

the village tongues wagged loosely for awhile, especially when it was

found that the new-comers were almost as reserved as old Cusack had

been. But as time went on Mr. Delambre, whose Huguenot name stamped

him as most probably a native of these parts (you have noticed how

very frequent such names are hereabout), leased several good-sized

fields lower down the hill towards Chicklade, and began to do a little

farming. This, of course, necessitated his employing labour, and

consequently, by slow degrees, scraps of personalia about him filtered

through the sluggish tongues of the men who worked for him. Thus we

learned that his wife (your grandmother’s sister, my boy) was rarely

beautiful, though pale and silent as a ghost. That her husband loved

her tigerishly, could not bear that any other eyes should see her

but his, and it was believed that his fierce watchful jealousy of her

being even looked upon was fretting her to death. Quite a flutter of

excitement pervaded the village here not long after the above details

became public property, by one of the labourers from Pertwood coming

galloping in on a plough-horse for old Mary Hoddinot, who had nursed

at least two generations of neighbours in their earliest days. She was

whisked off in the baker’s cart, but the news remained behind that

twin boys had arrived at Pert’ood, as it was locally called, and that

Delambre was almost frantic with anxiety about his idol. The veil thus

hastily lifted dropped again, and only driblets of news came at long

intervals. We heard that old Mary was in permanent residence, that

the boys were thriving sturdily, and that the mother was fairer than

ever and certainly happier. So things jogged along for a couple of

years, until an occasional word came deviously from Pertwood to the

effect that the miserable Delambre was now jealous of his infant boys.

Self-tortured, he was making his wife a living martyr, and such was his

wild-beast temper that none dare interfere. At last the climax was put

upon our scanty scraps of intelligence by the appearance in our midst

of old Mary, pale, thin, and trembling. It was some time before we

could gather her dread story, she was so sadly shaken; but by degrees

we learned that after a day in which Delambre seemed to be perfectly

devil-possessed, alternately raging at and caressing his wife, venting

savage threats against the innocent babes “who were stealing all her

affection away from him,” he had gone down the hill to see after

enfolding some sheep. He was barely out of sight before his wife,

turning to old Mary, said, “Please put your arms round me, I feel _so_

tired.” Mary complied, drawing the fair, weary head down upon her

faithful old bosom, where it remained until a chill struck through her

bodice. Alarmed, she looked down and saw that her mistress was resting

indeed.

Although terrified almost beyond measure, the poor old creature

retained sufficient presence of mind to release herself from the dead

arms, rush to the door, and scream for her employer. He was returning,

when her cries hastened his steps, and, breaking into a run, he burst

into the room and saw! He stood stonily for a minute, then, turning to

the trembling old woman, shouted “go away.” Not daring to disobey, she

hurried off, and here she was. After much discussion, my father and

the village doctor decided to go to Pertwood and see if anything could

be done. But their errand was in vain. Delambre met them at the door,

telling them that he did not need, nor would he receive, any help or

sympathy. What he did require was to be left alone. And slamming the

door in his visitors’ faces, he disappeared. Even this grim happening

died out of men’s daily talk as the quiet days rolled by, and nothing

more occurred to arouse interest. We heard that the boys were well, and

were often seen tumbling about the grass-plot before the house door by

the farm labourers. Rumour said many things concerning the widower’s

disposal of his dead. But no one knew anything for certain, except

that her body had never been seen again by any eye outside the little

family. Delambre himself seemed changed for the better, less harsh and

morose, although as secretive as ever. He was apparently devoted to

his two boys, who throve amazingly. As they grew up he and they were

inseparable. He educated them, played with them, made their welfare

his one object in life. And they returned his care with the closest

affection, in fact the trio seemed never contented apart. Yet they

never came near the village, nor mixed with the neighbours in any way.

In this quiet neighbourhood the years slip swiftly by as does the

current past an anchored ship, and as unnoticeably. The youthful

Delambres grew and waxed strong enough to render unnecessary the

employment of any other labour on the farm than their own, and in

consequence it was only at rare intervals that any news of them reached

us in roundabout fashion through Warminster, where old Delambre was

wont to go once a week on business. So closely had they held aloof

from all of us that when one bitter winter night a tall swarthy young

man came furiously knocking at the doctor’s door, he was as completely

unknown to the worthy old man as any new arrival from a foreign land.

The visitor, however, lost no time in introducing himself as George

Delambre, and urgently requested the doctor to accompany him at once to

Pertwood on a matter of life and death. In a few minutes the pair set

off through the heavy snow-drifts, and, after a struggle that tried the

old doctor terribly, arrived at the house to find that the patient was

mending fast.

A young woman of about eighteen, only able to mutter a few words of

French, had been found huddled up under the wall of the house by George

as he was returning from a visit to the sheepfold. She was fairly well

dressed in foreign clothing, but at almost the last gasp from privation

and cold. How she came there she never knew. The last thing that she

remembered was coming to Hindon, by so many ways that her money was all

spent, in order to find a relative, she having been left an orphan.

Failing in her search, she had wandered out upon the downs, and the

rest was a blank.

In spite of convention she remained at Pertwood, making the dull

place brighter than it had ever been. But of course both brothers

fell in love with the first woman they had ever really known. And

she, being thus almost compelled to make her choice, with all a

woman’s inexplicable perversity, promised to marry dark saturnine

George, although her previous behaviour towards him had been timid and

shrinking, as if she feared him. To the rejected brother, fair Charles,

she had always been most affectionate, so much so, indeed, that he was

perfectly justified in looking upon her as his future wife, to be had

for the asking. This cruel blow to his almost certain hopes completely

stunned him for a time, until his brother with grave and sympathetic

words essayed to comfort him. This broke the spell that had bound him,

and in a perfect fury of anger he warned his brother that he looked

upon him as his deadliest enemy, that the world was hardly wide enough

for them both; but, for his part, he would not, if he could help it,

add another tragedy to their already gloomy home, and to that end he

would flee. Straightway he rushed and sought his father, and, without

any warning, demanded his portion. At first the grim old man stared

at him blankly, for his manner was new as his words were rough; then,

rising from his chair, the old man bade him be gone--not one penny

would he give him; he might go and starve for ought he cared.

“Very well,” said Charles, “then I go into the village and get advice

as to how I shall proceed against you for the wages I have earned since

I began to work. And you’ll cut a fine figure at the Warminster Court.”

The threat was efficient. With a face like ashes and trembling hands

the father opened his desk and gave him fifty guineas, telling him that

it was half of his total savings, and with an evidently severe struggle

to curb his furious temper, asked him to hurry his departure. Since he

had robbed him, the sooner he was gone the better. The young man turned

and went without another word.

That same night old Delambre died suddenly and alone. And Louise,

instead of clinging to her promised husband, came down to the village,

where the doctor gave her shelter. The unhappy George, thus cruelly

deserted, neglected everything, oscillating between the village and

his lonely home. The inquest showed that the old man had died of heart

disease; and George then, to every one’s amazement, announced his

intention of carrying out his father’s oft-repeated wish, and burying

him beneath the house by the side of his wife.

CHAPTER III

And now we must needs leave Pertwood Farm and its doubly bereaved

occupant for a while, in order to follow the fortunes of the

self-exiled Charles. His was indeed a curious start in life. Absolutely

ignorant of the world, his whole horizon at the age of twenty years

bounded by that little patch of lonely Wiltshire down, and his

knowledge of mankind confined to, at the most, half a dozen people. He

had great native talent, which, added to an ability to keep his own

counsel, was doubtless of good service to him in this breaking away

into the unknown. His total stock of money amounted to less than £50,

to him an enormous sum, the greater because he had never yet known the

value of money. His native shrewdness, however, led him to husband it

in miserly fashion, as being the one faithful friend upon which he

could always rely.

And now the salt strain in his mother’s blood must have asserted itself

unmistakably, if mysteriously, for straight as a homing bee he made

his way down to the sea, finding himself a week after his flight at

Poole. I shall never forget the look upon his face as he told me how

he first felt when the sea revealed itself to him. All his unsatisfied

longings, all the heart-wrench of his rejected love, were forgotten

in present unutterable delight. He was both hungry and weary, yet he

sat contentedly down upon the verge of the cliffs and gazed upon this

glorious vision until his eyes glazed with fatigue, and his body was

numbed with the immovable restraint of his attitude. At last he tore

himself away, and entered the town, seeking a humble lodging-place,

and finding one exactly suited to his needs in a little country

public-house on the outskirts of the town, kept by an apple-cheeked

dame, whose son was master of a brigantine then lying in the harbour.

She gave the handsome youth a motherly welcome, none the less warm

because he appeared to be well able to pay his way.

Against the impregnable fortress of his reserve she failed to make any

progress whatever, although in the attempt to gratify her curiosity she

exerted every simple art known to her. On the other hand he learned

many things, for one of her chief wiles was an open confidence in

him, an unreserved pouring out to him of all she knew. He was chiefly

interested in her stories of her son. Naturally she was proud of that

big swarthy seaman, who, when he arrived home that evening, loomed so

large in the doorway that he appeared to dwarf the whole building. As

Englishmen will, the two men eyed one another suspiciously at first,

until the ice having been broken by the fond mother, Charles in his

turn began to pump his new acquaintance. Captain Jacks, delighted

beyond measure to find a virgin mind upon which to sow his somewhat

threadbare stock of yarns, was gratified beyond measure, and

thenceforward until long after the usual hour for bed, the young man

was simply soaking up like a sponge in the rain such a store of wonders

as he had never before even dreamed of. At last the old dame, somewhat

huffed by the way in which Charles had turned from her garrulity to her

son’s, ordered them both to bed. But Charles could not sleep. How was

it possible? The quiet monotone of his life had been suddenly lifted

into a veritable Wagner concert of strange harmonies, wherein joy and

grief, pleasure and pain, love and hate, strove for predominance,

and refused to be hushed to rest even by the needs of his healthful

weariness.

Out of it all one resolve arose towering. He would, he must go to sea.

That alone could be the career for him. But he would write to Louise.

Knowing nothing of her flight from the old home or of his father’s

death, he felt that he must endeavour to assert a claim to her, more

just and defensible than his brother’s, even though she had rejected

him. And then, soothed by his definite settlement of future action, he

fell asleep, nor woke again until roused by his indignant landlady’s

inquiry as to whether “’ee wor gwain t’ lie abed arl daay.” Springing

out of bed, he made his simple toilet in haste, coming down so speedily

that the good old dame was quite mollified. A hasty breakfast ensued,

and a hurried departure for the harbour in search of Captain Jacks’

brigantine. Finding her after a short search, he was warmly welcomed

by the gallant skipper, and, to his unbounded delight, succeeded in

inducing that worthy man to take him as an extra hand without pay on

his forthcoming voyage to Newfoundland. Then returning to his lodging,

he made his small preparations, and after much anxious thought,

produced the following letter, which he addressed to Louise, care of

the old doctor at Longbridge.

“MY DEAREST LOO,

“Though you chose George instead of me I don’t mean to give you

up. I mean to do something big, looking forward to you for a

prize. I believe you love me better than you do George in spite

of what you did. You will never marry him, never. You’ll marry

me, because you love me, and I won’t let you go. I know you’ll

get this letter, and send me an answer to Mrs. Jacks, Apple

Row, Poole. And you’ll wait for my reply, which may be late a

coming, but will be sure to come.

“Yours till death,

“CHARLES DELAMBRE.”

A few minutes afterwards he was on his way down to the Mary Jane,

Captain Jacks’ brigantine. He was received with the gravity befitting

a skipper on shipping a new hand, and after bestowing his few

purchases in a cubby-hole in the tiny cabin, returned on deck in

his shirt-sleeves, to take part in whatever work was going on, with

all the ardour of a new recruit. Next morning at daylight the Mary

Jane departed. Under the brilliant sky of June the dainty little

vessel glided out into the Channel, bounding forward before the fresh

north-easterly breeze, as if rejoicing to be at home once more, and

freed from the restraint of mooring chains and the stagnant environment

of a sheltered harbour.

Charles took to his new life wonderfully, feeling no qualms of

sea-sickness, and throwing himself into every detail of the work with

such ardour that by the time they had been out a week he was quite

a useful member of the ship’s company. And then there arrived that

phenomenon, a June gale from the north-west. Shorn of all her white

wings but one, the little brigantine lay snugly enough, fore-reaching

against the mighty Atlantic rollers that hurled themselves upon

her like mountain ranges endowed with swiftest motion. So she lay

throughout one long day and far into the night succeeding, until just

at that dread hour of midnight when watchfulness so often succumbs

to weariness at sea, a huge comber came tumbling aboard as she fell

off into the trough of the sea. For a while she seemed to be in doubt

whether to shake herself clear of the foaming mass, and then splendidly

lifting herself with her sudden burden of a deck filled with water,

she resumed her gallant struggle. Just then it was discovered that her

lights were gone. Before they could be replaced, out of the darkness

came flying an awful shape, vast, swift, and merciless. One of the

splendid Yankee fliers of those days, the Columbia, of over a thousand

tons register, was speeding eastward under every stitch of sail, at a

rate far surpassing that of any but the swiftest steamships. A good

look out was being kept on board of her, for those vessels were noted

for the excellence of their discipline and careful attention to duty.

But the night was pitchy dark, the Mary Jane had no light visible,

and before anything could be done her doomed crew saw the Columbia’s

bow towering over their vessel’s waist like some unthinkable demon

of destruction. Up, up, up, she soared above them, then descending,

her gleaming bow shone clean through the centre of the Mary Jane’s

hull, tearing with it the top-hamper of masts and rigging, and rushing

straight through the wreckage without a perceptible check. One wild cry

of despair and all was silent. Over the side of the Columbia peered

a row of white faces gazing fearfully into the gloom, but there was

nothing to be seen. The sea had claimed her toll.

As usual, after such a calamity, there was a hushed performance

of tasks, until suddenly one of the crew shouted, “Why, here’s a

stranger.” And there was. Charles had clutched instinctively at one

of the martingale guys as the Columbia swept over her victim, and had

succeeded in climbing from thence on board out of the vortex of death

in which all his late shipmates had been involved. Plied with eager

questions, his simple story was soon told, and he was enrolled among

the crew. The Columbia was bound to Genoa, a detail that troubled

him but little; so long as he was at sea he had no desire to select

his destination. But he found here a very different state of things

obtaining. The crew were a hard-bitten, motley lot, prime seamen

mostly, but “packet rats” to a man, wastrels without a thought in life

but how soon they might get from one drinking-bout to another, and at

sea only kept from mutiny, and, indeed, crime of all kinds, by the

iron discipline imposed upon them by the stern-faced, sinewy Americans

who formed the afterguard. There were no soft, sleepy-voiced orders

given here. Every command issued by an officer came like the bellowing

of an angry bull, and if the man or men addressed did not leap like

cats to execute it, a blow emphasized the fierce oath that followed.

Charles now learned what work was. No languid crawling through duties

with one ear ever cocked for the sound of the releasing bell, but a

rabid rush at all tasks, even the simplest, as if upon its immediate

performance hung issues of life or death. “Well fed, well driven,

well paid,” was the motto on board those ships, albeit there were not

wanting scoundrelly skippers and officers, who, in ports where fresh

hands were to be obtained cheaply, were not above using the men so

abominably that they would desert and leave all their cruelly-earned

wages behind. Strangely enough, however, Charles became a prime

favourite. This son of the soil, who might have been expected to move

in clod-hopper fashion, developed an amazing smartness which, allied

to a keenness of appreciation quite American in its rapidity, endeared

him specially to the officers. In the roaring fo’c’sle among his

half-savage shipmates he commanded respect, for in some mysterious

way he evolved masterly fighting qualities and dogged staying powers

that gave him victory in several bloody battles. So that it came to

pass, when Genoa was reached, that Charles was one day called aft and

informed that, if he cared to, he might shift his quarters aft and

go into training for an officer, holding a sort of brevet rank as

supernumerary third mate. He accepted, and was transferred, much to

the disgust of his shipmates forward, who looked upon his move aft as

a sort of desertion to the enemy. But they knew Charles too well to

proceed further with their enmity than cursing him among themselves, so

that as much peace as usual was kept.

From this port Charles wrote lengthily to Louise at Longbridge as

before, and to Poole to Mrs. Jacks, breaking her great misfortune to

her, and begging her to write to him and send him at New York any

letters that might have arrived for him. And then he turned contentedly

to his work again, allowing it to engross every thought. He was no

mere dreamer of dreams, this young man. In his mind there was a solid

settled conviction that, sooner or later (and it did not greatly matter

which), he would attain the object of his desires. This granitic

foundation of faith in his future saved him all mental trouble, and

enabled him to devote all his energies to the work in hand, to the

great satisfaction of his skipper. Captain Lothrop, indeed, looked

upon this young Englishman with no ordinary favour. A typical American

himself, of the best school, he concealed under a languid demeanour

energy as of an unloosed whirlwind. His face was long, oval, and

olive-brown, with black silky beard and moustache trimmed like one of

Velasquez’s cavaliers, and black eyes that, usually expressionless

as balls of black marble, would, upon occasion given, dart rays of

terrible fire. Contrasted with this saturnine stately personage, the

fair, ruddy Charles looked like some innocent schoolboy, the open,

confiding air he bore being most deceptive. He picked up seamanship,

too, in marvellous fashion, the sailorizing that counts, by virtue of

which a seaman handles a thousand-ton ship as if she were a toy and

every one of her crew but an incarnation of his will. But this very

ability of his before long aroused a spirit of envy in his two brother

officers that would have been paralyzing to a weaker man. Here, again,

the masterly discipline of the American merchantman came to his aid,

a discipline that does not know of such hideous folly as allowing

jealousy between officers being paraded before the crew, so that they

with native shrewdness may take advantage of the house divided against

itself. When in an American ship one sees a skipper openly deriding an

officer, be sure that officer’s days as an officer are numbered; he

is about to be reduced to the ranks. So, in spite of a growing hatred

to the ---- Britisher, the two senior mates allowed no sign of their

feelings to be manifested before the crew. Perhaps the old man was a

bit injudicious also. He would yarn with Charles by the hour about

the old farm and the sober, uneventful routine of English rural life,

the recital of these placid stories evidently giving him the purest

pleasure by sheer contrast with his own stormy career.

In due time the stay of the Columbia at Genoa came to an end, and

backward she sailed for New York. In masterly fashion she was manœuvred

out through the Gut of Gibraltar, and sped with increased rapidity

into the broad Atlantic. But it was now nearly winter, and soon the

demon of the west wind made his power felt. The gale settled down

steadily to blow for weeks apparently, and with dogged perseverance

the Columbia’s crew fought against it. Hail, snow, and ice scourged

them, canvas became like planks, ropes as bars of iron. Around the

bows arose masses of ice like a rampart, and from the break of the

forecastle hung icicles which grew like mushrooms in a few hours of

night. The miserable crew were worn to the bone with fatigue and cold,

and had they been fed as British crews of such ships are fed they would

doubtless have all died. But, in spite of their sufferings, they worked

on until one night, having to make all possible sail to a “slant” of

wind, they were all on deck together at eight bells--midnight. With the

usual celerity practised in these ships, the snowy breadths of canvas

were rising one above the other, and the Columbia was being flung

forward in lively fashion over the still heavy waves, when Charles,

who was standing right forward on the forecastle, shouted in a voice

that could be heard distinctly above the roar of the wind and sea

and the cries of the seamen, “Hard down!” Mechanically the helmsman

obeyed, hardly knowing whither the summons came, and the beautiful

vessel swung up into the wind, catching all her sails aback, and

grinding her way past some frightful obstruction to leeward that looked

as if an abyss of darkness had suddenly yawned in the middle of the

sea, along the rim of which the Columbia was cringing. The tremendous

voice of Captain Lothrop boomed out through the darkness, “What d’ye

see, Mister Delamber, forrard there?” “We’ve struck a derelict, sir,”

roared Charles, and his words sounded in the ears of the ship’s company

like the summons of doom. The ship faltered in her swing to windward,

refused to obey her helm, and swung off the wind again slowly but

surely, as if being dragged down into unknown depths by an invisible

hand whose grip was like that of death.

CHAPTER IV

In this hour of paralyzing uncertainty Charles rose to the full

height of his manhood. Passing the word for a lantern, and slinging

himself in a bowline, he ventured into the blackness alongside, and

presently reappeared with the cheering news that no damage was done. A

few strokes of an axe and they would be set free. And arming himself

with a broad axe, he again disappeared into the outer dark, this time

under the watchful eye of the skipper, and presently, with a movement

which was like a throb of returning life to every soul on board, the

Columbia regained her freedom. Charles was hauled on board through the

surf alongside like a sodden bundle of clothing, unhurt, but entirely

exhausted, having made good his claim to be regarded as one of the

world’s silent heroes, a man who to the call of duty returns no dubious

answer, but renders swift obedience.

This last adventure seemed to exhaust the Columbia’s budget of ill-luck

for the voyage. Although the wind was never quite fair, it allowed

them to work gradually over to the westward, and with its change a

little more genial weather was vouchsafed to them. They arrived in

New York without further incident worthy of notice, and Charles found

himself not only the guest of the skipper, but honoured by the owner,

who, as an old skipper himself, was fully alive to the glowing account

given him by Captain Lothrop of Charles’s services to the Columbia. The

other two officers left early, and Charles, now a full-blown second

mate, saw his prize almost within his grasp. The more so that a letter

(only one) awaited him; it was from Louise, and contained only these

words--

“DEAR CHARLES,

“It is that I am yours. Whenever it shall please you to come

for me, I am ready. I leave the house to the day of your

parting, for your father is dead immediately, and I go not

there any more. I wait for you only.

“LOUISE.”

He accepted this news with perfect calmness, as of one who knew that

it would come, and turned again to his work with a zest as unlike

that of a love-sick youth as any one ever saw. Not a word did he say

of his affairs even to his good friend the skipper, and when, their

stay in New York at an end, they sailed for China, that worthy man was

revolving all sorts of projects in his mind for an alliance between

Charles and his wife’s sister, who, during Charles’ stay in New York,

had manifested no small degree of interest in the stalwart, ruddy

young Englishman. He, however, took no advantage of the obviously

proffered opportunity, and in due course the Columbia sailed for Hong

Kong, petroleum laden. Captain Lothrop carried his wife with him this

voyage, and very homely indeed the ship appeared with the many trifles

added to her cabin by feminine taste. A new mate and third mate were

also shipped--the former a gigantic Kentuckian, with a fist like a

shoulder of mutton, a voice like a wounded buffalo bull, and a heart as

big and soft as ever dwelt in the breast of mortal man. Yet, strangely

enough, he was a terror to the crew. Long training in the duty of

running a ship “packet fashion” had made him so, made him regard the

men under his charge as if they were wild beasts, who needed keeping

tame by many stripes and constant, unremitting toil. The third mate

was a Salem man, tall enough, but without an ounce of superfluous

flesh on his gaunt frame. He seemed built of steel wire, so tireless

and insensible to pain was he. With these two worthies Charles was at

home at once. Good men themselves, they took to him on the spot as an

Englishman of the best sort, who is always beloved by Yankees--that is,

genuine Americans--and loves them in return in no half-hearted fashion.

It was well for them all that this solidarity obtained among them,

for they shipped a crowd in New York of all nationalities, except

Americans or English, a gang that looked as if they had stepped direct

from the deck of a pirate to take service on board the Columbia. The

skipper was as brave a man as ever trod a quarter-deck; but his wife

was aboard, and his great love made him nervous. He suggested at once

that each of his officers should never be without a loaded six-shooter

in their hip-pockets by night or day, and that they should watch that

crowd as the trainer watches his cage of performing tigers. Fortunately

the men were all prime seamen, and full of spring, while the perfect

discipline maintained on board from the outset did not permit of any

loafing about, which breeds insolence as well as laziness, that root

of mischief at sea. So, in spite of incessant labour and the absence

of any privileges whatever, the peace was kept until the ship, after

a splendid passage of one hundred days, was running up the China

Sea under as much canvas as she could drag to the heavy south-west

monsoon. All the watch were busy greasing down, it being Saturday,

and, unlike most English ships, where, for fear of the men grumbling,

this most filthy but necessary work is done by the boys or the quiet

men of the crew, here everybody took a hand, and the job was done in

about twenty minutes from the word “go.” A huge Greek was busy at the

mizzen-topmast, his grease-pot slung to his belt, when suddenly the

pot parted company with him and fell, plentifully bespattering sails

and rigging as it bounded and rebounded on its way down, until at last

it smashed upon the cabin skylight and deposited the balance of its

contents all around.

“Come down here, ye Dago beast!” bellowed the mate. Slowly, too slowly,

’Tonio obeyed. Hardly had he dropped from the rigging on to the top of

the house when Mr. Shelby seized him by the throat, and, in spite of

his bulk (he was almost as big as the mate himself), dragged him to

the skylight, and, forcing his head down, actually rubbed his face in

the foul mess. ’Tonio struggled in silence, but unavailingly, until

the mate released him; then, with a spring like a lion’s, he leaped

at his tormentor, a long knife, never seen till then, gleaming in his

left hand. Mr. Shelby met him halfway with a kick which caught his

left elbow, paralyzing his arm, the knife dropping point downwards

and sticking in the deck. But the fracas was the signal for a general

outbreak. The helmsman sprang from the wheel, the rest of the watch

slid down backstays, and came rushing aft, bent on murder, all their

long pent-up hatred of authority brought to a climax by the undoubted

outrage perpetrated upon one of their number. But they met with a man.

His back to the mizzen-mast, Mr. Shelby whipped out his revolver,

and, as coolly as if engaged in a day’s partridge-shooting ashore, he

fired barrel after barrel of his weapon at the rushing savages. Up

came the skipper and the other two officers, not a moment too soon. A

hairy Spaniard clutched at Charles as he appeared on deck, but that

sturdy son of the soil grappled with his enemy so felly, that in a few

heart-beats the body of the Latin went hurtling over the side. Then

the fight became general. The ship, neglected, swung up into the wind

and was caught aback, behaving herself in the fashion of a wounded

animal, while the higher race, outnumbered by four to one, set its

teeth and fought in primitive style. The groans of the wounded, the

hissing oaths of the combatants, and the crack of revolver shots made

up a lurid weft to the warp of sound provided by the moaning wind

and murmuring sea. Then gradually those of the men who could do so

crawled forrard, leaving the bright yellow of the painted deck aft all

besmeared with red, and the victory was won for authority.

But a new danger threatened. Attracted, perhaps, like vultures, by

the smell of blood, several evil-looking junks were closing in upon

the Columbia, and but for the tremendous exertions of the officers,

aided by the cook and steward and the captain’s wife, who, pale but

resolute, took the wheel, there is no doubt that the Columbia would

have been added to the list of missing ships. That peril was averted

by the ship being got before the wind again, when her speed soon told,

and she hopelessly out-distanced the sneaking, clumsy junks. And before

sunset a long smear of smoke astern resolved itself into one of the

smart little gun-boats which, under the splendid St. George’s Cross,

patrol those dangerous seas. In answer to signals, she came alongside

the Columbia, and soon a boat’s crew of lithe men-o’-war’s-men were

on board the American ship, making all secure for her safe passage

into Hong Kong. There she arrived two days later, and got rid of her

desperate crew, with the exception of two who had paid for their rash

attempt the only price they had--their lives.

From Hong Kong the Columbia sailed for London, arriving there after an

uneventful passage of one hundred and twenty days. Charles, turning a

deaf ear to the entreaties of the captain and his fellow-officers,

determined to take his discharge. A load-stone of which they knew not

anything was drawing him irresistibly into the heart of Wiltshire, and,

with all his earnings carefully secreted about him, he left the great

city behind, and set his face steadfastly for Longbridge Deverill.

There he suddenly arrived, as if he had dropped from the sky, just as

the short winter’s day was closing in. The few straggling villagers

peered curiously at the broad, alert figure that strode along the

white road with an easy grace and manly bearing quite foreign to the

heavy slouch of their own men-folk. There was, too, an indefinable

foreign odour about him which cut athwart even their dull perceptions

and aroused all their curiosity. But none recognized him. How should

they? They had hardly ever known him, except by rumour, which, during

his absence of nearly two years, had died a natural death for want of

something to feed upon. Straight to the old doctor’s house he went

as a homing pigeon would. To his confident knock there appeared at

the door Louise, the light of love in her eyes, her arms outstretched

in gladdest welcome. Neither showed any surprise, for both seemed to

have been in some unexplainable way in communion with the other. Yet,

now the first speechless greeting over, the first caresses bestowed,

instead of contentment most profound came unease, an indefinite fear

lest this wonderful thing that had befallen them should by the sheer

perversity of fate be swept away, leaving them in the outer dark.

The quavering voice of the old doctor removed them from each other’s

close embrace, and shyly, yet with a proud air of ownership, Louise led

the way into the cosy parlour, where the good old man sat enjoying the

rest and comfort he so fully deserved. He looked up inquiringly as with

dazzled eyes the big man entered the room, hesitatingly, and with a

rush of strange memories flooding his brain.

“Who is it, Loo?” said the doctor. “I don’t recognize the gentleman.”

And, rising stiffly from his armchair, he took a step forward.

“It’s Charles, doctor, Charles Delambre,” faltered Louise.

“Yes, doctor; and I’ve come to take away your treasure. Also to thank

you with my whole heart for your loving kindness in taking care of her.

Without you what would she have done, me being so far away?”

Almost inarticulate with joy, the old man caught Charles’s hands in

both his own, and pushed him into a chair. Then sinking back into his

own, he gasped breathlessly--

“Ah, my boy, my boy, how I have longed for your return! It has given

me more pain than you can think--the idea that I might die and leave

this poor child friendless and alone in the world. But she has had no

fear. She knew you would come, and she was right. But, Charley, my

boy, before we say another word--your brother. You mustn’t forget him,

and if, as I fear, your quarrel was fierce, you must forgive. His

sufferings have been great. Never once has his face been seen in the

village since you left, and, except that we hear an occasional word of

him brought by a tramp, he might be dead. Go to him, Charles, and make

it up, and perhaps the good Lord will lift the cloud of misery that has

so long hung heavily over your house.”

Charles heard the kindly doctor’s little speech in respectful silence,

then, speaking for the second time since entering the house, he said--

“You are right, doctor. I will be friends with George if he’ll let me.

But I must first secure my wife. After all that has passed, I dare not

waste an hour until we are married.”

Louise sat listening with the light of perfect approval on her fine

face; and the doctor also in vigorous fashion signified his entire

acquiescence. The rest of that happy evening was devoted to a recital

of Charles’s wanderings, his escapes, and his good fortune, until,

wearied out, those three happy people went to bed.

Next day Charles was busy. A special license had to be procured, and

Louise must procure her simple wadding array. The facilities of to-day

did not exist then, and the impatient young lover chafed considerably

at the delay involved. But in due time the wedding came off, with the

dear old doctor as guardian to give the bride away. The village was in

a state of seething excitement; the labourers left their work, their

wives left their household tasks, and all discussed with an eagerness

that was amazingly different to their usual stolidity of demeanour

the romantic happenings in their midst. Then, when the newly-married

pair had returned to the doctor’s roomy house, and the villagers had

drifted reluctantly homeward again, the ripples of unwonted disturbance

gradually smoothed out and subsided. Charles and his wife sat side

by side in the doctor’s parlour as the evening shadows fell, their

benefactor’s glowing face confronting them, and the knowledge that half

his home was theirs removing all anxiety for the immediate future from

their minds.

They sat thus, holding each other’s hands in silence, until Louise,

looking up in her husband’s face, said, “Charles, let us go and see

George. I feel I must before I sleep.” And Charles answered, “Yes,

dear; it was in my heart too to do so, but I’m glad you spoke first.”

So, gently disregarding the remonstrances of the doctor, who protested

that the morrow would be a more appropriate time, they departed, warmly

wrapped up against the piercing cold, and carrying a lantern. As they

passed from the village on to the shoulder of the swelling down a few

soft snow-flakes began to fall....

All through that night the large round flakes fell heavily incessantly,

until, when the pale cold dawn straggled through the leaden clouds, the

whole country was deep buried in a smooth garment of spotless white.

For three days the terrible, silent fall went on. The poor folk almost

starved in their homes, and all traffic throughout the country was

stopped. When at last communications could be opened, the old doctor,

his heart aching with worry and suspense, made his way, accompanied

by my father, to Pertwood Farm. There they found only a few hastily

scribbled sheets of paper on the kitchen table. They contained words

to the effect that George had been startled by a long wailing cry at a

late hour on the night of the first snow. He had gone to the door, and

there, on the very spot where she had lain years before, was his lost

love. But this time she was dead. He had buried her by the side of his

parents, and hoped to join the party soon.

A little search revealed the fact that after writing those lines he had

gone down into the cellar and died, for his body lay across the rude

box containing the remains of Louise. But of Charles nothing was ever

again seen or heard. _I_ have always felt that he might have been found

at the bottom of that dank tarn among the pines, into which he may have

fallen on that terrible night. But I don’t know, the mystery remains.

YOU SING

CHAPTER I

Regarded collectively, the Chinese may safely be classified under the

head of unpleasant races. Most people who have had personal dealings

with them will doubtless admit that, while there are to be discovered

among them a tiny sprinkling of really decent men and women, taken “by

and large” they are, to Westerns at any rate, anathema. And yet, when

due allowance is made for environment, and for hereditary peculiarities

of many strange kinds--for which, of course, the individual is in

no way responsible--it may not be too bold an assertion that the

Chinese are a people who only need a little real leadership on Western

lines to become a truly great nation. They possess all the necessary

qualifications for such a splendid future and few of the drawbacks.

Many virtues that are among us only inculcated by much laborious

tuition are with the Chinese _sui generis_. No one will deny that they

know how to die; were it possible to teach them how to live, such a

revolution would be felt in the progress of the world as it has never

yet witnessed. Of course, this does not touch the vast question as to

whether such a resurrection of China is to be welcomed or dreaded.

But my intention in these pages is far from that of discussing the

economic future of China. Such a task would be indefinitely beyond

my powers, besides being utterly unnecessary and out of place here.

Besides, I do not really feel sufficiently interested in the Chinese

collectively. My story is about a single Chinaman who played a very

important part in my own history, and who well deserved a far more

powerful testimony than any I am able to bear to his virtues.

But, first, in order to launch my story properly, I must premise

that in one of my vagrom voyages, while I was only a puny lad of

thirteen, I was flung ashore in Liverpool, penniless, and, of course,

friendless. For many days I lived--or, rather, I did not die--by

picking up, bird-like, such unvalued trifles of food as chance threw in

my way while I wandered about the docks; but as there were many more

experienced urchins with sharper eyes than mine on the same keen quest,

it may be well imagined that I did not wax overfat upon my findings.

Unfortunately my seafaring instincts kept me near the docks at all

times, where most of my associates were as hunger-bitten as myself; had

I gone up town I should probably have fared better.

However, I had put a very keen edge indeed upon my appetite one bitter

November afternoon, when, prowling along the Coburg Dock Quay, I was

suddenly brought up “all standing” by a most maddening smell of soup.

With dilated nostrils I drew in the fragrant breeze, and immediately

located its source as the galley of a barque that lay near, loading. I

must have looked hungry as I swiftly came alongside of her, for the

broad-faced cook, who was standing at his galley-door swabbing his

steaming face after his sultry sojourn within, presently caught sight

of me and lifted a beckoning finger. I was by his side in two bounds,

and before I had quite realized my good fortune I was loading up at a

great rate from a comfortably-sized dish of plum soup. My benefactor

said nothing as the eager spoonfuls passed, but lolled against the

door placidly regarding me with much the same expression as one would

a hungry dog with a just-discovered bone. When at last I was well

distended, he asked me a few questions in a queer broken English that

I immediately recognized as the German version. What was I? Where

did I come from? Would I like to go to sea? And so on. Eagerly and

hopefully I answered him, much to his amazement; for, like every other

seaman I fell in with in those days, he found it hard to believe that

I had already been nearly two years at sea, so small and weak did I

appear. But the upshot of our interview was that he introduced me to

the skipper, a burly North German, who, looking stolidly down upon me,

between the regular puffs of smoke from his big pipe, said--

“Vell, poy; ju dinks ju like du komm in a Cherman scheep--hein?”

I faltered out a few words, not very coherently, I am afraid, for the

prospect of getting any ship at all was just like a glimpse of heaven

to me. Fortunately for my hopes, Captain Strauss was a man of action,

so, cutting short my faltering reply, he resumed: “All righdt. Ve

yoost loosd a leedle Engelsch boy lige ju. He pin mit me more as ein

jeer, gabin-poy, und mein vife lige him fery vell. Ju do so goot as

him, ju vas all righdt. Vat ju call jorselluf--hein?”

“Tom, sir,” I answered promptly.

“Ya; den ve call ju Dahn. Dat oder poy ve calls Dahn, und so ju gomes

all der same for him--aind it?”

That seemed to settle the matter, for he turned away abruptly and was

gone. I hastened to my friend the cook, and told him what the skipper

had said, with the result that in another five minutes I was busy

laying the cloth for dinner in the cabin as if I had been the original

Dan just come back. A pretty, fair-haired little girl of about ten

years of age watched me curiously from a state-room door with the

frank, straightforward curiosity of a child; and I, boy-like, was on

my mettle to show her how well I could do my work. Presently she came

forward and spoke to me; but her remarks being in German, I could

only smile feebly and look foolish; whereupon she indignantly snapped

out, “_Schaafskopf_,” and ran away. She returned almost directly with

her mother, a buxom, placid-looking dame of about thirty-five, who

addressed me in a dignified tone. Again I was in a hole, for she spoke

only German also; and if ever a poor urchin felt nonplussed, I did.

This drawback made my berth an uncomfortable one at first; but, with

such opportunities as I had and such a powerful inducement to spur me

on, I soon picked up enough to understand what was said to me, and to

make some suitable reply.

The vessel was a smart-looking, well-found barque of about six hundred

tons, called the Blitzen, of Rostock, and carried a crew of fourteen

all told. Each of the other thirteen was a master of mine, and seldom

allowed an opportunity to slip of asserting his authority; while the

skipper’s wife and daughter evidently believed that I ought to be

perpetually in motion. Consequently my berth was no sinecure; and,

whatever my qualifications may have been, I have no doubt I earned my

food and the tiny triangular lair under the companion-ladder wherein I

crept--I was going to say when my work was done--but a rather better

term to use would be, in the short intervals between jobs.

Now, the story of the next nine months on board the Blitzen is by

no means devoid of interest; but I have an uneasy feeling that I

have already tried the reader’s patience enough with necessary

preliminaries to the story of You Sing. After calling at several

ports in South America, looking in at Algoa Bay, visiting Banjœwangie

and Cheribon, we finally appeared to have settled down as a Chinese

coaster, trading between all sorts of out-of-the-way ports for native

consignees, and carrying a queer assortment of merchandise. Finally

we found ourselves at Amoy, under charter for Ilo-Ilo with a full

cargo of Chinese “notions.” Owing, I suppose, to the docility of the

German crew, and the high state of discipline maintained on board,

we still carried the same crew that we left England with; but I

must say that, while I admired the good seamanship displayed by the

skipper and his officers, I was heartily weary of my lot on board.

I had never become a favourite, not even with the little girl, who

seemed to take a delight in imitating her father and mother by calling

me strange-sounding Teutonic names of opprobrium; and I was beaten

regularly, not apparently from any innate brutality, but from sheer

force of habit, as a London costermonger beats his faithful donkey. The

only thing that made life at all tolerable was that I was fairly well

fed and enjoyed robust health; while I never lost the hope that in some

of our wanderings we should happen into an English port, where I might

be able to run away. That blissful idea I kept steadily before me as a

beacon-light to cheer me on. Happily, dread of losing my wages in such

an event did not trouble me, because I had none to lose as far as I

knew; I did not stipulate for any when I joined.

It was on a lovely night that we swung clear of Amoy harbour and,

catching a light land-breeze, headed across the strait towards Formosa.

Many fishing _sampans_ were dotted about the sleeping sea, making

little sepia-splashes on the wide white wake of the moon. Little care

was taken to avoid running them down; nor did they seem to feel any

great anxiety as to whether we did so or not, and as a consequence

we occasionally grazed closely past one, and looked down curiously

upon the passive figures sitting in their frail craft like roosting

sea-birds upon a floating log. Without any actual damage to them, we

gradually drew clear of their cruising-ground, and, hauling to the

southward a little, stood gently onward for Cape South, the wind still

very light and the weather perfect. But suddenly we ran into a strange

heavy mist that obscured all the sea around us, and yet did not have

that wetness that usually characterizes the clinging vapour of the

sea-fog. Through this opaque veil we glided as if sailing in cloudland,

a silence enwrapping us as if we had been mysteriously changed into a

ghostly ship and crew. Then a quick, strong blast of wind burst out of

the brume right ahead, throwing all the sails aback and driving the

vessel stern foremost at a rate that seemed out of all proportion to

its force.

For a few moments the watch on deck appeared to be stupid with

surprise. Then the skipper, roused by the unusual motion, rushed on

deck, and his deep, guttural voice broke the spell as he issued abrupt

orders. All hands were soon busy getting the vessel under control,

shortening sail, and trimming yards. But, to everybody’s speechless

amazement, it was presently found that entangled alongside lay a

small junk, a craft of some twenty to thirty tons, upon whose deck

no sign of life was visible. All hands crowded to the rail, staring

and muttering almost incoherent comment upon this weird visitor

that had so suddenly arisen, as it were, out of the void. As usual,

the skipper first recovered his working wits, and ordered a couple

of the men to jump on board the junk and investigate. They obeyed

unquestionably, as was their wont, and presently reported that she

was unmanned, but apparently full to the hatches of assorted Chinese

cargo in mats and boxes. The skipper’s voice took an exultant ring as

he ordered the vessel to be well secured alongside, and her contents

to be transferred on board of us with all possible despatch. Meanwhile

the strange mist had vanished as suddenly as it had arisen, and the

full bright moon shone down upon the toiling men, who with wonderful

celerity were breaking out the junk’s cargo and hurling it on to our

decks. Such was their expedition that in half an hour our decks were

almost impassable for the queer-looking boxes and bales and bundles

of all shapes disgorged from the junk’s hold. Then they invaded the

evil-scented cabin, and ransacked its many hiding-places, finding

numerous neatly-bound parcels wrapped in fine silky matting. And, last

of all--they declared he must have suddenly been materialized, or words

to that effect--they lighted upon a lad of probably sixteen years

of age. He showed no surprise, after the fatalistic fashion of his

countrymen, but stood gravely before them like some quaint Mongolian

idol carved out of yellow jade, and ready for any fortune that might

await him. With scant ceremony, he too was man-handled on deck, for the

command was urgent to finish the work; the busy labourers followed him,

and the junk was cast adrift.

[Illustration: The toiling men were breaking out the junk’s cargo.]

Some sort of rough stowage was made of the treasure-trove thus

peculiarly shipped; and, the excitement that had sustained their

unusual exertions having subsided, the tired crew flung themselves

down anywhere and slept--slept like dead men, all except the officer

of the watch and the helmsman. They had at first little to do that

might keep them from slumber, for the wind had dropped to a stark calm,

which in those sheltered waters, remote from the disturbing influence

of any great ocean swell, left the ship almost perfectly motionless,

a huge silhouette against the glowing surface of a silver lake. But

presently it dawned upon the mate who was in charge of the deck that,

although the vessel had certainly not travelled more than a mile since

the junk was cast adrift, that strange craft was nowhere to be seen;

and, stern martinet though he was, the consciousness of something

uncanny about the recent business stole through him, shrinking his

skin and making his mouth dry, until for relief he sought the helmsman

and entered into conversation with him on the subject. That worthy,

a stolid, unemotional Dutchman named Pfeiffer, scanned the whole

of the palpitating brightness around before he would assent to the

mate’s theory of any sudden disappearance of our late companion; but,

having done so, and failed to discover the smallest speck against that

dazzling surface, he, too, was fain to admit that the thing was not

comforting. Right glad were those two men when the interminably long

watch was over, and the sharp, business-like notes of the bell seemed

to dissipate in some measure the chilling atmosphere of mystery that

hemmed them in. To the second mate the retiring officer said nothing

of his fears, but hastened below, hurriedly scratched a perfunctory

note or two on the log-slate, and bundled, “all standing”--that is,

dressed as he was--into his bunk, pulling the upper feather-bed

right over his head, as if to shut out the terror that was upon him.

Slowly the remainder of the night passed away; but when at last the

tiny suggestion of paleness along the eastern horizon gave the first

indication of the day’s approach, no change, not even the slightest,

had occurred to increase the mystery whose environment all felt more

or less keenly. As the advancing glory of the new day displaced the

deep purple of the night, the awakening crew recalled, as if it had

been a lifetime ago, the strange happening of the past few hours. But

it was not until the clear light was fully come that the significance

of the whole affair was manifest. For there, seated upon a mat-bound

case, stamped all over with red “chops,” was the Chinese youth, whose

existence had up till now been unnoticed from the time he was first

bundled on board. Impassive as a wooden image, he looked as if the

position he had held throughout the night had left him unwearied, and,

to all appearance, the strange and sudden change in his environment

possessed for him no significance whatever. But now, when the

surly-looking mate approached him and looked him over with evident

distaste, he slid off his perch, and, kneeling at the officer’s feet,

kissed the deck thrice in manifest token of his entire submission

to whatever fate might be dealt out to him. The mate stood silently

looking down upon him, as if hardly able to decide what to do with

him. While this curious little episode was being enacted the skipper

appeared, and, hastening to the mate’s side, addressed the grovelling

Celestial in what he supposed to be the only possible medium of

communication--“pidgin” English, which, coupled to a German accent, was

the queerest jargon conceivable.

“Vell,” he said, “vot pelong ju pidgin--hay? Ju savvy vork, vun dime?”

Lifting his yellow mask of a face, but still remaining on his knees,

the waif made answer--

“No shabbee. You Sing.”