THE SIAMESE LOCK

Even in these prosaic days of palatial passenger steamers, running

upon lines from port to port almost as definite as railway metals, and

keeping time with far more regularity than some railway trains that it

would be easy to name, there are many eddies and backwaters of commerce

still remaining where the romance of sea-traffic retains all the old

pre-eminence, and events occur daily that are stranger than any fiction.

Notably is this the case on the Chinese coast, in whose innumerable

creeks and bays there is a never-ceasing ebb and flow of queer craft,

manned by a still queerer assortment of Eastern seafarers. And if it

were not for that strange Lingua Franca of the Far East, to which our

marvellous language lends itself with that ready adaptability which

makes it one of the most widely-spoken in the world, the difficulties

awaiting the white man who is called upon to rule over one of those

motley crews would be well-nigh insuperable. As it is, men of our race

who spend any length of time “knocking about” in Eastern seas always

acquire an amazing _mélange_ of tongues, which they themselves are

totally unable to assign to their several sources of origin, even if

they ever were to seriously undertake such a task. Needless, perhaps,

to say that they have always something more important on hand than

that. At least I had when, after a much longer spell ashore in Bangkok

than I cared for, I one day prevailed upon a sturdy German skipper

to ship me as mate of the little barque he commanded. She flew the

Siamese flag, and belonged, as far as I was ever able to ascertain, to

a Chinese firm in the humid Siamese capital, a sedate, taciturn trio

of Celestials, who found it well worth their while to have Europeans

in charge of her, even though they had to pay a long price for their

services. My predecessor had been a “towny” of the skipper’s, a

Norddeutscher from Rostock, who, with the second mate, a huge Dane, had

been with the skipper in the same vessel for over two years. On the

last voyage, however, during his watch on deck, while off the Paracels,

he had silently disappeared, nor was the faintest inkling of his fate

obtainable. When the skipper told me this in guttural German-English, I

fancied he looked as if his air of indifference was slightly overdone,

but the fancy did not linger--I was too busy surmising by what one

of the many possible avenues that hapless mate had strolled out of

existence. I was glad, if the suggestion of gladness over such a grim

business be admissible, to have even this scanty information, since

any temptation to taking my position at all carelessly was thereby

effectually removed. Before coming on board I invested a large portion

of my advance in two beautiful six-shooters and a good supply of

ammunition, asking no questions of the joss-like Chinaman I bought

them from as to how he became possessed of two U. S. Navy weapons and

cartridges to match. I had, besides, a frightfully dangerous looking

little kris, only about nine inches long altogether, but inlaid with

gold, and tempered so that it would almost stab into iron. I picked it

up on the beach at Hai-phong six months before, but had only thought of

it as a handsome curio until now.

Thus armed, but with all my weapons well out of sight, I got aboard,

determined to take no more chances than I could help, and to grow

eyes in the back of my head if possible. The old man received me as

cordially as he was able--which isn’t saying very much--introduced me

to Mr. Boyesen, the second mate, and proposed a glass of schnapps and

a cheroot while we talked over business. I was by no means averse to

this, for I wanted to be on good terms with my skipper, and I also had

a strong desire upon me to know more about the kind of trade we were

likely to be engaged in, for I didn’t even know what the cargo was,

or what port she was bound to--the only information the skipper gave

me when I shipped being that she was going “up the coast,” and this

state of complete ignorance was not at all comfortable. I hate mystery,

especially aboard ship--it takes away my appetite; and when a sailor’s

off his feed he isn’t much good at his work. But my expectations

were cruelly dashed, for, instead of becoming confidential, Captain

Klenck gave me very clearly to understand that no one on board the

Phrabayat--“der Frau” _he_ called her--but himself ever knew what

was the nature of the trade she was engaged in or what port she was

bound to. More than that, he told me very plainly that he alone kept

the reckoning; the second mate and myself had only to carry out his

instructions as to courses, etc., and that so long as we kept her

going through our respective watches as he desired, he was prepared to

take all the risk. And all the time he was unloading this stupefying

intelligence upon me, he kept his beady eyes on mine as if he would

read through my skull the nature of my thoughts. Had he been able so

to do, they would have afforded him little satisfaction, for they were

in such a ferment that I “wanted out,” as the Scotch say, to cool down

a bit. I wanted badly to get away from Bangkok, but I would have given

all I had to be ashore there again and well clear of the berth I had

thought myself so lucky to get a day or two ago. But that was out of

the question. The old man helped himself to another bosun’s nip of

square-face, and, rising as he shipped it, said--

“Ve ked her onder vay mit vonce, Meesder Fawn, und mindt ju keeb dose

verdammt schwein coin shtrong. Dey vants so mooch boot as dey can get,

der schelm.”

Glad of any chance of action to divert my mind, I answered cheerily,

“Ay, ay, sir!” and, striding out of the cabin, I shouted, “Man the

windlass!” forgetting for the moment that I was not on board one of

my own country’s ships, free from mysteries of any kind. My mistake

was soon rectified, and for the next hour or so I kept as busy as I

knew how, getting the anchor and making sail. The black, olive, and

yellow sailors worked splendidly, being bossed by a “serang” or “bosun”

of herculean build and undiscoverable nationality. I think he must

have been a Dyak. Now, it has always been my practice in dealing with

natives of any tropical country to treat them as men, and not, as too

many Europeans do to their loss, behave towards them as if they were

unreasoning animals. I have always found a cheery word and a smile go

a long way, especially with negroes, wherever they hail from--and,

goodness knows, unless you are liverish, it is just as easy to look

pleasant as glum. At any rate, whether that was the cause or not, the

work went on greased wheels that forenoon, and I felt that if they were

all the colours the human race can show, I couldn’t wish for a smarter

or more willing crowd. When she was fairly under way and slipping down

to the bar at a good rate, I went aft for instructions, finding the old

man looking but sourly as he conned her down stream. Before I had time

to say anything he opened up with--

“Bei Gott, Meesder Fawn, ju haf to do diffrunt mit dese crout ef ju

vaunts to keep my schip coin. I tondt vant ter begin ter find fault,

but I ain’t coin to haf no nicker-cottlin abordt de Frau. Ju dake id

from me.”

This riled me badly, for I knew no men could have worked smarter or

more willingly than ours had, so I replied quietly, “Every man knows

his work and does it, Cap’n Klenck. I know mine, and I’ll do it, but I

must do it my own way, or not at all. If you’ve got any fault to find,

find it, but don’t expect me to spoil a decent crew and chance getting

a kris between my brisket bones in the bargain.”

He gave me one look, and his eyes were like those of a dead fish.

Then he walked away, leaving me standing simmering with rage. But no

more was said, and at dinner he seemed as if he had forgotten the

circumstance. And I, like a fool, thought he had, for the wish was ever

father to the thought with me, especially in a case of this kind, where

what little comfort I hoped to enjoy was entirely dependent upon the

skipper. He, astuteness itself, gave no sign of his feelings towards

me, being as civil as he was able in all our business relations; but

beyond those he erected a barrier between us, all the more impassable

because indefinite. Thrown thus upon my own resources, I tried to

cultivate an acquaintance with Mr. Boyesen; but here again I was

baffled, for he was the greatest enigma of all. I never knew a man

possessing the power of speech who was able to get along with less use

of that essentially human faculty. He was more like a machine than

a man, seeming to be incapable of exhibiting any of the passions or

affections of humanity. I have seen him grasp a Siamese sailor by the

belt and hurl him along the deck as if he were a mere bundle of rags;

but for any expression of anger in his pale blue eyes or flush upon his

broad face, he might as well have been a figure-head. So that after

a brief struggle with his immobility I gave up the attempt to make a

companion of him, coming to the conclusion that he was in some way

mentally deficient.

Thus I was perforce driven to study my crew more than I perhaps should

have done, particularly the neat-handed, velvet-footed Chinese steward,

Ah Toy, who, although at ordinary times quite as expressionless as the

majority of his countrymen, generally developed a quaint contortion

of his yellow visage for me, which, if not a smile, was undoubtedly

meant for one. We were the best of friends; so great, indeed, that

whenever I heard the old man beating him--that is, about once a day--I

felt the greatest difficulty in restraining myself from interference.

I was comforted, however, by noticing that Ah Toy seemed to heed these

whackings no more than as if he had been made of rubber; he never

uttered a cry or did anything but go on with his work as if nothing had

happened. I had eight men in my watch: two Chinese, four Siamese, one

Tagal, and a Malay; a queer medley enough, but all very willing and

apparently contented. For some little time I was hard put to it to gain

their confidence, their attitude being that of men prepared to meet

with ill-treatment and to take the earliest opportunity of resenting it

(although they accepted hearty blows from the Serang’s colt with the

greatest good nature). But gradually this sullen, watchful demeanour

wore off, and they became as cheerful a lot of fellows as I could

wish, ready to anticipate my wishes if they could, and as anxious to

understand me as I certainly was them. This state of things was so far

satisfactory that the time, which had at first hung very heavily, now

began to pass pleasantly and quickly, although I slept, as the saying

is, with one eye open, for fear of some development of hostility on

the skipper’s part. Because, in spite of my belief that he meant me

no ill, having, indeed, no reason to do so as far as I knew, I could

not rid myself of an uneasy feeling in my mind that all was not as it

should be with him.

We had wonderfully fine weather, it being the N.E. monsoon, but made

very slow progress, the vessel being not only a dull sailer at the best

of times, but much hindered by the head wind. This tried my patience

on account of my anxiety to get some inkling of our position, which

the old man kept as profound a secret as if millions depended upon no

one knowing it but himself. And although we sighted land occasionally,

I was not sufficiently well up in China coast navigation to do more

than guess at the position of the ship. At last, when we had been a

fortnight out, I was awakened suddenly in my watch below one night by

the sound of strange voices alongside. I sprang out of my bunk in the

dark, striking my head against the door, which I always left open, but

which was now closed and locked. I felt as I should imagine a rat feels

in a trap. But the first thrill of fear soon gave place to indignation

at my treatment, and, after striking a light, I set my back against

the door and strove with all my might to burst it open. Failing in the

attempt, I remembered my little bag of tools, and in a few seconds

had a screw-driver at work, which not only released me, but spoiled

the lock for any future use. Of course, my revolvers were about me; I

always carried _them_. Still hot with anger, I marched on deck to find

the ship hove-to, a couple of junks alongside, the hatches off, and

a rapid exchange of cargo going on. Silence and haste were evidently

the _mots d’ordre_, but, besides, the workers were the smartest I had

ever seen; they handled the stuff, cases, bags, and bales of all sorts

and sizes, with a celerity that was almost magical. I stood looking on

like a fool for quite two or three minutes, in which every detail of

the strange scene became indelibly stamped upon my brain. The brilliant

flood of moonlight paling all the adjacent stars, the wide silvern path

of the moon on the dark water broken by a glistening sand-bank over

which the sullen swell broke with an occasional hollow moan, every

item in the arrangement of the sails, and the gliding figures on deck;

all helped to make a marvellous picture. The brief spell was broken by

a hand upon my shoulder that made me leap three feet forward. It was

the skipper, and in that moment I felt how helpless I was if this man

desired to do me hurt. We stood facing each other silently for a breath

or two, when he said quietly--

“Meesder Fawn, I tondt vant my offcers to keeb only dere own vatch. I

nefer make dem vork oferdime. Ven ids your vatch an deg yu vill be gall

as ushal. Goot nacht,” and he stood aside to let me pass.

“But, Captain Klenck,” I blurted out, “why did you lock me in my berth?”

“Ey good man, du bist nod vell, or ellas you bin hafin a--vat you call

im--night-pig, ain’d it?” Then, suddenly changing his tone, he made a

step towards me, and said, “Go below mid vonce, er I’m tamt ef ju see

daylight any more dis foyge!”

To tell the truth, I didn’t quite see my way to defying him. I felt

like a beastly cur, and I knew there was some devilish business going

on, but the whole thing had come on me so suddenly that I was undecided

how to act, and indecision in such a predicament spells defeat. So

I just inclined my head and sauntered off to my cabin in a pretty

fine state of mind. Needless to say, I got no more sleep. A thousand

theories ran riot in my brain as to the nature of the business we were

doing, and I worried myself almost into a fever wondering whether

Boyesen was in it. By the time eight bells (four a.m.) was struck I

was almost crazy, a vile taste in my mouth, and my head throbbing like

a piston. The quiet appearance of Ah Toy at my door murmuring “eight

bell” gave me relief, for I took it as a sign that I might reappear,

and I wasted no time getting on deck. I found the watch trimming the

yards under the skipper’s direction, but no sign of the second mate.

All trace of the junks had vanished. I went for’ard to trim the yards

on the fore by way of slipping into my groove, and being in that

curious mental state when in the presence of overwhelmingly serious

problems the most trivial details demand attention, some small object

that I kicked away in the darkness insisted upon being found before

I did anything else. It only lay a yard or two in front of me, a key

of barbarous make with intricate wards on either side. Mechanically I

picked it up and dropped it in my pocket, imagining for the moment that

it must belong to one of the seamen, who each had some sort of a box

which they kept carefully locked. Then I went on with my work, getting

everything shipshape and returning to the poop. The skipper greeted me

as if nothing had happened, giving me a N.N.E. course if she would lay

it, and, bidding me call him at once in the event of any change taking

place, went below.

Left alone upon the small poop with the vessel calmly gliding through

the placid sea, and the steadfast stars eyeing me solemnly, I felt

soothed and uplifted. I reviewed the situation from every possible

point of view I could take of it, until, sick and weary of the vain

occupation, I unslung a bucket and went to the lee-side with the

intention of drawing some water to cool my aching head. As I leaned

over the side I saw a sampan hanging alongside, and a figure just in

the act of coming aboard. By this time I was almost proof against

surprises of any kind, so I quietly waited until the visitor stepped

over the rail, and saluted me as if boarding a vessel in the dark

while she was working her way up the China Sea was the most ordinary

occurrence in the world. He was a gigantic Chinaman, standing, I

should think, fully 6ft. 6in. or 6ft. 7in., and built in proportion.

In excellent English he informed me that he had business with Captain

Klenck, who was expecting him, and without further preliminary walked

aft and disappeared down the cabin-companion quietly as if he had been

an apparition. In fact, some such idea flitted across my mind, and I

stepped back to the rail and peered down into the darkness alongside to

see if the sampan was a reality. It was no longer there. Like one in a

dream I walked aft to where one of the Siamese stood at the wheel, and

after a casual glance into the compass, from sheer force of habit, I

asked the man if he had seen the visitor. He answered, “Yes,” in a tone

of surprise, as if wondering at the question. Satisfied that at least I

was not the victim of some disorder of the brain, I went for’ard again,

noting with a sense of utmost relief the paling of the eastern horizon

foretelling the coming of the day.

No one realizes more than a sailor what a blessing daylight is. In a

gale of wind the rising sun seems to lighten anxiety, and the prayer

of Ajax trembles more frequently upon the lips of seafarers than

any other. I watched the miracle of dawn with fervent thanksgiving,

feeling that the hateful web of mystery that was hourly increasing in

complexity around me would be less stifling with the sun upon it. And

in the homely duties of washing decks, “sweating-up,” etc., I almost

forgot that I was not in an orderly, commonplace English ship, engaged

in honest traffic. The time passed swiftly until eight bells, when a

double portion of horror came upon me at the sight of Captain Klenck

coming on deck to relieve me. Before I knew what I was saying I had

blurted out, “Where’s Mr. Boyesen?” The cold, expressionless eyes of

the skipper rested full upon me as he replied slowly--

“Ju tondt seem to learn mooch, Meesder Fawn. I dells ju one dime more,

undt only one dime, dat ju nodings to do mit der peezness auf dis

scheep. Verdammt Englescher schweinhund, de nexd dime ju inderferes

mit mein affaires will pe der lasd dime ju efer do anythings in dees

vorl’. Co pelow!”

Again I had to own myself beaten, and the thought was just maddening.

To be trampled on like a coolie, abused like a dog. Great heavens! how

low had I fallen. I never seemed to be ready or able to keep end up

when that man chose to put forth his will against mine. But, unknown

even to myself, I was being educated up to the work that was before

me, and the training was just what was necessary for me. I ate my

breakfast alone, Ah Toy waiting on me with almost affectionate care.

Several times I caught his eye, and fancied that there was a new light

therein. Once I opened my mouth to speak to him, but his finger flew

to his lips, and his look turned swiftly towards the skipper’s berth,

that closely-shut room of which I had never seen the inside. As soon

as my meal was over I retreated to my cabin, closed the door, and

busied myself devising some means of fastening it on the inside. For

now I felt sure that for some reason or other Boyesen had been made

away with, and in all probability my turn was fast approaching. Is it

necessary to say that I felt no want of sleep? Perhaps not; at any

rate, I spent the greater part of my watch below in such preparations

as I could make for self-defence. My two revolvers now seemed precious

beyond all computation as I carefully examined them in every detail,

and made sure they were ready for immediate use.

While thus employed a sudden appalling uproar on deck sent my blood

surging back to my heart, and, after about a second’s doubt, I flung

wide the door and rushed on deck, flinging off Ah Toy, who caught at

me as I passed his pantry door. Springing out of the cabin, I saw the

colossal Chinaman who had boarded us on the previous night standing

calmly looking on, while the crew fought among themselves with a

savagery awful to witness. I did not see the skipper at first, but,

glancing down, I caught sight of his face distorted beyond recognition

by the foot of the huge Celestial, which was planted on his throat.

In that moment all my detestation of him vanished. He was a white man

at the mercy of Mongols, and drawing my revolvers, I sprang towards

his foe. Click went the trigger, but there was no flash or report.

Both were alike useless, and my brain working quietly enough now,

I realized that the man I would have saved had rendered my weapons

useless while I slept, to his own bitter cost. Flinging them from me, I

snatched at a hand-spike that lay at my feet; but before I could grasp

it the combatants divided, half a dozen of my watch flung themselves

upon me, and in a minute I was overpowered. Of course I was somewhat

roughly handled, but there was no anger against me in the faces of my

assailants. As for the giant, he might as well have been carved in

stone for all the notice he appeared to take of what was going on.

Two Siamese carefully lashed me so that I could not move, then carried

me, not at all roughly, aft to the cabin door, and sat me on the

grating, where they left me and returned to the fight, which seemed to

be a life and death struggle between two parties into which the crew

were divided. I have no taste for horrors, and do not propose serving

up a dish of them here, although the temptation to describe the wild

beast fury of those yellow and black men is very great. But it must

suffice to say that those who were apparently friendly to me were the

victors, and having disposed of the dead by summarily flinging them

overboard, they busied themselves of their own accord in trimming sail

so as to run the vessel in towards the coast.

Meanwhile, the gigantic Chinaman, whose advent had so strangely

disturbed the business of our skipper, quietly lifted that unhappy

German as if he had been a child, and carried him into the cabin. Ah

Toy, doubtless ordered by some one in authority, came and set me free,

his face fairly beaming upon me as he told me that it was entirely

owing to my humane treatment of the fellows that my life had been

spared. To my eager questionings as to what was going to be done with

the skipper and the ship, he returned me but the Shibboleth of the

East, “No shabee him; no b’long my pidgin.”

I went on with the work of the ship as usual, finding the survivors

quite as amenable to my orders as they had ever been, and contenting

myself with keeping her on the course she was then making until some

way of taking the initiative should present itself. I had given up

studying the various problems that had so recently made me feel as if I

had gone suddenly mad, and went about in a dull, animalized state, too

bewildered to think, and prepared for any further freak of Fate. While

thus moodily slouching about, Ah Toy came on deck and informed me that

the huge Chinaman was anxious to see me in the cabin. Instinctively

I felt that whatever, whoever he was, I could not afford to offend

him, so I went on the instant, finding him sitting in the main cabin

contemplating the lifeless body of Captain Klenck, which lay on the

deck by his side. Although prepared for anything, as I thought, I could

not repress a shudder of horror at this spectacle, which did not pass

unnoticed by the giant. Turning a grave look upon me, he said, in easy,

polished diction--

“This piece of carrion at my feet had been my paid servant for the last

two years. He was necessary to me, but not indispensable, and he fell

into the fatal error of supposing that not only could I not do without

him, but that, in spite of the enormous salary I paid him, he could rob

me with impunity. I am the senior partner in the Bangkok firm owning

this vessel, and also a fleet of piratical junks that range these seas

from Singapore to Hong Kong, and prey upon other junks mostly, although

wherever it is possible they have no scruples in attacking European

vessels. It is a lucrative business, but a good deal of business acumen

is needed in order to dispose of the plunder realized. In this the late

Captain Klenck was a very useful man, and, knowing this, we paid him so

well that he might very soon have realized a fortune from his salary

alone. Now my men, who, as you have seen, without any assistance from

me, have easily disposed of the gang Klenck had engaged to further

his ends, tell me that they are very fond of you. They say that you

have treated them like men, of your own free will, and I am prepared

to offer you the command of the Phrabayat at the same salary as Klenck

enjoyed. What do you say?”

For a moment I was stunned at the story told me, and, besides, very

much annoyed because I hadn’t seen it all before. It looked so simple

now. But one thing dominated all the rest--who or what was this suave,

English educated Celestial, who trafficked in piracy and yet spoke as

if imbued with all the culture of the West? He actually seemed as if he

read my thoughts, for with something approaching a smile he said--

“I see you are wondering at my English. I am a graduate of Cambridge

University, and was at one time rather lionized in certain fashionable

circles in London. But circumstances made it necessary for me to go

into this business, which pleases me very well. You have not yet

answered my question, though.”

“I am aware that I run considerable risk at present by so doing,”

I replied; “but, in spite of that, I must give you an unqualified

refusal. I am rather surprised at your offer!”

A look of genuine astonishment came over his face as he said, “Why?

Surely you are not so well off that you can afford to play fast and

loose with such a prospect as I hold out to you?”

Then, as if it had suddenly dawned upon him, he shrugged his shoulders

and murmured, “I suppose you have some more scruples. Well, I do not

understand them, but for the sake of my foolish men I suppose I must

respect them. There is one other point, however, upon which I think

you can enlighten me or help me. This carrion here,” and he kicked

contemptuously at the skipper’s dead body, “has secreted quite a

treasure in pearls and gold, and I cannot now compel him to tell me

where. Did you enjoy his confidence at all?”

I hastened to assure my questioner that nothing could well be farther

from the late skipper’s thoughts than to place any confidence in me;

but, as I was speaking, I suddenly remembered the odd-looking key I had

picked up, and diving into my pocket I produced it, saying, “This may

open some secret locker of his. I found it on deck last night, just

after the transhipment of cargo in the middle watch.”

His eyes gave one flash of recognition, and he said quietly, “I know

that key. Come, let us see what we can find by its aid.”

Then, for the first time, I saw the inside of the skipper’s state-room.

No wonder he kept it fast closed. It was honeycombed with lockers of

every shape and size; but, strangest of all, there were three rings

in the deck as if to lift up level-fitting hatches. These took my eye

at once, and, upon my pointing them out, the Chinaman stooped and

essayed to lift one. He had hardly taken hold of the ring, though,

when he saw a keyhole at one edge, and muttering, “I didn’t know of

this, though,” he tried my key in it. It fitted, unlocking the hatch at

once. But neither he nor I was prepared for what we found. There, in a

space not more than four feet square and five feet deep, was a white

man, a stranger to me. The giant at my side reached down and lifted

the prisoner out of his hole as if he had been a child, and, placing

him gently on a settee, regarded him with incurious eyes. He was just

alive, and moaning softly. I called Ah Toy, who evinced no surprise at

seeing the stranger; but, after he had brought some water at my order,

and given the sufferer some drink, he told me that this was the missing

mate. Ah Toy assisted me to get the unfortunate man into my berth,

where I left him to the ministrations of the steward, while I hurried

back to the skipper’s state-room. When I reached it the calm searcher

had laid bare almost all its secrets.

Boyesen, the second mate, was there, looking like a man just awaking

from a furious debauch, and blinking at the light like a bat. And

around him on the deck were heaped treasures beyond all my powers of

assessment. But their glitter had no effect upon me; I suppose I must

have been saturated with surprises, so that my clogged brain would

absorb no more. I turned to Boyesen and offered him my hand, which he

took, and, by assistance, crawled out of that infernal den, leaving the

Chinaman to sort out his wealth.

I tried hard to get some explanation of the second mate’s strange

disappearance from him, but, in addition to his habitual taciturnity,

he was in no condition to talk; so, after a few minutes’ ineffectual

effort, I left him and returned on deck. Ah, how delightful was the

pure air. I drew in great draughts of it, as if to dispel the foulness

of that place below; I looked up at the bright sky and down at the

glittering sea, over which the Phrabayat was bounding at the rate of

six or seven knots an hour, and blessed God that I was still alive, and

for the moment forgot how great was the danger still remaining.

Far ahead I could see the loom of the China coast. By my reckoning she

would be in touch with the land before nightfall if the present fresh

breeze held--and what then? A sudden resolve came upon me to ask the

evident master of my destinies; for, although I felt quite sure that

any compunction for whatever sufferings we white men might endure would

be impossible to him, there would be a certain amount of satisfaction

in knowing his intentions. I turned to go and seek him, but he was

standing by my side. Without waiting for me to speak to him, he said

gravely--

“In a few hours I hope to reach the creek where my agents are waiting

to tranship the cargo. What then will happen depends largely upon

yourself. Should you persist in refusing to take command of this vessel

it may be the easiest plan to cut your throat, as you would be greatly

in the way. Of course, your two companions would be disposed of in the

same manner. But for the present, if you will have the goodness to call

the hands aft, there are some precautions to be taken with reference

to the valuables you have seen, which represent the loot that Captain

Klenck anticipated making off with presently. That reminds me----” And,

disappearing from my side, he slid rather than walked below. I called

the hands aft, walking to the break of the poop as I did so. As I stood

looking down on to the main deck, my late companion appeared with the

skipper’s body in his arms, which he cast over the lee-rail as if it

had been a bundle of rags.

Then, turning to the waiting crew, he gave a few quiet orders, and at

once they began preparing the two boats for lowering. Some of them

dived below and brought up armfuls of small boxes, bags, and mats,

within which coarse coverings I knew were concealed that mass of wealth

lately exposed upon the deck of the state-room below.

Quite at a loss what to do, I stood listlessly watching the busy scene,

until I suddenly remembered the two white men below, who had been so

strangely rescued from an awful death. And as I was clearly not wanted

on deck I went into the cabin, finding, with the first thrall of

satisfaction I had felt for a long time, that they were both rapidly

mending. It is hardly necessary to say that I soon found the stranger

to be my predecessor, whose mysterious disappearance had worried me

not a little. Neither he nor Boyesen were able to talk much, had they

been willing; but I learned that they had both incurred the wrath of

the skipper from having obtained too much knowledge of his proceedings,

that they had both been drugged (at least, only in that way could they

account for his being able to deal with them as he had done), and

they had suffered all the torments of the lost until the yellow giant

had let in the blessed daylight upon them again. But neither they

nor I could understand why the skipper had not killed them offhand.

That was a puzzle never likely to be unravelled now. Neither of them

appeared to take a great deal of interest in the present state of

affairs, certainly not enough to assist me in concerting my plans for

our safety. I was quite satisfied that we were in no immediate danger,

so that I was content, having established a bond of good-fellowship

between us, to wait until they were more fit for active service.

We sat quietly smoking and dropping an occasional word, when a sudden

hurried pattering of bare feet overhead startled me. I rushed on deck,

roused at last into something like vigorous interest, to find that all

hands were quitting the ship. We were now some twenty miles (by my

estimate) from the land, and what this sudden manœuvre could mean was

beyond me until, looking astern, I saw a long smoke-wreath lying like

a soft pencil smudge along a low mass of cumulous cloud. Not one of

the departing heathen took the slightest notice of me as they shoved

off, so I darted out, snatched up the glasses, and focused them on

the approaching steamer. I could not make her out, but I felt sure it

was her advent that had rid us of our parti-coloured masters. Down I

went and told the invalids what had happened, begging them, if they

could, to come on deck and lend a hand to get her hove-to, so that the

steamer might the more rapidly overhaul us. Boyesen managed to make a

start, but the late mate was too feeble. And Ah Toy, to my surprise,

also showed up. I had no time to ask him why he had not gone with the

rest, but together we hurried on deck, finding that a thick column of

smoke was rising from the main hatch--those animals had set her on

fire! There were, of course, no boats, and unless that vessel astern

got in some pretty good speed we stood no bad chance of being roasted

alive. However, we rigged up an impromptu raft, after letting go all

the halyards so that her way might be deadened--we knew better than to

waste time trying to put out such a fire as was raging below.

Why enlarge upon the alternations of hope and fear until the

Ly-ee-moon, Chinese gunboat, overhauled us? She did do so, but not

until we were cowering on the taffrail watching the hungry flames

licking up the mizen-rigging. And when rescued I would not have given a

dozen “cash” for our lives, but that the gunboat had an Englishman in

command, to whom I was able to tell my story. He put the coping-stone

upon my experiences when he told me that he had been watching for the

Phrabayat for the past six months, having received much information as

to her doings. And he used language that made the air smell brimstone

when he realized that, after all, his prize had escaped him. I told him

all I could--it was not much--of the disappearance of the crew, but he

was indifferent. He “didn’t expect to clap eyes on ’em any more,” he

said. Nor did he. Where they landed, or whether they sank, no one but

themselves knew. And we three unfortunate wretches were landed in Hong

Kong three weeks afterwards almost as bare of belongings as when we

began the world. Ah Toy fell on his feet, for he shipped in the gunboat

as the commander’s servant upon my recommendation.

I had all the experience of the China coast I wanted, and shipped

before the mast in a “blue-funnelled” boat for home two days after,

glad to get away on any terms. The two Danes went their way, and I saw

them no more.

THE COOK OF THE CORNUCOPIA

A square-set little Norwegian with a large head, puffy face, faded

blue eyes, and a beard that, commencing just below them, flowed in

wavy masses nearly to his waist; the “Doctor” had already achieved a

reputation among us for taciturnity and gruffness quite out of keeping

with his appearance.

As a cook he was no better or worse than the average, except in one

particular, his cleanliness; and as the majority of sailors in British

ships do not expect such a miracle as would be necessary in order to

change the bad, scanty provisions supplied into tasty food by cooking,

a clean cook is pretty certain of becoming a prime favourite for’ard.

But Olaf Olsen courted no man’s company or favour. To all such sociable

advances as were made him by various members of the crew he returned

the barest answer possible, letting it plainly be seen that he

considered his own society amply sufficient for all his desires. One

of the most difficult positions to maintain, however, on board ship is

that of a misanthrope. Sooner or later the need of human fellowship

always asserts itself, and the most sullen or reserved of men let fall

their self-contained garment. Olsen was no exception to this rule.

Before we had been a month at sea, I was sitting on the spare spars

opposite the galley door silently smoking during the last half-hour

of the second dog-watch, in full enjoyment of the delicious evening

freshness, when the cook suddenly leaned out over the half-door of his

den and said--

“You looks fery quiet dis efening, ain’t id?”

I was so taken aback by his offering any remark that I let my pipe fall

out of my mouth, but stooping to pick it up gave me time to collect

myself and reply in a cheery word or two, feeling curiously anxious to

draw him out. One word brought on another, as the common phrase has

it, and five minutes after his first remark he was sitting by my side

yarning away as if trying to make up for lost time. I let him talk,

only just dropping a word or two at intervals so as to keep him going

by showing him that I was paying attention. Presently he broke off some

rambling remarks by saying abruptly--

“You efer bin t’ Callyo?”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot about it,” I replied. “Pretty hard citizens

around there, ain’t they?”

“Id’s de las’ place Gott Allamitey efer made, my boy, an’ de

deffel’s ben a dumpin’ all de leff-overs in de vorl’ down dere efer

since,” grunted he. “I vas dere las’ voy’ge. You know a ship call de

Panama--big wooden ship’bout fourteen hundred ton? Yell, I vas cook

apoard her, ben out in her over two yere ven ve come ofer frum Melbun

in ballas’. Ve schip a pooty hard crout in de Colonies, leas, dey fancy

demsellufs a tough lot, but mie Gott! dey tidn’ know’ Capn Tunn. No,

dey tidn’, ner yet de tree mates,’n’ leas’ of all dey tidn’ know _me_.

I like de afterguard fus’-class, me an’ dem allvus ked along bully, an’

ve vas all lef’ of de fus’ crew ship’ in London.

“De Bosun, Chips, an’ Sails wa’nt any count; square-heads all tree ov’

em. P’raps you’se tinkin’ I’m a square-head, too? Yus, but I’m f’m

Hammerfes’, an’ dey don’ breed no better men in de vorl, dan dere.

Veil, I see how tings vas coin’ t’be, ’fore ve ked out of Bass’s

Straits,’n I dells you, my poy, dere vas dimes pooty soon. De ole

man vas a Kokney, but he looks so much like me as if he been my dvin

broder. He speak fery low an’ soft--de mate alvus done de hollerin’;

but de fus’ time one of de fellers gif him some slack, he pick him from

de veel like he bin a crab, unt schling him forrut along de poop so he

fall ofer de break onto de main-deck vere de mate vus standin’ ready

ter kig him fur fallin’. De noise bring de vatch below out, an’ dey all

rush af’, fur a plug mush. I come too, but I sail in an he’p de ole

man, un’ I dell you id vas a crate fight, dere vas blut unt hair flyin’.

“In den minnits ve hat it all ofer, de olt man vas de boss, unt

eferybody know it. All de fellers get forrut like sheeps, un’ ven

de ole man sing out, ‘Grog oh!’ presently, dey come aft so goot as

a Suntay-school. Ve haf no more trouble mit dem, but ven ve ket ter

Callyo de ole man say, ‘Py Gott! I ain’t coin ter keep dis crout

loafin’ rount here fur two tree mont’ vile ve vaitin’ fur our turn at

de Chinchees. Run’em out, Misder Short; ve ket plenty men here ven

ve vant ’em quite so goot as dese, un some blut money too!’ So de

mate, he vork ’em up, make ’em rouse de cable all ofer de ballas’,

schling ’em alof’, tarrin’ un schrapin’ an’ slushin’ all day long frum

coffee-time till eight bells at night, unt I feet ’em yoost de same as

at sea.

“In tree day efery galoot ov ’em vas gone, unt den ve haf goot times, I

dell you, de Bosun unt Chips unt Sails vashin’ decks unt keepin’ tings

shipshape. Ve lay dere tree mont’, an’ den de olt man ket his per-mit

fur de islan’s. He vent to Bucko Yoe, de Amerigan boarding-master

dat kill so many men--you hear of him before, ain’t it?--unt he say,

‘Yoe, I vant fifteen men to-morrow. I ton’d care a tarn who dey vas

s’long’s dey’s life sailormen, put py Gott, ef you schanghai me enny

’longshoremen, alla det men, I fills you so full of holes dat you mage

a No. 1 flour tretger. Dat’s all I’m coin t’ say t’ you.’ Bucko Yoe he

larf, but he know de olt man pefore, unt he pring us fifteen vite men,

all blind, paralytic tronk, but anybody see dey vas sailormen mit von

eye.”

Just at this juncture, Sandy McFee, my especial chum, came strolling

out of the fo’c’sle, his freshly-loaded pipe glowing and casting a

grateful odour upon the quiet evening air. He was, like the cook,

a square-set, chunky man, but he was also, in addition, one of the

smartest men I ever knew. He brought up all standing at the unusual

sight of the Doctor and myself enjoying a friendly cuffer, so surprised

that he allowed his pipe to go out. The cook froze up promptly, and

stared at the intruder stonily. It was an uncomfortable silence that

ensued, broken at last by the rasping voice of the Aberdonian,

saying, “Man Tammas, hoo d’ye manach t’ open th’ lips o’ yon Dutch

immuj? Ah’d a noshin’ ut he couldna speyk ony ceevil language. Ye micht

tell ma hoo ye manached it.”

[Illustration: He clutched his insulter by the beard and belt.]

A certain quivering about the cook’s broad shoulders was the only

visible sign that he had heard and understood the mocking little speech

made by Scotty, but the latter had hardly finished when the Doctor rose

to his feet, remarking with a yawn, as of a man who took no interest in

the subject--

“I allvus t’ought Scossmen vas dam’ pigs, und now I knows it. But I

nefer hear von crunt before. Vy tondt you co unt scradge yorselluf? You

findt un olt proom forrut.”

Down went Sandy’s pipe, an articulate growl burst from his chest, and,

with a spring like a grasshopper, he had clutched his insulter by the

beard and belt. There was a confused whirl of legs and arms, a panting

snarl deep down in the men’s throats, and suddenly, to my horror, I

saw the cook go flying over the rail into space, striking the sea

almost immediately afterwards with a tremendous splash. It was all so

sudden that for the instant I was helpless. But the splash alongside

started me into life, and, grabbing the coil of the fore-sheet behind

me, I hurled it overside without looking. At the same moment Sandy,

horror-struck at his mad action, sprang on to the pin-rail and dived

after his victim.

The ship was just forging ahead through an oily smoothness of sea to a

faint upper current of air, so that there was no great danger except

from a prowling shark, but the short twilight was fading fast. As

if intuitively, all hands had rushed on deck and aft to the quarter,

while the helmsman jammed the wheel hard down. The vessel turned

slowly to meet the wind, while we watched the man who had just hurled

a fellow-creature to what might easily be his death, fighting like a

lion to rescue him. The cook could not swim, that was evident, but it

was still more evident that he had no thought of his own danger if only

he might take his enemy along with him to death. He had, however, to

deal with one who was equally at home in the water as on deck, and it

was wonderful to see how warily, yet with what determination the little

Scotchman manœuvred until he had the furious Norwegian firmly pinned

by the arms at his back, and how coolly he dipped him again and again

beneath the surface, until he had reduced him to quiescence.

Getting the boat out is usually in those ships a formidable task, and

it was nearly half an hour before we had the two men safely on board

again. The skipper was a quiet, amiable man, and this strange outbreak

puzzled him greatly. Sandy, however, expressed his contrition, and

promised to avoid the Doctor and his bitter tongue in future. So with

that the skipper had to be content, especially as the cook recovered so

rapidly from his ducking that we heard him in another half-hour’s time

grinding coffee for the morning as if nothing had happened. But the

strangest part of the affair to me was its outcome. Next morning, in

our watch below, the Doctor came into the fo’c’sle, and, walking up to

Sandy, put out his hand, saying--

“Santy, you vas a coot man, pedder as me, unt I tond vant any more row

longer you. I ben coot man, too, bud I ain’t any longer, only I forkedd

it somedimes. I cot my soup unter vay for dinner, unt if you likes I

finish dot yarn I vas tellin’ Tom here lasd night.”

Now Sandy was all over man, and jumping up from his chest he gripped

the Doctor’s paw, saying--

“Weel, Doctor, A’am as sorry as a maan can be ’at I lost ma temper wi’

ye. W’en Ah see ye i’ th’ watter Ah feelt like a cooard, and Ah’d a

loupit owerboord afther ye, even ef Ah couldna ha soomt a stroak. Ah

wisht we’d a bottle o’ fhuskey t’ drink t’ yin anither in; but never

mind, we’ll hae two holl evenin’s thegither in Melburrun when we got

thonder. But you an’ me’s chums fra this oot.”

This happy conclusion pleased us all, and, in order to profit by this

loosening of the Doctor’s tongue, I said, passing over my plug of

tobacco--

“Now then, Doctor, we’re all anxious to hear the rest of that cuffer

you was tellin’ me last night. I’ve told the chaps all you told me, and

they are just hungry for the rest, so fill up and go ahead.”

“Vell, poys, you nefer see a hantier crout dan dat lot Amerigan Yoe cot

schanghaied abord of us in Callyo. How he ked ’em all so qviet I ton’t

know. But dey vas all ofer blut, unt dere close vas tore to shakin’s,

so I kess dey vas some pooty hart fightin’ pefore he put ’em to sleep

so he could pring dem alonkside. De olt man unt his bucko crout of

off’cers ton’t let ’em haf time to ked spry pefore dey pegin roustin’

’em erroun’--dey know de ropes too vell fer dot. So as soon as de

boardin’ marsder vas gone, oudt dey comes, unt aldough it vas keddin’

tark, I be tamt ef dey vasn’t sdarted holystonin’ de deck fore ’n aft.

Dey vas haluf tedt mit knoggin’ about, dey hadn’t been fed, unt dey vas

more as haluf poison mit bad yin, unt den to vork ’em oop like dat, I

dells you vat, poys, id vas tough.

“Dey let oop on ’em ’bout twelluf o’clock unt told ’em to co below, but

de poor dyfuls yoost ked into de fo’c’sle unt fall down--anyveres--unt

dere dey schleep till coffee-dime. Perhaps you ton’d pelief me, but

I dells you de trut, dem fellers come out ven de mate sinks oudt,

‘Turn-to’ like anoder crout altogeder. Efen de mate look mit all his

eyes cos he don’t aspect to see ’em like dat. Dey ton’t do mooch till

prekfuss-dime, unt den dey keds a coot feet; mags dem quite sassy.

“Unt so off ve goes to de Chinchees, unt from dat day out ve nefer done

fightin’. You talk apout Yankee blood-poats unt plue-nose hell-afloats,

dey wan’t in it ’longside de Panama. Dem fellers vas all kinds; but dey

vas all on de fight, unt, if de could only haf hang togedder, dey’d

haf murder de whole lot of us aft. But dey couldn’t; leas’, dey didn’t

until long after ve lef de island, an slidin’ up troo de soud-east

trades tords de line. Den one afternoon I ketch one of ’em diggin’ a

lot er slush[A] outer one er my full casks. ’Course I vas mat, unt I

dells him to get t’ hell out er dat, unt leave my slush alone. He don’t

say nuthin’, but he schlings de pot at me. Den it vas me un him for it,

un ve fight like two rhinosros.

[A] “Slush” in the merchant service is the name given to the

coarse dripping, lumps of waste fat, etc., which the

ship’s cook has over after preparing the men’s food. He

is entitled to this as his perquisite, and is naturally

careful to cask it down during the voyage for sale ashore,

after the voyage, to wholesale chandlers and soap-boilers,

or their middlemen.

“Ve fight so hardt ve don’t know dat all hants haf choin in, efen de

man run from de veel un chip in. I bin dat mat ’bout my slush I fight

like six men, unt ven de fight vas ofer I fall down on teck right vere

I am, unt go to sleep. Ven I vake up aken de olt man haf got de hole

crout in ierns. He say he be tam ef he coin’t t’ haf any mo’ fightin’

dis voy’ge; liddle’s all fery vell, but ’nough’s a plenty. So ve vork

de ship home oursellufs--qvite ’nough t’ do, I tell you, t’ keep her

coin ’n look after dat crout so vell.

“De olt man dell me he bin fery font of me,’n he coin’ t’ gif me dupple

pay; but ven ve ket to Grafesent ’n sent all de crout ashore in ierns,

I vant t’ sell my slush to a poatman--I haf fifteen parrels--unt de

poatman offer me £25 for it. But de olt man he say he want haluf--haluf

_my_ slush vat I ben safin fery near tree years! I say to him, ‘Look

here, Cap’n Tunn, I luf you petter as mineselluf; but pefore I led you

take away haluf my slush, I coin to see vich is de pest man, you alla

me.’ He don’t say no more, but he valk up to me unt make a crab at

my peard, unt den it vas us two for it. But he vasn’t a man, he vas

ten deffels stuff into von liddle man’s body. I tondt know how long

ve fight, I tondt know how ve fight; but ven I vake oop I ain’t any

fightin’ man no more. My het is crack unt haluf my teet gone, unt I

haf some arms unt legs break pesides. But he gomes to see me in de

’ospital, unt he ses, ‘Olsen, my poy, you bin a tam goot man, ’n I haf

sell your slush for tirty poun’ unt pring you de money. You haf £120

to take, unt ven you come out, tondt you go to sea no more; you puy a

cook-shop in de Highvay; you make your fortune.’ Den he go avay, unt I

never see him any more.

“Ven I come out I traw my 150 soffrins unt puy a pelt to carry dem

rount me. Unt I pig up mit a nice liddle gal from de country, unt ve

haf a yolly time. Ve make it oop to ked marrit righd off, unt dake dat

cook-shop so soon as I haf yoost a liddle run rount. Den I sdart on

de spree unt I keep it oop for tree veeks, until I ked bad in my het,

allvus dirsty unt nefer can’t get any trinks dat seems vet. Afterwards

I co vat you call oudt--off my het, unt I tond’t know vedder I isn’t

back in de Panama agen, fightin’, fightin’ all day unt all night. Ven

I ked vell agen, I got nuthin’, no money, no close, no vife. So I tink

I petter go unt look for a ship, unt ven I ked dis von I ain’t eat

anyting for tree days.”

Then, as abruptly as he had opened the conversation, he closed

it by getting up and leaving us, having, I supposed, obeyed the

uncontrollable impulse to tell his story that comes now and then upon

every man.

A LESSON IN CHRISTMAS-KEEPING

Morning broke bleakly forbidding on the iron-bound coast of Kerguelen

Island. Over the fantastic peaks, flung broadcast as if from the

primeval cauldron of the world, hung a grim pall of low, grey-black

cloud, so low, indeed, that the sea-birds drifting disconsolately to

and fro between barren shore and gale-tossed sea were often hidden

from view as if behind a fog-bank, and only their melancholy screams

denoted their presence, until they glinted into sight again like huge

snow-flakes hesitating to fall. Yet it was the Antarctic mid-summer, it

was the breaking of Christmas Day.

As the pale dawn grew less weak, it revealed a tiny encampment, just

a few odds and ends of drifting wreckage piled forlornly together,

and yielding a dubious shelter to a huddled-up group of fourteen

men, sleeping in spite of their surroundings. Presently, there were

exposed, perched upon the snarling teeth of an outlying rock-cluster,

the “ribs and trucks” of a small wooden ship, a barque-rigged craft of

about four hundred tons. Her rigging hung in slovenly festoons from

the drunkenly standing masts, the yards made more angles with their

unstable supports than are known to Euclid, while through many a jagged

gap in her topsides the mad sea rushed wantonly, as if elated with its

opportunities of marring the handiwork of the daring sea-masters.

The outlook was certainly sufficiently discomforting; yet, as one by

one the sleepers awakened, and with many a grunt and shiver crept

forth from their lair, it would have been difficult to judge from the

expressions upon their weather-beaten countenances how hopeless was the

situation that they were in.

For they came of a breed that is strong to endure hardness, that takes

its much bitter with little sweet as a matter of course, and, by dint

of steady refusal to be dismayed at Fate’s fiercest frowns, has built

up for itself a most gallantly earned reputation for pluck, endurance,

and success throughout the civilized world. They were Scotch to a man,

rugged and stern as the granite of their native Aberdeenshire.

They were the crew of the barque Jeanie Deans, of Peterhead, which,

while outward bound from Aberdeen to Otago, New Zealand, had, after

long striving against weather extraordinarily severe for the time of

year, been hurled against that terrific coast during the previous

afternoon. Their escape shoreward had been as miraculous as fifty per

cent. of such escapes are, and, beyond their lives, they had saved

nothing. So the prospect was unpromising. Nothing could be expected

from the break-up of the ship. She was loaded with ironwork of various

sorts, and her stores were not in any water-tight cases which might

bring them ashore in an eatable condition. But the large-limbed,

red-bearded skipper, after a keen look round, said--

“Ou, ay, ther isna ower muckle tae back an’ fill on, but A’am thenkin’

we’ll juist hae to bestir wersells an’ see if we canna get some

breakfas’. Has ony ane got ony matches?”

It presently appeared that of these simple yet invaluable little

adjuncts to civilization there was not one among the crowd. But even

this grim discovery appeared to make no great impression, and presently

the mate, a tall man from Auchtermuchty, with an expressionless face

and a voice like “a coo’s,” as he was wont to say, remarked casually--

“If ye’ll scatther aboot an’ see fat ye can fine tae cuik, I’se warrant

ye Aa’ll get ye some fire tae cuik it wi’.”

No one spoke another word, but silently they separated for their quest,

leaving Mr. Lowrie, with his blank face, methodically rummaging among

the _débris_. Presently he sat down quietly with a piece of flat board

before him about two feet long by six inches wide. In his hand he held

a piece of broomstick, which in some mysterious way had got included in

the flotsam. This he whittled at one end into a blunt point, carefully

saving the cuttings in his trousers pocket. Then with a steady movement

of his stick he commenced to chafe a groove lengthways in the board,

adding occasionally a pinch of grit from the ground to assist friction.

By-and-by there was quite a little heap of brown wood-dust collected

at one end of the groove. Then getting on his knees and grasping his

broom-stick-piece energetically in both hands, he pushed it to and fro

in the groove with all his force and speed, until suddenly he flung

away the stick, and stooping over the little pile of dust, he covered

it tenderly with both hands hollowed, and bending his head over it

breathed upon it most gently. And by imperceptible degrees there arose

from it a slender spiral of smoke.

His right hand stole to his pocket, and fetched therefrom a few slivers

of wood, which he coyly introduced under the shelter of his other hand,

until suddenly the Red Flower blossomed--there was fire. Now it only

needed feeding to rise gloriously into that gloomy air. To this end Mr.

Lowrie worked like a Chinaman, until within an hour he had a pile of

burning driftwood, four feet high and fully six feet round, sending up

ruddy tongues of flame and a column of smoke like a palm tree.

One by one the adventurers returned with dour faces, empty-handed save

for a sea-bird’s egg or two, a few fronds of seaweed which the bearers

insisted was “dulse” (the edible fucus), and a brace of birds that

looked scarcely enough to furnish an appetizer for one. But just as a

stray sunbeam darted down upon the little gathering, while they huddled

round the grateful warmth, there was a hoarse shout. All started, for

it was the skipper’s voice roaring--

“C’way here an’ lend a han’, ye louns. Fat’r ye aal shtannin there

toasting yer taes fur like a pickle o’ weans juist waitin’ on yer

mithers tae cry on ye tae come ben fur yer breakfas’?”

The men at once obeyed the familiar command, finding the skipper and

the cook wrestling with a huge case, that was so stoutly built that not

a plank of it had come adrift. When they had man-handled it over the

rugged ground to within reach of the warmth the skipper said--

“Ah divna ken fats intilt, bit Ah min fine that Mester Broon, fan he

shipped it, said it wis somethin’ Ah wis tae tak unco care o’. And so

’twis lasht under th’ s’loon table. C’wa, le’s open’t; please God ther

may be somethin’ useful inside o’t.”

Willing hands, regardless of the loss of skin from knuckles and arms,

wrought at the task; but so stoutly did the case resist their efforts

that it was long before they had stripped off the stout planking and

revealed an air-tight lining of thick tin. This was attacked with

sheath-knives, and, after much hacking and breaking of cutlery, yielded

and exposed a number of queer-looking parcels most carefully packed. On

the top was a letter. It ran as follows:--

“DEAR JACK,

“In full recollection of your curious Scottish prejudice

against any celebration of Christmas, and also of that awful

time when you and I were stranded on the Campbells, and

compelled to suck raw sea-birds’ eggs for our Christmas fare, I

have sent you the materials for a good old-fashioned Christmas

dinner, as I understand it, being a Cockney of the Cockniest. I

also send you Dickens’s ‘Christmas Carol’ to read after dinner,

and if you don’t do justice to my loving Christmas Box, I

solemnly swear that I will never regard you as a chum again.

Here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas, and as jolly a Hogmanay

as ever you can get after.

“Most affectionately yours,

“JOHN BROWN.”

“Em, ehmm” (no written words can adequately represent the peculiar

Scottish exclamation that stands for anything you like, being strictly

non-committal), “that reads no sae bad. We’ll juist investigate. Fat

hae we here? Et’s a duff, mahn, ou ay, bit et’s a boeny wan.”

And as he spoke he pulled out of its nest a gorgeous Christmas pudding

weighing some twenty-five pounds. Next came an enormous oblong tin

case, labelled, “Fortnum and Mason. Special Christmas turkey, stuffed

with capon, tongue, and forcemeat,” upon reading which the skipper

murmured again, “Ou ay, that’s no sae dusty, ye ken.” Next came a layer

of bottles of green peas, alternated with bottles labelled “Turtle

soup.” Other queer tin cases followed, bearing inscriptions such as

“Special mince-pies,” “Scotch shortbread,” “American biscuits”--like

foam-flakes--“Dessert fruits,” “York ham, best quality, ready cooked,”

and “Boar’s head.” Finally, on the ground floor, as it were, was

displayed a compact array of bottles, of which six were labelled,

“Extra special Scotch whisky,” six “Special port, bin 50,” two

corpulent ones bore the signature “D.O.M.,” and twelve had big-headed

corks with gold foil adorning them. Followed at last two boxes of

fat-looking cigars, and the book.

That grim assembly looked down upon this tempting array with their hard

features perceptibly softening, while the skipper said--

“Weel a’weel. A’am no’ an advocate for specializin’ Chrismuss masel,

altho’ Ah laik fine tae keep up Hogmanay. But A’am no a bigot, ye

ken, an’ A’am thenkin’ that unner th’ circumstances ’twad juist be

flytin’ Proeveedence no tae accept in a speerut o’ moderashun sichn

a Chrismuss Boex as thon. Bit I’ll not coairce ony man. Them ’at

disna approve o’ keepin’ Chrismuss ava can juist daunder awa’. ’S far

as A’am consairned”--here he deftly knocked the top off one of the

special Scotch bottles, and, looking round benignantly, said--“Here’s

tae wersels, boys, a blessin’ on the giver o’ th’ feast, an’ a Merry

Chrismuss tae us a’.”

Why particularize the proceedings that ensued? Should it not be

sufficient to say that no conscientious scruples were entertained by

any of those hard-grained men at this almost compulsory wrecking of

their principles? Scarcely; yet passing notice may be given to the

difficulties attendant upon drinking champagne out of bottle-necks,

of eating concentrated turtle-soup warmed in the bottle like Pommard,

of the total want of order and routine evidenced in dealing with the

assorted provisions so providentially to hand--and mouth. Especially

was this the case with the rotund bottles of Benedictine. One and

all agreed that while the contents were “gey an’ oily-like,” they

were “vara seductiv’,” and had the effect of making the partakers

thereof curiously unreserved and open to conviction as to the general

satisfactoriness of things in general.

When at last, with long-drawn sighs, the unwonted Christmas-keepers

sank down upon their stony seats and lit up their aromatic smokes with

brands passed from hand to hand, it evidently needed no keen judge of

human nature to prophesy that a unanimous vote would be given if asked

for as to the desirability of keeping up Christmas English fashion.

When all had quietly settled down to the soothing influence of nicotine

in its best form, the skipper lifted up his voice and said--

“Weel, ma lads, A’am thenkin’ that we k’n dae nae less than gae through

the haill reetual. This buik, ‘A Christmas Carol,’ is eevidently pairt

o’ th’ programme, an’ as A’am nae that ongratefu’ I’ll juist read it,

fativer it coasts ma.”

So he opened the volume, and read while the hard lines of the faces

softened under the magic of the Master’s words, and in spite of the

well-worn masks of indifference an occasional dewdrop of sympathy

glittered like a diamond in the furrow of a bronzed visage.

* * * * *

“Ah wudna wuss tae interrup ye, sir,” suddenly interjected an ordinary

seaman, “bit Ah thocht ye micht laik tae ken that thers a vessel juist

lookin’ roun’ the point.”

“Man, ye’re richt, there is that. Weel, A’am neerly throu’, an’ as thon

auld deevil Scrooge has been conveencit o’ th’ errour of’s ways (as we

have), A’am of opingon we ma tak’ th’ lave o’ th’ storey as read. But

’twas a gey guid yarn, was’t no?”

By this time the ship of deliverance, having hove to, was getting a

boat out. That laborious business over, the boat came at fair speed

towards the only practicable landing-place, until the commiserating

face of the officer in charge took on an expression of bewilderment as

he noted the smug complacency on the countenances of the castaways.

It did not diminish when the skipper, gravely welcoming him with one

hand, held out invitingly a decapitated bottle of extra special Scotch

with the other, saying, with lingering sweetness in his voice--

“Mahn dear, here’s wussin’ ye a Merry Chrismuss.”

THE TERROR OF DARKNESS

“South 70° E., sir, weather’s a bit sulky and inclined to dirt before

daylight, I should think. Lot of ships about. Bishop bore N. 20° W.

fifteen miles off at eight bells (4 a.m.). Good morning.” And as he

uttered the last words the second officer of the Kafirstan, 10,000-ton

cargo steamer, London to Boston, U.S., swung his burly form down the

lee-bridge ladder, and the darkness swallowed him up. The chief, who

had just relieved him, mumbled out “G’mornin’” in the midst of a

cavernous yawn, not because he was churlish or out of humour, but for

the reason that be a man never so seasoned, the sudden transition from

the cosy recesses of a warm bunk and sweet sleep to a narrow platform

some forty feet above the sea, fully exposed to the wrathful edge of a

winter gale at four o’clock in the morning, does not predispose him to

cheerful conversation, or indeed any other of the amenities of life,

until the wonderful adaptability of the human body has had time to

adjust itself to the altered conditions.

No; John Furness, chief mate, was anything but a sulky man. Buffeted

by the storms of Fate from his earliest youth in far fiercer fashion

than ever the gales of winter had smitten him, he was now by way of

esteeming himself one of the most fortunate of mankind, for, after

serving as second mate for several years with a chief and master’s

ticket, and never getting a better berth than some thousand-ton tramp

could afford him, he had suddenly taken unto himself a wife--a dear

girl, as poor and as friendless as himself--with the quaint remark

that the best thing to do with two lonely people was to make ’em one,

on the principle that like cures like. And with his marriage his luck

seemed to have turned. On the second day of his honeymoon he was taking

his young wife round the docks, and pointing out to her the various

ships--like introducing her to old acquaintances--when suddenly, with

a bound, he left her side and disappeared over the edge of a jetty. He

had caught sight of an old gentleman who had tripped his foot in a coil

of rope and tumbled over it and the edge of the pier at the same time.

John’s promptitude cost him a wetting, but got him his present berth,

the best he had ever held in his life, and his heart beat high with

hope that at last he was on the high road to fortune.

Still, all these pleasant recollections didn’t prevent him feeling

sleepy and chilly upon relieving his shipmate. Vigorously he called up

his resources of energy, peering through the thick gloom ahead at the

twinkling gleams showing here and there, betokening the presence of

other ships. Far beneath him the untiring engines, with their Titanic

thrust and recover, kept his lofty station a-quiver as they drove the

huge mass of the Kafirstan steadily onward against the fierce and

increasing storm. Again and again he answered cheerily to the look-out

man’s taps on the bells announcing lights “All right,” and as often by

a word to the helmsman behind him, altered his great vessel’s course

a little to port or starboard in order to avoid collision with the

passing ships. All this in the usual course of routine--it is what

hundreds of men like him are doing this morning, thinking no more of

the magnitude of the forces they control than a cabman who navigates

the crowded London streets dwells upon what would happen if he should

spill his fare under a passing waggon. It is, above all things,

necessary at sea to refrain from dwelling upon what _may_ happen. The

one thing needful is to be equal to each duty as it arises. And John

Furness was undoubtedly that. But suddenly an awful crash flung him

backwards; his head struck against a stanchion of the bridge, a myriad

lights gleamed before his glazing eyes, and he knew no more--knew

nothing, that is, of the short, stern agony through which his shipmates

passed as the huge fabric beneath them admitted the supremacy of the

ever-watchful sea. She had met--her mass of 10,000 tons or so being

hurled along at the rate of twelve miles an hour--with the Terror of

the Darkness, a derelict just awash, one of those ancient Norwegian

timber-scows, the refuse of the sea, that crawl to and fro across the

Atlantic on sufferance, until there comes a day when the half-frozen

crew are swept from the top of the slippery deck-load, the sea pours

in through a hundred openings, and she becomes one of the most awful

dangers known to mariners--a water-logged derelict. Floating just awash

at the will of ocean currents, she cannot be located with any degree

of certainty, but solid almost as a rock she drifts silently across the

great ocean highway invisible, unheard, a lier-in-wait for the lives of

men.

When John Furness returned to consciousness again, he became aware of

acute pains all over his body. Also that he was not drowning, although

at intervals waves washed over him. Gradually he realized that he was

clinging desperately, mechanically, but with such force that he could

hardly unbend the grip of his hands, to a slimy rope. But where? As

his mind cleared, and the certainty of the awful tragedy that had just

passed over him and left him still alive became borne in upon him, he

felt his heart swell. He thought of the handful of brave men, of whom

he had already got to know every one, suddenly hurled into oblivion

with all the hopes and love of which each was the centre. And a few

heavy drops rolled out from his brine-encrusted eyes. Then he thought

of Mary--his Mary--and at the same moment realized his duty: to strive

after life for her sake. The impulse was needed, because that lethargy

that means a loss of the desire to live was fast stealing over him.

With a great effort that sent racking pains through his stiffened body

he turned his face upwards, passed one hand across his face, and saw

where he was. Lying upon the slope of a bank thickly overgrown with

dank green weed like fine hair, and with a strong fishy smell. With

awakening interest he peered at the rope he held--it, too, was thickly

draped with the same growth, but in addition, beneath the weed, it was

encrusted with jagged little shells. More than this he could hardly

discern for the present, because it was still dark; but as his senses

resumed their normal keenness of apprehension, he knew that he was

afloat, and guessed the truth--that by some mysterious means he had

been preserved from drowning by laying hold of the same cause that had

sent all his late shipmates to their sudden end. A low, sullen murmur

smote upon his ears, for the wind had gone down, and the resentful sea

still rolled its broken surface violently in the direction in which it

had been so fiercely driven, making John’s holding-on place roll and

heave in a heavy, lifeless manner. The grey, cheerless dawn struggled

through the thick pall of clouds still draping the sky, and by the cold

light the shivering man saw the full horror of his surroundings. He was

clinging to the last rag of running-gear trailing from the short stump

of the mainmast of a large ship--a ship that must, at least, have been

of seventeen or eighteen hundred tons burden. She lay with one side of

the deck well below the water, and the other some ten feet above it.

Not a vestige of bulwarks, cabin, or fo’c’sle appeared on deck, all was

flush as if mowed off by some gigantic scythe. Only a little forrard of

where John lay was a gash cut into her side at right angles, revealing

within sodden masses of timber also crushed and broken by the terrible

impact of that blow. And as he looked at the wedge-shaped wound there

came back to him, as if in a dream of some former life, the shock,

the few seconds’ realization of that fatal blow dealt herself by the

Kafirstan, before he had lost consciousness to resume it here. And

knowing the build of the steamer as he did, he had not the faintest

hope of her having survived for even an hour. His chief longing was

that sufficient time had been allowed his shipmates to get into the

boats and pull away from the frightful vortex of the sinking Kafirstan.

The light having become sufficiently strong for him to see thoroughly

well, he made another heroic effort, and commenced to explore his

prison. And as soon as he did so, he realized how long this dangerous

obstruction had been drifting about the ocean. For she was literally

undistinguishable, except to a seaman’s eye, from a worn and sea-beaten

rock. Through the crevices in her deck and the gap made by the

Kafirstan, he could see hosts of fish, legions of crabs of various

kinds, and nowhere, except at the point where she had been run into,

was there a square inch that was not thickly hidden by the sea-growth

of weed and shells. He dragged himself up to the stump of the mainmast,

and, bracing himself erect against it, looked long and earnestly around

the lowering horizon; but he was quite alone. Not a gleam of sail or a

wreath of smoke was to be seen. But he was a man who, while never very

sanguine about his “luck,” had a wonderful fund of hope, and in spite

of the dismal outlook, he felt no despair. Nevertheless, that he might

not brood, he determined to be busy, and dragging himself aft with the

utmost caution that he might not slide off that slimy slope into the

cold sea to leeward, he reached the yawning cavity, where once the

companion or entrance to the lower cabin had been. Peering down, the

sight was not encouraging, although the dark water did not here come so

close up to the deck as forward. But he was bound to explore, even if

he had to swim, if only for the sake of employment; so crawling over

the edge, he dropped below into water up to his waist, and immediately

struggled to windward, where to his content he found he could move

about above water. He entered what he took to be the skipper’s cabin,

noticing with a queer feeling of sympathy the few remnants of clothing

hanging from hooks like silent witnesses of the tragedy of long ago.

To his surprise, he found that everything was left as if in the midst

of ordinary life; the owner had been carried off without a moment in

which to return for anything he might value. Even the bed-clothes,

dank and sodden, lay as they had been jumped out of, well tucked in at

the foot of the bunk by a careful steward. With a sense of sacrilege

that he found it hard to shake off, John tried the drawers, and the

woodwork fell away at his touch. Clothes, papers, photographs within

lay in pulpy masses where the invading sea had so long drained through

on to them. But the searcher turned all over, listlessly, mechanically,

until the hot blood suddenly surged to his head as he heard a musical

jingle. With feverish haste he pulled out the lumps of dank stuff until

at the bottom of the drawer he found a heap of gold coins which he had

evidently disturbed by twitching at the rotted bag which had contained

them. Gathering them all together without counting, he shovelled them

into the two inner pockets of his pea-coat, afterwards tearing open

the lining and securing the necks of the pockets by a piece of roping

twine, of which he was never without a small ball.

Then with almost frantic haste he scrambled on deck, feeling as if

by being down there another minute he might be risking his chance of

rescue. But when he again reached the mainmast and looked around only

the same blank circle greeted him. And his mind, until then fairly

calm, fiercely rebelled at the idea of being lost now, when the weight

burdening him told him that should he reach home again, he would be

able to secure a position for himself as captain of a ship by the

hitherto impossible means of buying an interest in her. Had he waited

to analyze his feelings, he would no doubt have wondered why the

possession of a little gold should have the power to change his usually

calm and philosophic behaviour into the fretful eager frame in which

he now found himself; but at the time all his hopes, all his energies,

were concentrated upon the one idea, how to save, not merely his life,

but his newly gotten gold for the enjoyment of that dear one bravely

waiting at home.

The long bitter day passed without other sign of life around, than the

occasional deep breathing of a whale close at hand, or the frolicsome

splash of a passing porpoise. His vitality, great though it was, began

to fail under the combined influences of cold and hunger and thirst.

So that he passed uneasily to and fro between sleeping and waking,

only dimly conscious all the time of decreasing ability to resist the

combined influences of these foes to life. Day faded into night, and

still the wind did not rise, although the sky continually threatened,

being so lowering that the night shade was almost opaque. As he lay

semi-conscious some mysterious premonition smote him to his very

vitals, and raised him erect with such nervous energy that he felt

transformed. There, almost upon him, glared the two red and green eyes

of a great ship, while, high above, the far-reaching electric beams

from her fore masthead made a wide white track through the darkness. He

shouted with, as it seemed to him, ten voices, “Ship ahoy.” And back

like an echo came the reply, “Hullo.” The alarm was taken, and close

aboard of the derelict the huge mail steamer came to a standstill,

saved from destruction. In ten minutes John Furness was in safety, and

three days after he landed in London, bringing the first news of the

loss of the Kafirstan. And in three days more his treasure trove had

secured for him the position he had so long fruitlessly striven to

obtain by merit and hard work.

THE WATCHMEN OF THE WORLD

There is surely high inspiration in the thought that of all the mighty

civilizations that have emerged in these latter days, there is none

that dare claim the comprehensive title given to this paper without

fear of contradiction, save ourselves. For the function of the Watchman

is to keep the peace, to restrain lawlessness, to bring evil-doers to

justice, and to hold himself unspotted from even the tiniest speck

of injustice. At least these should be his functions, and if they

seem to be counsels of perfection, the aiming thereat with persistent

courage is continually bringing them nearer a perfect realization.

And if this be so with individual watchmen, it is infinitely more so

with those typical Watchers of the Empire, of whom I would now speak,

the splendid, ubiquitous, and ever-ready British Navy. It would be an

uplifting exercise for some of us, widening our outlook upon life, and

enlightening us as to the majestic part our country has been called

upon to play at this wonderful period of the world’s history, if we

were to get a terrestrial globe, a number of tiny white flags, and a

list of positions of all our men-o’-war. Then by sticking in a flag

for every ship wherever she was stationed, or on passage at the time,

we should have a bird’s-eye view as it were of the “beats” which our

Empire Watchmen patrol unceasingly.

From end to end of the great Middle Sea wherein we hold but those dots

upon the map, Gibraltar and Malta and Cyprus, whose shores bristle with

hostile populations, our stately squadrons parade, not on sufferance,

but as a right, none daring to say them nay. Their business is

peaceful, although they have enormous force ready to use if need be,

the duty of keeping Britain’s trade routes clear, that the shuttles

weaving the vast web of world-wide trade that we have built up may

glide to and fro in security even though envious nations gnash upon us

with their teeth, and vainly endeavour by every species of chicane and

underhand meanness to rob us of the fruits of centuries of industry.

In two Mediterranean countries alone are our ships of war heartily

welcome. Italy and Greece remember gratefully our constant friendship.

Italians of all classes are acquainted with the practical good-will

of Great Britain, and so man-o’-war Jack is sure of warm reception

throughout that lovely country. Not that the manner of his reception

troubles the worthy tar at all. Oh no. The keynote of the chorus that

is perpetually being chanted in the British Navy is _duty_. The word

is seldom mentioned, but better than that, it is lived. It enables the

sailor to spend unmurmuringly long periods of absolute torture under

the blazing furnace of the Persian Gulf, an oven that while it burns

does not dry; where the soaking dews of the night lie thickly upon

the decks throughout the scorching day, and are not dispersed because

the molten air is overloaded with moisture, and life is lived in a

vapour-bath. Here you will find the young men of gentle birth who

govern in our fighting ships, forgetting their own physical miseries,

in the brave effort to make the severe conditions more tolerable to the

crews they command. Do their dimmed eyes often in the steaming night

turn wistfully westward to the cool green English country-side, where

the old home lies embowered amid the ancestral oaks? Why, certainly,

but that does not make the young officer’s zeal any weaker, does not

damp his ardour to sustain the great traditions which are the pride and

glory of the service to which it is his greatest delight to belong.

Or creep down the coast of East Africa, throbbing, palpitating under

that fervent heat glare, and see the St. George’s Cross proudly

waving over the sterns of the gun-boats set by Britain to quell the

bloodthirsty Arab’s lust for slavery. Here is manifest such devotion

to an ideal, albeit that ideal is never formulated in so many words,

as should stir the most prosaic, matter-of-fact minds among us. I

well remember--could I ever forget?--a visit I once paid to H.M.S.

London, sometime depôt ship at Zanzibar. It was a privilege that I

valued highly, not knowing then that with a high courtesy our country’s

men-o’-war are always accessible at reasonable times to any citizen who

would see with his own eyes how his home is defended and by whom. I was

then mate of a trading vessel that had brought supplies from home for

the use of the East Indian fleet, and consequently my business took me

on board the depôt ship often. First of all I was shown the hospital,

a long airy apartment on the upper deck, kept as cool as science could

devise in that burning climate, and fitted with all the alleviations

for sickness that wise skill and forethought could compass. Here they

lay, the heroes of the long, long fight, the never-ending battle of

freedom against slavery, the men who had left their pleasant land for

service under the flag of England against a foreign foe; yes, and

far more than that. For we know that they who fight in the deadliest

combat with lethal weapons are upheld and swept onward by the fierce

joy of strife; so that death when it comes is no terror, and fear

vanishes under the pressure of primitive instincts. But here there is

no glitter, no glamour of battle. Forgotten by the world, unknown to

the immense majority of their countrymen, these Britons suffer and die

that the fair fame of their country may live. There, in that miniature

hospital, on board H.M.S. London, I saw rows of pale, patient figures,

their faces drawn and parchment-like with fever, the deadly malaria

of that poisonous coast, while amongst them passed silently doctors

and sick-bay attendants, each doing his part in the universal warfare.

Passing thence on to the main deck, I came across a bronzed, busy group

hoisting up a steam pinnace that had just returned from a cruise among

the slimy creeks and backwaters of the mainland and adjacent islands,

busily seeking for hunters of human flesh. A dozen men formed her crew,

men who had once been white Anglo-Saxons, but were now, after a week’s

cruise under such conditions as that, so disguised by ingrained dirt,

so scorched and dried by exposure to that terrible sun, that they

were indistinguishable save by their clothing from the Arabs they had

been set to watch. They were not happy, because having chased a dhow,

which they were sure was packed with slaves, throughout a day and a

night, they had been baffled upon coming up with her, by her hoisting

the tricolour of France, the Flag of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity,

sold for a few paltry dollars, to cover a traffic which the French

nation had covenanted to assist in putting down. More than that, a

deep gloom pervaded the whole ship on account of their recent loss; a

loss which to them seemed irreparable. Their captain, idolized by them

all, had been killed while engaged in an act of gallantry, typical

of the service. He had gone off like any sub-lieutenant with all his

honours to win, in a chase after a dhow, with only a weak boat’s crew.

The villainous Arabs in the dhow, seeing their advantage, turned and

fought desperately. Outnumbered by five to one, and being moreover the

attacking party, the Britons were beaten off, while a shot from one of

the antiquated guns carried by an Arab slaver slew Captain Brownlow on

the spot. And all his men mourned him most deeply and sincerely.

But cross over the Indian Ocean, and thread the tortuous ways of the

East Indian Archipelago, and you shall find the beautiful white flag

with its red cross flying in the most out-of-the-way nooks among

that tremendous maze. Here with never-ceasing labours the highly

trained officers of our navy work with loving care to make perfect our

geographical knowledge of those intricate current-scoured channels. By

reason of this long-drawn-out toil our merchant ships are enabled to

pursue their peaceful way with perfectly trustworthy charts to guide

them. Not only so, but, owing to the dauntless courage, energy, and

perseverance of these nameless seafarers, those tortuous waters have

been cleansed of the human tigers that had for so long infested them,

swooping down upon hapless merchantmen of all nations, pitiless and

insatiable as death itself. Within the lifetime of men of middle age

those seas were like a hornet’s nest. In every creek, estuary, and

channel lurked Portuguese, Malay, and Chinese pirates, the terror of

the Eastern seas. Now, solely through the exertions of our countrymen,

or by their good example putting heart into the Chinese sailors, those

waters are as safe as the English Channel. So, too, have the coasts

of China itself been purged of pirates, although there, since every

Chinese, of whatever grade, is a potential pirate or brigand given

the opportunity, immunity from piratical raids is only purchased at

the price of incessant vigilance. In the far Eastern seas, however,

our stalwart fighting sailors are more than mere keepers of the peace

of Britain, they stand between the crumbling Celestial Empire and the

greed of the world.[B] Ever ready in diplomacy as in war, and with a

force always sufficient to command respect as well as breed envy, they

make the might of our island nation felt in all the affairs of the Far

East.

[B] This sentence was written before the recent outbreak of

hostilities in China.

Cross the Pacific, and on the western sea-board of our vast American

possessions find a naval station fully equipped for the maintenance of

a fleet so far from home. From thence the peace-keepers sally forth

all over the length and breadth of Northern Oceania and all down the

western littoral of the great American continent, a mobile body of

peace-keepers, whose business it is to keep widely opened eyes upon all

the doings of other people, no matter how great or how small they may

be. Hailed with delight by dusky populations, who hate impartially the

Germans and the French, and look upon the war-canoes of the great white

Queen of Belitani as the adjusters of disputes and the even-handed

dispensers of justice between them, dreaded by the rascaldom of the

Pacific; the robbers of men’s bodies as well as the robbers of their

produce, truly the lads under the White Ensign have a wide field in the

“peaceful” ocean for their beneficent labours. Guarding that Greater

England in the Southern seas, where men of every nation under heaven

find the same security, the same opportunities to grow rich that men

of our own race enjoy, clustering closely around that storm-centre (in

a double sense), the Cape Colony, patrolling Western Africa, as well

as Eastern, and ready at a word to send off a compact little army into

the interior, mobile and manageable as no shore troops can ever be;

among West Indian islands, as warm and fruitful as the most northerly

American station is cold and arid, the great patrol goes on.

One does not need to be a rabid Imperialist or a raving Jingo to

feel in every fibre of his frame the debt that we Britons owe to

our navy. These brave, stalwart men, the very pick and flower of the

British race, stand continually on sentry on all the shores of all the

world--stand to guard our freedom, and, so far as one nation may do,

strive to secure freedom for all other peoples. We see but little of

them, for their parades are not held amid shouting crowds, but on the

lonely waters, under an Admiral’s eye, keen to discover defects where

all seems to an untrained observer perfection of power and movement;

their greatest deeds, done by steady presentation of an unmistakable

object-lesson to our enemies--that is to say, to a full half of the

world, bursting with envy at our comfort and prosperity--are hidden

from most of us.

In God’s name, then, let us see that we do not forget, amid the

security and plenty that we enjoy, the labours of those who are

watching, far out of our sight, to see that these blessings are not

filched from us. Let the officers and men of the Royal Navy see that

they are ever in our thoughts, that out of sight out of mind is not

true in their case, but that stay-at-home Britons are fully conscious

that the outposts of our Empire, the piquets of our power, are in very

truth to be found on board the ships of the Royal Navy, the Watchmen of

the World.

THE COOK OF THE WANDERER

One of the oldest, truest, and most often quoted of all sea-sayings

is that “God sends meat, but the devil sends cooks.” The first part

of this saw is really a concession on the sailor’s part, for few of

them truly believe that the Deity has much to do with the strange

stuff usually served out as meat on board ship. The latter half of

the proverb is taken for granted, and while admitting to the full the

thanklessness of the task of endeavouring to dish up tasteful meals

with such unpromising materials as are usually given to sea-cooks to

work upon, it certainly does seem truer than the majority of such

sayings are apt to be.

But in justice even to sea-cooks let it be said that they have but a

hard life of it. Cooking is a hobby of my own, and I feel a positive

delight in the preparation of an appetizing dinner, which culminates

when those for whom it is dressed partake of it with manifest

enjoyment. Between the calm, unhindered task of shore-cooking and the

series of hair-breadth escapes from scalding, burning, or spoiling

one’s produce that characterizes sea-cooking there is, however, a great

gulf fixed, and with a full consciousness of the unromantic character

of his trials, I must confess a deep sympathy with the sea-cook in

his painful profession. Even in the well-ordered kitchens of a great

liner, where every modern appliance known to the art is at hand, and

where the chief cook is a highly paid professional, each recurring meal

brings with it much anxiety, and, when the weather is bad, much painful

work also. There is no allowance made. Whatever happens, passengers and

crew must be fed, although the roasting joints may be playing “soccer”

in the ovens, the stew-pans toboganning over the stove-tops, and the

huge coppers leaping out of their glowing sockets. Let all who have

ever gone down to the sea as passengers remember how faithfully the

cooks have justified the confidence reposed in them, and how punctually

the varied courses have appeared on the fiddle-hampered tables without

even a hint as to the series of miracles that have produced them.

Still, in large passenger steamers there is a fairly large staff of

cooks, unto each of whom is given his allotted task, so that the

labour, though severe, is not so complicated as it must necessarily be

in vessels where one unfortunate man must needs be a host in himself.

In sailing-ships on long voyages the cook’s berth is perhaps the worst

on board, for he has to hear the continual growling of the men at the

brutal monotony of the food (which he cannot help), and he must, if he

would not be badgered to death, perform the difficult task of keeping

on good terms with both ends and the middle of the ship. Under the

blistering sun of the tropics, or amid the fearful buffeting of the

Southern seas, he must perform his duties within a space about six

feet square, of which his red-hot stove occupies nearly half. And,

as a pleasant change, he is liable to have the weather door of his

galley burst in by a tremendous sea, and himself in a devil’s dance of

seething pots, and all the impedimenta of his business hurled out to

leeward.

Necessarily such a service does not appeal strongly to many, and often

in English vessels of small size prowling about the world begging for

freight, some very queer fellows are met with filling the unenviable

post of cook. In the course of a good many years of sea-service I have

met with several cooks, each of whom deserves a whole chapter to deal

comprehensively with his peculiarities, but chief among them all must

be placed the exceedingly funny fellow designated at the beginning of

this sketch. The Wanderer was a pretty brigantine of about 200 tons

register, built and owned in Nova Scotia, and at the time of my joining

her as an A.B. was lying in the Millwall Docks outward bound to Sydney,

Cape Breton, in ballast. She had quite a happy family of a crew, while

the skipper was as jolly a Canadian as it was ever my good fortune to

meet with. We left the docks in tow of one of the little “jackal” tugs

that scoot up and down the Thames like terriers after rats, but, owing

to the vessel’s small size and wonderful handiness, we dispensed with

our auxiliary just below Gravesend, and worked down the river with our

own sails. As soon as the watches were set all hands went to supper, or

tea, as it would be called ashore, and going to the snug little galley

with my hook-pot for my modicum of hot tea, I made the acquaintance of

the cook. He was a young fellow of about two and twenty, able-looking

enough, but now evidently ill at ease. And when, with trembling hand,

he baled my tea out of a grimy saucepan with another saucepan lid,

I regarded him with some curiosity, fancying that he had the air of

a man to whom his surroundings were the most unfamiliar possible.

Supper consisted of some cold fresh meat and “hard tack,” so that any

deficiency in the cookery was not manifest beyond a decidedly foreign

flavour in the tea, making it unlike any beverage ever sampled by

any of us before. But we were a good-natured crowd, willing to make

every allowance for a first performance, and aware that the “Doctor,”

as the cook is always called at sea, had only joined on the previous

day. Nevertheless, we discussed him in some detail, arriving at the

conclusion that by all appearances he would be found unable to boil

salt water without burning it, which, according to the sea phrase,

marks the nadir of culinary incompetence.

Next morning it was my “gravy-eye” wheel, the “trick” that is, from

four to six a.m. The cook is always called at four a.m. in order

to prepare some hot coffee by two bells, five a.m., and, as may be

expected, the comforting, awakening drink is eagerly looked forward

to, although it usually bears but a faint resemblance to the fragrant

infusion known by the same name ashore. Two bells struck, and

presently, to my astonishment, sounds of woe arose forward, mingled

with many angry words. I listened eagerly for some explanation of this

sudden breach of the peace, but could catch no connected sentence.

Presently one of my watchmates came aft to relieve me, as the custom

is, to get my coffee, and I eagerly questioned him as to the nature

of the disturbance. With a sphinx-like air he took the spokes and

muttered, “You’ll soon see.” I hastened forward, got my pannikin, and

going to the galley held it out for my coffee. The cook had no light,

but he silently poured me out my portion, and wondering at his strange

air I returned to the fo’c’sle. I sugared my coffee, and put it to my

lips, but with a feeling of nausea spat out the mouthful I had taken,

saying, “What in thunder is this awful stuff?” Then the other fellows

laughed mirthlessly and loud, saying, “You’d best go’n see ef you kin

fine out. Be dam’ ’fenny ov us can tell.” I hastened back to the galley

and said coaxingly, “Doctor, you ain’t tryin’ to poison me, are ye?”

He looked at me appealingly, and I saw traces of recent tear-tracks

adown his smoke-stained cheeks. “Mahn,” he said, “Ah’ve niver dune ony

cookin’ afore, an’ ah must hev made some awfu’ mistake, but ah’ll sweer

ony oo-ath ah dinna ken wut’s wrang wi’ the coaphy.” And he wept anew.

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t cry, man,” I put in hastily; “you’ll make me

sea-sick if you do. Let me have a look at it.” I stepped into his den,

and striking a match explored the pot with a ladle. And I found that he

had been stewing green unroasted coffee beans. The colour was brought

somewhat near that of the usual product by reason of the remains of

some burnt porridge at the bottom of the saucepan, but the taste was

beyond description evil.

This was but a sorry beginning to our voyage, since so much of our

comfort depended upon the cooking of our victuals, and it was well for

the unfortunate cook that all hands, with the sole exception of the

mate, were of that easy-going temper that submits to any discomfort

rather than ill-use a fellow-creature. For Jemmie (the quondam cook)

was not only ignorant of the most elementary acquaintance with

cookery--he was also unclean and unhandy to the uttermost imaginable

possibility of those bad qualities. Yet he did not suffer any grievous

bodily harm until an excess of new-found zeal brought him one day into

contact with the mate. As the only way in which we could hope to get

anything beyond hard tack to eat, we had all taken turns to cook our

own meals. Even the skipper, with many uncouth, unmeant threats, used

to visit the galley and try his hand, while the trembling Jemmie stood

behind him watching with eager eyes the mysterious operations going on.

One morning the skipper fancied some flap-jacks, a sort of primitive

pancake of plain flour and water fried in grease, and eaten with

molasses. He had hardly finished a platter full and borne it aft, when

Jemmie seized the bowl, and mixing some more flour, proceeded to try

his hand. He managed after several failures to turn out half a dozen

quite creditable-looking patches of fried batter, and intoxicated with

his success rushed aft with them to where the mate and his watch were

busy scrubbing the poop. Timidly approaching the energetic officer,

Jemmy said, “Wou’d ye like a flap-jack, sir? they’re nice an’ hot.”

For one fearful moment the mate glared at the offender, then as the

full area of the enormity enveloped him he uttered a hyena-like howl

and fell upon him. Snatching the flap-jacks from his nerveless grasp,

the mate overthrew him, and frantically burnished his face with the

smoking dough, holding him down on the deck by his hair the while. Then

when the last fragments had been duly spread over Jemmie’s shining

visage, the mate dragged him to the break of the poop, and with many

kicks hurled him forward to make more flap-jacks should he feel moved

so to do.

So his education proceeded, until one day he felt competent to essay

the making of some soup for us forward. By the time his preparations

were complete he was a gruesome object, and withal so weary that he

sat down on the coal-locker and went fast asleep. He awoke just before

the time the soup was due to be eaten to find it as he left it, the

fire having gone out. In a terrible fright he rushed aft and smuggled

a tin of preserved meat forward--a high crime and misdemeanour--since

that was only kept in case of bad weather rendering cooking impossible.

However, he succeeded in stealing it, but when he had got it he was

little better off. For he didn’t know how to shell it, as it were,

how to get the meat out of the tin. I happened to be passing by the

galley-door at the time, and saw him with the tin lying on its side

before him, while he was insanely chopping at it with a broad axe, all

unheeding the spray of fat and gravy which flew around at each swashing

blow. I gave him such assistance as I could, and took the opportunity

thus afforded of asking him however he came to offer himself as a

ship’s cook. I learned then that his previous sea experience had

been limited to one trip to Iceland as a bedroom steward on board a

passenger steamer from Leith--that having come to London to seek his

fortune, he had foregathered with an old friend of his father’s, who

had obtained for him this berth, and who, in answer to his timid demur

as to his being able to do what should be required of him, stormed at

him so vigorously for what he called his “dam’ cowardice” that he took

the berth, and resigned himself to his fate, and ours. His fates were

kind to him in that he fell among easy-going fellows, for I shudder

to think what would have befallen him in the average “Blue-nose” or

Yankee. A description of it would certainly have been unprintable.

Yet, like so many other people ashore and afloat, he was ungrateful for

the many ways in which we, the sailors, helped and shielded him, and

one day when I found him laboriously drawing water from our only wooden

tank by the quarter pint for the purpose of _washing_ potatoes, in

answer to my remonstrance he was exceeding jocose and saucy, even going

so far as to suggest that while my advice was doubtless well meant, it

irked him to hear, and I had better attend to my own business. Now,

to use fresh water where salt water will serve the same purpose is

at sea the unpardonable sin; and where (as in our case) a few days’

difference in the length of the passage might see us all gasping for a

drink, it merits a severe punishment. So I was indignant, but swallowed

my resentment as I saw the mate coming down from aloft with his eyes

fixed upon the criminal.

I must draw a veil over what followed, only adding that by the time the

cook had recovered from his injuries we were in port, and, with the

luck of the incompetent, no sooner had he been bundled ashore than he

obtained a good berth in an hotel at about treble the salary he would

ever earn. But we held a praise-meeting over our happy release.

THE GREAT CHRISTMAS OF GOZO

On the eve of the nativity of our Blessed Lord A.D. 1551 there was

profound peace in Gozo.

The assaults of the infidel had for so long a time been intermitted,

that the simple hardy islanders had almost come to believe that they

would always be left in peace to cultivate their tiny fields, to

worship God after their own sweet manner, and to rest quietly in their

little square stone dwellings, secure from the attacks of the swarthy,

merciless monsters that, not content with the possession of their own

sunny lands, had so often swarmed across the bright blue stretches of

sea separating the Maltese Islands from Africa.

Over the main thoroughfare of Rabato, the principal town of the tiny

island that hung like a jewel in the ear of Malta the Beautiful, the

great square citadel of the knights kept grim watch and ward. It

rose sheer from the street for one hundred feet of height, a mass of

quarried stone cemented into a solidity scarcely less than that of the

original rock from whence its ashlar had been hewn with such heavy

toil, a mountainous fortress, to all outward seeming impregnable. Upon

its highest plateau towered the mighty cathedral, fair to view without

in its stately apparel of pure white stone, and all glorious within by

reason of the numberless gifts showered upon it by the loving hands of

those who desired thus to show their gratitude to God.

In truth it was a goodly fane. Not merely because of the blazing

enrichments of gold and silver and precious stones with which it glowed

and sparkled, but because of the many signs of loyalty and truth

evidenced in the sculptured tombs of the illustrious dead. The knights

who kept vigilant watch around its sacred walls and came daily to

worship within its cool aisles were never left without a solemn witness

to the fealty of those who had gone before them. The most careless

among them could not help being impressed by the fact that here in

the midst of the Great Sea had been planted an outpost of Christendom

of which they were the custodians--a fortress of the utmost value for

the keeping back of the Paynim hordes who bade fair to overwhelm all

Christian countries, and bring them under the abhorrent rule of Mahomed

the Accursed One.

In this there is no exaggeration. If there be one fact more clearly

established than any other, amid the welter of misleading rubbish that

floods the world to-day, it is this, that the fearless self-sacrifice

of the knights of Malta, buttressed by the devotion of those over

whom they held no gentle sway, saved Europe from being overrun by the

pitiless Mussulman, saved Europe from being to-day a depraved, debased,

and miserable land, wherein all the horrors of Eastern Africa would

have their full and awful outcome.

Raimondo de Homedes, only son of the Grand Master of that name, Juan

de Homedes, was on this most momentous Christmas Eve in command of the

Gozo garrison. The general feeling was one of security. The last attack

of the infidel in 1546 had been repulsed with such terrible loss to

the invader that the high-spirited garrison could not help coming to

the conclusion that it would be at least a generation before any such

attempt would again be made.

[Illustration: She was to him brightest and best of all damsels.]

Raimondo de Homedes, then, went the rounds of his great command in

the citadel of Gozo with a carefree heart. His thoughts were mainly

occupied with the question of how soon he should be free to meet his

lady-love, the stately daughter of Alfonso de Azzopardi, chief of all

the notables in Gozo. She was, to him at least, brightest, best of

all the damosels whose charms fired the palpitating hearts of those

warriors of the Cross who were holding these islands for the commonweal

of Christian Europe.

While he thus meditated, receiving the replies to his perfunctory

challenges of the sentries on guard with an ear that hardly conveyed

to his brain the meaning of the words, there came running to him a

page, a lad of parts who was an especial favourite. Breathless, panting

with excitement, the child (he was scarcely more) gasped out, “Messer

Raimondo, the sentinel on the eastern tower says that since you passed

his guard-house he has been mightily exercised by the appearance of

some black masses on the sea. He knows not what they can be, but he

fears they are galleys and that they can be coming for no good purpose.

He prays you to return and look for yourself, in case there should be

any mischief intended of which we have had no warning by our spies.”

Raimondo listened, with a concentration of all his mental faculties,

but as he did so he could not help a contemptuous smile crinkling his

features. “Just another bad dream of old Gianelli’s. But never mind; I

will go and set his troubled soul at rest.”

It wanted but two hours of midnight. The moon was full and almost in

the meridian, pouring down through the cloudless serene a flood of

light like molten silver. So dazzling was the radiance that when the

commandant and his companion stepped forth upon the highest plateau

of all into its full glare, their shadows glided by their sides as if

carved in solid ebony, and every object around them was as clearly

visible as if it had been noonday. With a quick springing step,

Raimondo mounted the half-dozen steps of stone leading into the eastern

tower, meeting Gianelli’s challenge with the countersign of the night,

“Mary.” Then Raimondo burst impetuously into speech, saying--

“What ails thee, Gianelli? Surely dreams trouble thee; and in thy

nervous anxiety to be counted most faithful of all our faithful guards,

thou hast conjured up a band of spectres to torment thyself withal.

What hast thou seen and where?”