For all answer Gianelli bowed low, and, straightening himself

immediately, stretched out his long left arm towards the west in the

direction of Tunis. And there, in that blazing tract of silvern light

shed upon the darkling sea by the moon, was distinctly to be seen a

row of objects that could be nothing else but galleys, although it was

evident that they were of the smallest size.

An instantaneous change took place in the attitude of the young

commandant. “By the Holy Sepulchre,” he muttered, “thou art right,

Gianelli, and I did thee grievous wrong to ridicule thy well-known

fidelity and watchfulness.”

“Say no more about it, my lord; I love thee far too well to be

over-pained by what I know is but the natural free speech of a

high-spirited youth. But what thinkest thou, my lord? Is it possible

that some of our own galleys may be returning from a secret raid upon

the infidel strongholds?”

“No, Gianelli, it is not; for my latest information, coming yesterday

morning, was to the effect that all the smaller galleys had been

recalled, and were safely housed in the Grand Harbour. Their crews have

been given leave for the great festival, only the slaves remaining by

them under guard. No; this must be a matter of far more serious import.

Sound the summons to arms and light the beacon while I haste to the

Council Chamber. Luigi, my lad, run thou to the church and pass the

word for all my officers to leave their vigil around the altars at

once.”

Thus saying, Raimondo hastened away, noting as he did so, with grim

satisfaction, the leaping flames from the summit of the tower being

answered by twinkling points of light all over the black masses of rock

that lay to the eastward, showing that already the alarm had been

sounded in every fortress from Rabato to St. Elmo.

Within the great church were gathered most of the garrison not on

guard. All the gorgeous details with which the church loves to welcome

in the Day of days had been lovingly attended to. There was the stable,

the manger, the waiting cattle, the worshipping Eastern kings. Mary, in

her mighty meekness, cradled her Divine infant upon her virgin bosom;

Joseph, careworn and travel-stained, looked upon her with a solemn

wonder in his honest eyes; while around and above jewels and gold and

silver flashed in all their splendour by the light of a thousand tall

candles. A thin blue haze of incense gave all things an air of mystery,

and the perfume laid upon the senses a strange exaltation.

Suddenly there was a hush, a bated breathing by all, as the archbishop,

in his marvellous vesture, arose from his knees and spoke.

“My brethren, from the preparation for the advent of the day whereon

we celebrate the human birth of our Divine Redeemer, ye are called to

do battle with His most terrible foes. My lord the Commandant of Gozo

informs me that the galleys of the infidel are approaching us, in the

hope, he supposes, of finding us all so enwrapped in our devotions that

he will have of us an easy prey. My children, let him learn that we

watch as well as pray. Show him once again that we count it our most

precious privilege to pour out our blood in defence of our most Holy

Faith, that we look upon our dying in this high endeavour to protect

Christendom from the infidel as the most glorious fate that could

befall us. Receive at my hands the blessing of the Most High. Go forth,

each of you, fully equipped, not merely with material armour, but with

the knowledge that upon you rests the special benevolence of God the

Son, under whose banner you fight.”

All heads bowed for an instant as the solemn benediction was spoken,

then with a clanging of armour and a clashing of swords the great

assembly sprang to their feet and departed each to his post of honour

and utmost danger.

It was high time. Already those snaky galleys laden with men of the

most bloodthirsty type, fired with fanaticism and lured by the promises

of an endless paradise of sensual delight, had crept into the many

little sheltered bays of the island, and were vomiting forth their

terrible crews.

Already a quick ear might catch the varied cries in strange tongues

floating upward through the silken smoothness of the night air,

predominant over them all the oft-reiterated shout of “Allah!” Already

the keen-sighted watchers could discern dark-moving masses of men, from

the midst of which came an occasional silvery gleam as the molten flood

of moonlight touched a spear-tip or sword-blade.

Onward they came, marvelling doubtless at the ease with which they had

been permitted thus to assemble upon the enemy’s territory, and for

the most part utterly unconscious of the reception that awaited them

at the goal of their hot desire. Suddenly there arose from the town

beneath the citadel walls a long-drawn cry of anguish. The careless

ones who had not fled for shelter to the common refuge had been found

by the invader, and were being ruthlessly slaughtered. Their cries made

bearded lips tighten, nervous hands grasp more firmly their weapons,

and all hearts above to beat higher and more resolute to repay these

murderers in full tale when the opportunity so to do should arrive.

Out from the highest belfry of the cathedral pealed the twelve strokes

of the midnight hour, and before their sound had died away there uprose

from the citadel a mighty chorus of welcome to Christmas Day--Gloria in

excelsis Deo.

Before it had ended the first of the invaders had reached the walls,

and, mad with fanatic fury and lust of blood, were swarming like ants

up its steep sides, clinging with desperate tenacity to every plant and

projection that afforded the slightest foot or hand hold. Regardless

of the avalanche of stones hurtling down upon them, unheeding the

dreadful rain of boiling lead and scalding water, they came indomitably

on. Their numbers seemed incalculable, their courage, buttressed by

unreasoning faith, invincible. But they were met at every point by men

whose hearts were as well fortified as their own, and who possessed,

besides the inestimable advantage of discipline and long training in

warlike matters, the invaluable position of being defenders.

Downwards by hundreds the invaders were hurled, their spurting blood

staining the pure whiteness of the walls with long black-red smears,

which the shuddering moonlight revealed in all their ghastliness.

Already the reinforcements were compelled to mount upon mounds of dead

to get their first hold; the street of the little town, but lately

so peaceful, was defiled by heaps upon heaps of frightfully mangled

corpses, representatives of all the savage tribes of Northern Africa.

“For Mary and her Son”--the war-cry of the night--rang out clearly and

defiantly, soaring high above the shrill yells of the savages and the

monotonous howl of “Allahhu!”

So far all seemed to have gone well, until suddenly a shudder ran

through the whole garrison as the news spread that by the treachery of

a vile renegade the secret subterranean passage into the citadel from a

point near the shore had been laid open, and that already a torrent of

the infidels were pouring through it.

The commandant, who had approved himself on this occasion a man of

the very highest ability and courage, no sooner heard this awful news

than, summoning around him his most trusted knights, he placed himself

at their head and hurried to the spot. And the first sight that met

his eyes was the beautiful form of her he loved borne high upon the

shoulders of a gigantic heathen in black armour who, apparently feeling

her weight not at all, was brandishing a huge scimitar in his right

hand, and yelling words of encouragement in some guttural Eastern

tongue to his followers.

Forgetful of all else, his brain on fire at the sight, Raimondo sprang

ahead of his men, his keen blade whirling round his head. By the sheer

fury of his onslaught he burst through the grim ranks of the heathen,

and smiting with all his vigour at the head of the captor of his

beloved one, slew, not his foe, alas! but her for whom he would gladly

have given his life. The terrible blow cleft her fair body almost in

twain, as the heathen giant held her before himself shieldwise to meet

it. The distracted commandant’s first impulse was to fling himself

upon that beloved corpse and accompany her spirit to heaven, but that

thought was conquered by the knowledge of his high responsibilities.

And with a shout of “Mary” he recovered his blade, sprang at the foul

Paynim’s throat, and cleft him in sunder through gorget and vant brace.

All the followers of the young knight were fired in like manner, and

like avenging angels before whom no mere flesh and blood could possibly

stand for a moment, they hewed their gory way through the masses of the

heathen, halting not until the last of their foes had gasped out into

the darkness of eternal night his guilty soul.

And as it was in the heart of the citadel, so it had been on the

battlements, not one heathen had survived his footing upon those sacred

walls. And as it appeared that the whole force had devoted themselves

to death in default of victory there was not one left alive.

So that the great fight ceased with the death of the last invader,

and the blessed sun rose upon a scene of carnage such as even these

blood-stained islands had never before witnessed. But in the hour of

victory there arose a great cry. Raimondo the gallant commandant was

missing. His devoted friends rushed hither and thither in the pearly

light of the new day, seeking him where the heaps of dead lay thickest,

but for a long time their search was in vain. At last he was found

before the manger in the church, lying with face hidden on the bosom of

his beloved, whose cold mangled body was clutched in an unreleasable

embrace. He was to all human sight unwounded, but even the most

ignorant and callous of his command knew that he had died of a broken

heart.

Yet it must be believed that he went gladly to join his beloved one,

knowing full well that as a gallant soldier of the Cross he had nobly

sustained his high part, and only when his duty was done had he

permitted himself to sink into eternal rest in the arms of her whom he

had so fondly loved.

DEEP-SEA FISH

Among shore-dwellers generally there obtains an idea that the ocean,

except in the immediate vicinity of land, is an awful solitude, its

vast emptiness closely akin to the spaces above. But while admitting

fully that there is little room for wonder at such a speculative

opinion, it must be said that nothing could well be farther from the

truth. Indeed, we may even go beyond that statement, and declare that

the fruitful earth, with its unimaginable variety and innumerable hosts

of living things, is, when compared to the densely populated world

of waters, but a sparsely peopled desert. A little knowledge of the

conditions existing at great depths, may well make us doubt whether any

forms of life exist able to endure the incalculable pressure of the

superincumbent sea; but leaving all the tremendous area of the ocean

bed below 200 fathoms out of the question, there still remains ample

room and verge enough for the justification of the statement just made.

Nothing has ever excited the wonder and admiration of naturalists

more than this prodigious population of the sea--these unthinkable

myriads of hungry things which are shut up to the necessity of preying

upon each other since other forms of food do not exist. The mind

recoils dismayed from a contemplation of their countlessness, as it

does from the thought of timelessness or the extent of the stellar

spaces, shrinkingly admitting its limitations and seeking relief in

some subject that is within its grasp. But without touching upon the

lower forms of life peopling the sea, and so escaping the burden of

thought which the slightest consideration of their myriads entail,

it is possible to note, without weariness, how, all over the waste

spaces of a remote and unhearing ocean, fish of noble proportions and

varying degrees of edibility disport themselves, breeding none know

where, and revealing their beauties to the passing seafarer as they

gather companionably around his solitary keel. Excluding all the varied

species of mammals that form such an immense portion of the sea-folk,

it may roughly be said that the majority of deep-sea fish belong to

the mackerel family, or _Scombridæ_. They possess, in an exaggerated

form, all the characteristics of that well-known edible fish that

occasionally gluts our markets and gladdens the hearts of our fishermen.

One of the least numerous, but from his size and prowess probably

the monarch of all sea _fish_, is the sword-fish, _Xiphias_. This

elegant fish attains an enormous size, specimens having been caught

weighing over a quarter of a ton; but owing to the incomparable grace

of its form, its speed and agility are beyond belief. It is often--in

fact, generally--confounded with the “saw-fish,” a species of shark;

the principal reason of this confusion being the great number of

“saws” or beaks of the latter, which are to be found in homes about

the country. Yet between the sword of the Xiphias and the “saw” of

the _Pristiophoridæ_ there is about as much similarity as there is

between the assegai of a Zulu and the waddy of a black-fellow. The

one weapon is a slender, finely pointed shaft of the hardest bone, an

extended process of the skull, about two feet long in a large specimen.

Impelled by the astounding vigour of the lithe monster behind it, this

tremendous weapon has been proved capable of penetrating the massive

oaken timbers of a ship, and a specimen may be seen in the Museum of

Natural History at South Kensington, at this present time, transfixing

a section of ship’s timber several inches in thickness. The “saw,” on

the other hand, is, like all the rest of a shark’s skeleton, composed

of cartilage, besides being terminated at the tip by a broad, almost

snout-like end. Unlike the round lance of the sword-fish, the “saw” has

a flat blade set on both sides with sharp teeth with considerable gaps

between them. As its name and shape would imply, it is used saw-wise,

principally for disembowelling fish, for upon such soft food the

saw-fish is compelled to feed owing to the shape of his mouth and the

insignificance of his teeth. Thus it will be seen that apart from the

radical differences between the two creatures, nothing being really in

common between them, except that they are both fish, there is really no

comparison possible between “saw” and “sword.” Fortunately for the less

warlike inhabitants of the deep sea, sword-fish are not numerous, there

are none to cope with them or keep their numbers down if they were

prolific. Sometimes--strange companionship--they join forces with the

killer whale and the thresher shark in an attack upon one of the larger

whales, only avoiding instinctively that monarch of the boundless main,

the cachalot.

Next in size and importance among deep-sea fish, excluding sharks,

about which I have said so much elsewhere that I do not propose

dealing with them here, is the albacore, tunny or tuña, all of which

are sub-varieties of, or local names for the same huge mackerel. They

abound in every tropical sea, and are also found in certain favourable

waters, such as the Mediterranean and Pacific coast of America. Like

the sword-fish their habits of breeding are unknown, since they have

their home in the solitudes of the ocean. But they are one of the fish

most frequently met with by seafarers, as, like several others of the

same great family, they are fond of following a ship. A sailing ship

that is, for the throb of the propeller, apart from the speed of the

vessel, is effectual in preventing their attendance upon steamers,

so that passengers by steamships have few opportunities of observing

them. But in sailing vessels, gliding placidly along under the easy

pressure of gentle breezes, or lying quietly waiting for the friendly

wind, ample scope is given for study of their every-day life. Very

occasionally too, some seaman, more skilful or enterprising than his

fellows, will succeed in catching one by trolling a piece of white rag

or a polished spoon with a powerful hook attached. Yet such is the

vigour and so great is the size of these huge mackerel, some attaining

a length of six feet and a weight of five hundred pounds, that their

capture from a ship is infrequent.

In size, beauty, and importance, the “dolphin” easily claims the next

place to the albacore. But an unaccountable confusion has gathered

around this splendid fish on account of his popular name. The dolphin

of mythological sculpture bears no resemblance either to the popularly

named dolphin of the seaman and the poets, or the scientifically named

dolphin of the natural histories, which is a mammal, and identical with

the porpoise. One thing is certain, that no sailor will ever speak

of the porpoise as a dolphin, or call _Coryphena hippuris_ anything

else. Of this lovely denizen of the deep sea, it is difficult to speak

soberly. Even the dullest of men wax enthusiastic over its glories,

feeling sure that none of all beautiful created things can approach

it for splendour of array. I have often tried to distinguish its

different hues, watching it long and earnestly as it basked alongside

in the limpid blue environment of its home. But my efforts have always

been in vain, since every turn of its elegant form revealed some new

combination of dazzling tints blending and brightening in such radiant

loveliness that any classification of their shades was impossible.

Then a swift wave of the wide forked tail-fin would send the lithe

body all a-quiver in a new direction, where, catching a stray sunbeam

it would blaze like burnished silver reflecting the golden gleam, and

the overtaxed eye must needs turn away for relief. Then suddenly the

marvellous creature would spring into activity, launching itself in

long vibrant leaps through the air after its prey, a fleeting school

of flying fish, that with all their winged speed could not escape the

lethal jaws of their splendid pursuer. Having read of the wondrously

changing colours of a dying dolphin I watched with great eagerness

the first one that ever I saw caught. Great was my disappointment and

resentment against those who had perpetrated and perpetuated such a

fable. Compared with the glory of the living creature, the fading hues

of its vesture when dying were as lead is to gold. Only by most careful

watching was it possible to distinguish the changing colour schemes,

faint and dim, as if with departing vitality they too were compelled

to fade and die away into darkness. On the utilitarian side too the

dolphin is beloved by the sailor, for its flesh is whiter and more

sapid than that of any other deep-sea fish except the flying fish,

which are too small and too infrequently got hold of on board ship to

be taken much account of for food. Yet, in spite of its wondrous speed,

the dolphin, when congregated in considerable numbers, often falls

a prey to the giant albacore, which hurls itself into their midst,

clashing its great jaws and destroying many more than it devours.

Commonest of all deep-water fish, but only found in the warm waters

of the tropical seas or fairly close to their northern or southern

limits is the bonito, another member of the mackerel family, but much

inferior in size to the albacore. “Bonito” is a Spanish diminutive

equivalent to beautiful, and beautiful the bonito certainly is,

although compared with the dazzling glory of the dolphin it looks quite

homely. It is a most sociable fish, keeping company with a slow-moving

sailing ship for days together, and quite easily caught with a hook

to which a morsel of white rag is fastened to simulate a flying fish.

For its size--the largest I have ever seen being less than thirty

pounds weight--its strength is incredible, as is also the quantity of

warm blood it contains. On account of these two characteristics, it

is usual when fishing for bonito off the end of the jibboom to take

out a sack and secure it to the jib-guys with its mouth gaping wide

so that the newly caught fish may be promptly dropped therein to kick

and bleed in safety and cleanliness. My first bonito entailed upon me

considerable discomfort. I was a lad of fourteen, and had stolen out

unobserved to fish with the mate’s line, which he had left coiled on

the boom. I hooked a large fish which, after a struggle, I succeeded in

hauling up until I embraced him tightly with both arms. His vibrations

actually shook the ship, and they continued until my whole body was

quite benumbed, and I could not feel that a large patch of skin was

chafed off my breast where I hugged my prize to me. And not only was

I literally drenched with the fish’s blood, but the flying jib, which

happened to be furled on the boom, was in a truly shocking condition

likewise. Nevertheless I rejoice to think that I held on to my fish

and successfully bore him inboard to the cook, although I shook so

with excitement and fatigue that I could scarcely keep my feet. Nor

was my triumph much discounted by the complete rope’s-ending I got

the same evening, when upon hoisting the jib, its filthy condition was

made manifest, and at once rightly attributed to me. The flesh of the

bonito is coarse and dark, tough, and with little flavour. But still it

comes as a welcome change to the worse than pauper dietary served out

to crews of sailing ships generally, while the ease with which the fish

may be caught, and the frequency of its companionship make it one of

the most appreciated by seamen of all the denizens of the deep sea. One

other virtue it possesses which makes it even more of a favourite than

the dolphin, in spite of all the latter’s superior palatability--it is

never poisonous, unless after exposure to the rays of the moon. Dolphin

have often been known to inflict severe suffering upon those eating

their flesh, and no one who has ever experienced the enormously swollen

head and agonizing pain consequent upon a meal off a poisonous dolphin

is ever likely to think even of such a meal again without a shudder.

Another exceedingly pretty fish found in all deep tropical waters is

the skip-jack. Smaller than the average bonito, yet in the details

of its form closely resembling the great albacore, this elegant fish

is less sociable than any of those mentioned in the preceding lines.

Therefore, it is seldom caught, although in calm weather in the

doldrums thousands may often be seen making the short vertical leaps

into the air from which peculiar evolution they derive their trivial

name. Both the bonito and the skip-jack are subject to being devoured

by the albacore, whose voracity, swiftness, and size make him the

terror of all his smaller congeners.

Occasionally after a few days’ calm some delicate little fish, also

belonging to the mackerel tribe--a species of caranx--will be seen

huddling timorously around the rudder of a ship, as if in momentary

dread of being devoured, a dread which is exceedingly well founded.

The wonder is how any of them escape the ravenous jaws of the larger

fish since they must find it well-nigh impossible to get away from

such pursuers. They may be easily caught by a fine line and hook,

and are very dainty eating. So, too, with the lovely little caranx

familiar to all readers as the pilot fish. What peculiar instinct

impels this beautiful tiny wanderer to attach himself to a shark is one

of the mysteries of natural history, and the subject of much ignorant

incredulity on the part of those who are often found ready to believe

some of the most absurd travellers’ yarns. But the pilot fish and its

habits deserves a whole paper to itself--it is far too interesting a

subject to be dealt with in the brief space now remaining. This, too,

must be said of the flying-fish, one of the most wonderful of all the

inhabitants of the deep seas, yet not so important to the seaman from a

utilitarian point of view, since the occasional stragglers that do fly

on board ship in their blind haste to escape from their countless foes

beneath, usually fall to the lot of the ship’s cat. Pussy is swift to

learn that the sharp “smack” against the bulwarks at night, followed by

a rapid rattling flutter means a most delicious meal for her, and smart

indeed must be the sailor who finds the hapless fish before pussy has

commenced her banquet.

One more important member of the true ocean fish must be mentioned,

although it also frequents many shores, and is regularly caught for

market on widely separated coasts. It is the barracouta or sea-pike, a

large fish of delicious flavour, much resembling the hake of our own

southern coasts. As I have caught this voracious fish all over the

Indian Ocean, I have no hesitation at including it among deep-sea fish,

although perhaps many well-informed seafarers would disagree with me.

But if any seaman, still pursuing his vocation, doubts my statement,

let him on his next East Indian voyage keep a line towing astern with a

shred of crimson bunting hiding a stout hook at its end, as soon as the

ship hauls to the nor’ard after rounding the Cape. And I can assure him

that he will have several tasty messes of fish before she crosses the

Line.

A MEDITERRANEAN MORNING

From my lofty roof-top here, in the highest part of Valetta, it is

possible to take in at one sweeping glance a panorama that can hardly

be surpassed for beauty and interest.

Intensely blue, the placid sea curdles around the rock bases of

this wonderful little island as if it loved them. There are no rude

breakers, no thundering, earth-shaking on-rushings of snowy-crested

waves, leaping at the point of impact into filmy columns of spray.

Overhead the violet, star-sprinkled splendours of the night are just

beginning to throb with returning light. One cannot say that the beams

are definite, rather it is a palpitating glow that is just commencing

to permeate the whole solemnity of the dome above, as does the first

impulse of returning joy relax the lines of a saddened face. Far to the

north may be seen a tiny cluster of fleecy cloudlets nestling together

as if timid and lonely in that vast expanse of clear sky. But as the

coming day touches them they put on garments of glory and beauty.

Infinite gradations of colour, all tender, melt into one another upon

their billowy surfaces until they spread and brighten, investing all

their quadrant of the heavens with the likeness of the Gardens of

Paradise.

At my feet lie the mighty edifices of stone that have, by the patient

unending labour of this busy people, grown up through past ages, until

now the mind reels in the attempt to sum up the account of that labour.

A sea of white roofs, punctuated here and there with the dome and twin

steeples of a church, the only breaks in the universal fashion of roof

architecture. Away beneath, the white, clean streets--so strangely

silent that the far-off tinkle of a goat-bell on the neck of some

incoming band of milk-bearers strikes sharply athwart the pellucid

atmosphere, like the fall of a piece of broken glass on to the pavement

below. A few dim figures, recumbent upon the wide piazza of the Opera

House, stir uneasily as the new light reaches them, and gape, and

stretch, and fumble for cigarettes. A hurried, furtive-looking labourer

glides past, his bare feet arousing no echo, but making him pass like a

ghost. And then, from the direction of the Auberge de Castile, comes a

solemn sound of music.

Its first faint strains rise upon the sweet morning calm like some

lovely suggestion of prayer, but they are accompanied by an indefinite

pulsation as of a beating at the walls of one’s heart. More and more

distinct the strains arise until recognizable as Chopin’s “Marche

Funèbre,” and suddenly in the distance may be discerned, turning into

the Strada Mezzodi, row after row of khaki-clad figures moving, oh, so

slowly. Deadened and dull the drum-beats fall, more and more insistent

wails that heart-rending music, and close in its rear appears the only

spot of colour in the sad ranks, the brilliant folds of the Union

Jack, hiding that small oblong coffer which holds all that was mortal

of Private No. ----. Perhaps in life he was rather an insignificant

unit of his regiment, at times a troublesome one, familiar with

“pack-drill,” “C.B.,” and “clink,” but now he has been brevetted, for a

fleeting hour his fast-decaying remains are greeted with almost Royal

honours.

Nearer and nearer creeps the solemn and stately procession, so slowly

that the strain becomes intolerable. How do his comrades bear it? We

who knew him not at all find ourselves choking, gasping in sympathy.

While that silent escort is filing past we have traced his history, as

it might be, his babyhood in some fair British village far away, his

school-days, his pranks, his mother’s pride. Then his aspirations, what

he would do when he was a man. Or perhaps he came from the slums of a

great town, where, neglected, unwanted, he wallowed in the gutters,

living like the sparrows, but less easily, and only surviving the

rough treatment by dint of a harder grip of life than so many of his

fellows. He knew no love, was coarse of speech, given to much drink and

little repentance. But who thinks of that now? He is our dear brother

departed, and his comrades follow him home, for the time at least

solemnized at the presence among them of that awful power before whom

all heads must bow.

Now, the so lately slumbering street has filled. Swarthy Maltese,

Sicilians, Indians, men of all occupations, and of none, stand with

bared heads and downcast faces as the King goes by. Oh that they would

hasten on! But no. As if the procession would never end, it files

through the Porta Reale, and at last is lost to view, although for long

afterwards those muffled drums still beat upon the heart.

As if rejoicing at the passing of death, the street suddenly awakens.

A very hubbub of conversation arises. Incoming crowds of workmen,

striding along with that peculiarly easy gait common to the barefooted,

jostle each other, and fling jest and repartee in guttural Maltese.

Country vehicles, laden with all manner of queer produce, their bitless

stallions swaying tinkling bells, encumber the way. Presently all make

clear the crown of the road for the passage of a company of mounted

infantry, which, in the almost blatant pride of fitness and workmanlike

appearance, sallies forth into the country for exercise beyond the

walls. But hark! martial strains are heard, a joyous blare of brass,

a gleeful clatter of cymbal and drum. Hearts beat quicker, the foot

taps, involuntarily acknowledging the power of music to elevate

or depress the mind. Swinging into view strides a jaunty company,

with heads erect and splendid swagger, and in their midst the plain

imitation gun-carriage, which so short a time ago was burdened with the

flag-enwrapped dead, is gaily trundled along. The moments of mourning

are ended. We have hidden our dead out of our sight, and, with a spring

of relief, are back again with the duties and pleasures of the living.

The great sun is soaring high, and already his beams are heating the

stones so that we can hardly bear to touch them. The sea is rejoicing,

for with the sun a little breeze has risen and covered that gorgeous

expanse of sapphire with an infinity of wavelets, each crested with

a spray of diamonds. A few barbaric-looking feluccas, their great

pointed sails gleaming like snow against the blue sea, are creeping in

from Gozo or Sicily, laden with fruit and fish for hungry Valetta. Far

out, a long black stain against the clear sky betokens the presence

of a huge steamship, homeward bound from the East, and avoiding these

bright shores carefully because of stringent quarantine regulations.

The very mention of the dread word “plague” is enough to cause a panic

here, and if the most rigorous exclusion, at whatever cost, of vessels

from infected ports, will keep us free, we will see to it that such

exclusion is practised.

But what is this long, phantom-like vessel, her colour so blending

with the blue of the sea, that she is difficult to distinguish?

Occasionally from one of her three irregularly placed funnels there is

a burst of black smoke, but otherwise she is as nearly invisible as

careful painting can make her. Up there at the lofty look-out station

the signalmen are discussing her with many epithets of dislike. They

know her well, and all her kindred; know well, too, with what jealous,

longing eyes those on board peer at the prosperous island, and with

what accents of hatred they speak of the insolent, perfidious Briton,

who dare to thus maintain a station of such strength, a naval base of

such inestimable value, in the midst of what should be a Latin-governed

sea.

But the treasure so coveted is not only guarded by all the deadly

devices known to modern warfare, it is made doubly secure in that these

swarthy speakers of a strange tongue know and love their rulers too

well to exchange them, save at the cost of almost utter annihilation,

for masters whom they equally well know and hate.

The morning freshness has gone. Valetta, never quite asleep at any

time, only drowsing occasionally, is wide awake now. The bright waters

of the harbour are alive with “disós,” gondola-like boats, and small

steamers. The hurrying thousands have swarmed into their appointed

places in the dockyard, the never-finished stone-hewing is going

briskly forward, the market is a howling vortex of clamour and heat

and excitement; and in its niche of living rock the tabernacle of him

who yesterday was Private ----, of her Majesty’s army, lies quietly

oblivious of it all.

ABNER’S TRAGEDY

Our quaint little Guamese was vociferously cheered at the close of his

yarn, although in some parts it had been most difficult to follow,

from the bewildering compound of dialects it was delivered in. Usually

that does not trouble whalers’ crews, much accustomed as they are to

the very strangest distortions of the adaptable English language. “The

next gentleman to oblige” was, to my utter amazement, Abner Cushing,

the child of calamity from Vermont, who had been hung up by the thumbs

and flogged on the outward passage. Up till then we had all looked upon

him as being at least “half a shingle short,” not to say downright

loony, but that impression now received a severe shock. In a cultivated

diction, totally unlike the half-intelligible drawl hitherto affected

by him, he related the following story.

“Well, boys, I dare say you have often wondered what could have brought

me here. Perhaps (which, come to think of it, is more likely) you

haven’t troubled your heads about me at all, although even the meanest

of us like to think that we fill some corner in our fellow’s mind. But

if you have wondered, it could not be considered surprising. For I’m

a landsman if ever there was one, a farmer, who, after even such a

drilling as I’ve gone through this voyage, still feels, and doubtless

looks, as awkward on board as any cow. My story is not a very long one,

perhaps hardly worth the telling to anybody but myself, but it will be

a change from whaling ‘shop’ anyhow, so here goes.

“My father owned a big farm in the old Green Mountain state, on which I

grew up, an only son, but never unduly pampered or spoiled by the good

old man. No; both he and mother, though fond of me as it was possible

to be, strove to do me justice by training me up and not allowing me

to sprout anyhow like a jimpson weed to do as I darn pleased with

myself when and how I liked. They were careful to keep me out of

temptation too, as far as they were able, which wasn’t so difficult,

seeing our nearest neighbour was five miles away, and never a drop of

liquor stronger than cider ever came within a day’s journey of home.

So I suppose I passed as a pretty good boy; at least there were no

complaints.

“One day, when I was about fifteen years old, father drove into the

village some ten miles off on business, and when he came back he

had a little golden-haired girl with him about twelve years old. A

pale, old-fashioned little slip she was, as staid as a grandmother,

and dressed in deep black. When I opened the gate for the waggon,

father said, ‘This is your cousin Cicely, Abner, she’s an orphan,

an’ I cal’late to raise her.’ That was all our introduction, and I,

like the unlicked cub I must have been, only said, ‘that so, father,’

staring at the timid little creature so critically, that her pale

face flushed rosy red under my raw gaze. I helped her out (light as a

bird she was), and showed her into the house, where mother took her

right to her heart on the spot. From that on she melted into the home

life as if she had always been part of it, a quiet patient helper

that made mother’s life a very easy one. God knows it had been hard

enough. Many little attentions and comforts unknown before, grew to

be a part of our daily routine, but if I noticed them at all (and I

hardly think I did then), I took them as a matter of course, nor ever

gave sign that I appreciated the thoughtful care that provided them.

So the years slithered past uneventfully till I was twenty-one, when

dad fell sick. Within a week he was dead. It was a terrible stroke

to mother and Cicely, but neither of them were given to much show of

feeling (I reckon there was scant encouragement), and things went on

much as usual. I didn’t seem to feel it very much--didn’t seem to feel

anything much in those days, except mad with my folks when everything

wasn’t just as I wanted it. Dad’s affairs were all shipshape. He left

mother fairly well off, and Cicely just enough to live on in case

of necessity, while I came in for everything else, which meant an

income of 1500 dollars a year if I chose to realize and not work any

more. Being now, however, fairly wound up like any other machine, and

warranted to go right on in the same jog, I had no thought of change.

Don’t suppose I ever should have had; but--Excuse me, boys, I’m a bit

husky, and there’s something in my eye. All right now.

“That summer we had boarders from Boston, well-to-do city folks pining

for a change of air and scene, who offered a big price for such

accommodation as we could give them for a couple of months.

“I drove down to the village to meet them with the best waggon, and

found them waiting for me at Squire Pickering’s house--two elderly

ladies and a young one. Boys, I can’t begin to describe that young lady

to you; all I know is, that the first time our eyes met, I felt kinder

as I guess Eve must have done when she eat the apple, only more so.

All my old life that I had been well contented with came up before me

and looked just unbearable. I felt awkward, and rough, and ugly; my

new store clothes felt as if they’d been hewn out of deals, my head

burned like a furnace, and my hands and feet were numb cold. When, in

answer to some trifling question put to me by one of the old ladies, I

said a few words, they sounded ’way off down a long tunnel, and as if I

had nothing to do with them. Worst of all, I couldn’t keep my foolish

eyes off that young lady, do what I would. How I drove the waggon home

I don’t know. I suppose the machine was geared up so well, it ran of

its own accord--didn’t want any thinking done. For I was thinking of

anything in the wide world but my duty. I was a soldier, a statesman,

a millionaire by turns, but only that I might win for my own that

wonderful creature that had come like an unpredicted comet into my

quiet sky.

“Now, don’t you think I’m going to trouble you with my love-making. I’d

had no experience, so I dare say it was pretty original, but the only

thing I can remember about it is that I had neither eyes nor ears for

anything or anybody else but Agatha Deerham (that was her name), and

that I neglected everything for her. She took my worship as a matter of

course, calmly, royally, unconsciously; but if she smiled on me, I was

crazy with gladness.

“Meanwhile my behaviour put mother and Cicely about no end. But for

their industry and forethought, things would have been in a pretty

muddle, for I was worse than useless to them; spent most of my time

mooning about like the brainsick fool I was, building castles in

Spain, or trying to invent something that would please the woman I

worshipped. Oh, but I was blind; a poor blind fool. Looking back now,

I know I must have been mad as well as blind. Agatha saw immediately

upon coming into my home what I had never seen in all those long

years--that Cicely--quiet, patient little Cicely--loved me with her

whole heart, and would have died to serve me. So, with that refinement

of cruelty that some women can show, she deliberately set herself, not

to infatuate me more--that was impossible--but to show Cicely that she,

the new-comer, while not valuing my love at a pin, could play with it,

prove it, trifle with it as she listed.

“Sometimes her treatment nearly drove me frantic with rage, but a

tender glance from her wonderful eyes brought me fawning to her feet

again directly. Great heaven, how she made me suffer! I wonder I

didn’t go really mad, I was in such a tumult of conflicting passions

continually.

“The time drew near for them to return to their city home. Now,

although Agatha had tacitly accepted all my attentions, nothing

definite had yet passed between us, but the announcement of her

imminent departure brought matters to a climax. Seizing the first

opportunity of being alone with her, I declared my passion in a frenzy

of wild words, offered her my hand, and swore that if she refused me I

would do--I hardly remember what; but, among other things, certainly

kill her, and then myself. She smiled pityingly upon me, and quietly

said, ‘What about Cicely?’ Bewildered at her question, so little had

any thought of Cicely in connection with love entered my head, I stared

for a few moments blankly at the beautiful and maliciously smiling face

before me, muttering at last, ‘Whatever do you mean?’

“With a ringing laugh, she said, ‘Can it be possible that you are

unaware how your cousin worships you?’ Black shame upon me, I was not

content with scornfully repudiating the possibility of such a thing,

but poured all the bitter contempt I could give utterance to upon

the poor girl, whose only fault was love of me. While thus basely

engaged, I saw Agatha change colour, and turning, found Cicely behind

me, trembling and livid as one who had received a mortal wound. Shame,

anger, and passion for Agatha kept me speechless as she recovered

herself and silently glided away.

“But I must hurry up if I’m not going to be tedious. Encouraged by

Agatha, I sold the farm, sending mother and Cicely adrift to live upon

their little means, and, gathering all together, took my departure for

Boston. Arrangements for our marriage were hurried on at my request,

not so swiftly, however, but that news reached me on my wedding morning

of mother’s death. For a moment I was staggered, even the peculiar

thing which served me for a heart felt a pang, but only in passing.

What had become of Cicely I never troubled enough to think, much less

to inquire.

“Some weeks of delirious gaiety followed, during which I drank to the

full from the cup of my desires. Our lives were a whirl of what, for

want of a better word, I suppose I must call enjoyment; at any rate,

we did and had whatever we had a mind to, nor ever stopped to think of

the sequel. We had no home, never waited to provide one, but lived at a

smart hotel at a rate that would have killed my father to think of.

“One night at the theatre I slipped on the marble staircase, fell to

the bottom a tangle of limbs, and was taken up with a broken leg,

right arm, and collar bone. At some one’s suggestion I was removed to

hospital. There, but for the ministrations of the nurses and surgeons,

I was left alone, not a single one of my acquaintances coming near

me. But what worried me was my wife’s neglect. What could have become

of her? Where was she? These ceaselessly repeated and unanswered

questions, coupled with my utter helplessness, drove me into a brain

fever, in which I lost touch with the world for six weeks.

“I awoke one morning, a wan shade of my old self, but able to think

again (would to God I never had). I was informed that no one had been

to inquire after me during my long delirium, and this sombre fact

stood up before me like a barrier never to be passed, reared between

me and any hope in life. But, in spite of the drawbacks, I got better,

got well, came out into the world again. I was homeless, friendless,

penniless. The proprietor of the hotel where I had stayed with my wife

informed me that she had left in company with a gentleman, with whom

she seemed so intimate that he thought it must be some relative, but

as he spoke, I read the truth in his eyes. He took pity on my forlorn

condition and gave me a little money, enough to keep me alive for a

week or two, but strongly advised me to go back to my native village

and stay there. I was too broken to resent the idea, but in my own mind

there was a formless plan of operations insisting upon being carried

out.

“Husbanding my little stock of money with the utmost care, and barely

spending sufficient to support life, I began a search for my wife.

Little by little I learnt the ghastly sordid truth. Virtue, honour, or

probity, had never been known to her, and my accident only gave her an

opportunity that she had been longing for. Why she had married me was a

mystery. Perhaps she sought a new sensation, and didn’t find it.

“Well, I tracked her and her various companions, until after about

three months I lost all traces in New York. Do what I would, no more

news of her could be obtained. But I had grown very patient in my

search, though hardly knowing why I sought. My purpose was as hazy as

my plan had been. So, from day to day I plodded through such small jobs

as I could find, never losing sight for an hour of my one object in

life.

“I must have been in New York quite six months, when I was one day

trudging along Bleecker Street on an errand for somebody, and there

met me face to face my cousin Cicely. I did not know her, but she

recognized me instantly, and I saw in her sweet face such a look of

sympathy and loving compassion that, broken-hearted, I covered my face

and cried like a child. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘you will be molested,’ and,

putting her arm through mine, she led me some distance to a dilapidated

house, the door of which she opened with a key. Showing me into a tidy

little room, she bade me sit down while she got me a cup of coffee,

refusing to enter into conversation until I was a bit refreshed. Then,

bit by bit, I learned that she had heard of my desertion by Agatha,

and had formed a resolution to find her and bring her back to me if

possible. She did find her, but was repulsed by her with a perfect

fury of scorn, and told to go and find me and keep me, since such a

worthless article as I was not likely to be useful to any other person

on earth. Such a reception would have daunted most women; but I think

Cicely was more than woman, or else how could she do as she did.

“Driven from my wife’s presence, she never lost sight of her, feeling

sure that her opportunity would soon come. It came very suddenly.

In the midst of her flaunting, vicious round of gaiety small-pox

seized her, and as she had left me, so she was left, but not even in

an hospital. Cicely found her alone, raving, tearing at her flesh in

agony, with no one to help or pity. It was the opportunity she had

sought, and hour by hour she wrestled with death and hell for that

miserable woman. It was a long fight, but she was victorious, and

although a sorrowful gap was made in her small stock of money, she was

grateful and content.

“Agatha was a wreck. Utterly hideous to look upon, with memory like

a tiger tearing at her heart, she yet had not the courage to die,

or, doubtless, she would quickly have ended all her woes. Quietly,

unobtrusively, constantly, Cicely waited on her, worked for her, and at

last had succeeded in bringing us together. The knowledge that she whom

I had sought so long was in the same house took away my breath. As soon

as I recovered myself a bit, Cicely went to prepare her for meeting me.

Unknown to Cicely, I followed, and almost immediately after she entered

the room where my wife lay, I presented myself at the door. Looking

past the woman who had preserved her miserable life, she saw my face.

Then, with a horrible cry, unlike anything human, she sprang at my poor

cousin like a jaguar, tearing, shrieking. If I dwell any longer on that

nightmare I shall go mad myself. I did what I could, and bear the marks

of that encounter for life, but I could not save Cicely’s life.

“The room filled with people, and the maniac was secured. After I had

given my evidence on the inquiry, I slunk away, too mean to live,

afraid to die. A recruiter secured me for this ship, and here I am, but

I know that my useless life is nearly over. The world will be well rid

of me.”

When he stopped talking, there was a dead silence for a few minutes.

Such a yarn was unusual among whalemen, and they hardly knew how to

take it. But the oldest veteran of the party dispelled the uneasy

feeling by calling for a song, and volunteering one himself, just to

keep things going. In the queerest nasal twang imaginable he thundered

out some twenty verses of doggerel concerning the deeds of Admiral

Semmes of the Alabama, with a different tune to each verse. It was

uproariously received, but story-telling held the field, and another

yarn was demanded.

LOST AND FOUND

A SEA AMENDMENT

He stood alone on the little pier, a pathetic figure in his

loneliness--a boy without a home or a friend in the world. There was

only one thought dominating his mind, the purely animal desire for

sustenance, for his bodily needs lay heavily upon him. Yet it never

occurred to him to ask for food--employment for which he should be

paid such scanty wages as would supply his bare needs was all he

thought of; for, in spite of years of semi-starvation, he had never

yet eaten bread that he had not worked for--the thought of doing so

had never shaped itself in his mind. But he was now very hungry, and

as he watched the vigorous preparation for departure in full swing on

board the smart rakish-looking fishing schooner near him, he felt an

intense longing to be one of the toilers on her decks, with a right to

obey the call presently to a well-earned meal. Whether by any strange

thought-transference his craving became known to the bronzed skipper

of the Rufus B. or not, who shall say? Sufficient to record that on

a sudden that stalwart man lifted his head, and looking steadily at

the lonely lad, he said, “Wantin’ a berth, sonny?” Although, if his

thoughts could have been formulated, such a question was the one of

all others he would have desired to hear, the lad was so taken aback by

the realization of his most fervent hopes that for several seconds he

could return no answer, but sat endeavouring to moisten his lips and

vainly seeking in his bewildered mind for words with which to reply.

Another sharp query, “Air ye deef?” brought his wits to a focus, and he

replied humbly--

“Yes, sir!”

“Well, whar’s yer traps, then?” queried the skipper; “‘kaze we’re boun’

ter git away this tide, so it’s naow er never, ef you’re comin’.”

Before answering, the boy suddenly gathered himself up, and sprang in

two bounds from his position on the quay to the side of the skipper. As

soon as he reached him, he said, in rapid disjointed sentences--

“I’ve got no close. Ner no boardin’ house. Ner yet a cent in the world.

But I ben to sea for nearly three year, an’ ther ain’t much to a ship

thet I don’ know. I never ben in a schooner afore, but ef you’ll take

me, Cap’n, I’ll show you I’m wuth a boy’s wages, anyhow.”

As he spoke the skipper looked down indulgently at him, chewing

meditatively the while, but as soon as he had finished, the “old man”

jerked out--

“All right. Hook on ter onct, then;” and almost in the same breath,

but with an astonishing increase of sound, “Naow, then, caest off

thet guess warp forrard there,’n run the jib up. Come, git a move on

ye--anybody’d think you didn’t calk’late on leavin’ Gloster never no

more.”

Cheery “Ay, ay, cap’s,” resounded from the willing crowd as they

obeyed, and in ten minutes the Rufus B. was gliding away seawards to

the musical rattle of the patent blocks and the harmonious cries of the

men as they hoisted the sails to the small breeze that was stealing off

the land.

The grey mist of early morning was slowly melting off the picturesque

outline of the Massachusetts shore as they departed, and over the

smooth sea before them fantastic wreaths and curls of fog hung about

like the reek of some vast invisible fire far away. It was cold, too,

with a clammy chill that struck through the threadbare suit of jeans

worn by the new lad, and made him exert himself vigorously to keep

his blood in circulation. So hearty were his efforts that the mixed

company of men by whom he was surrounded noted them approvingly; and

although to a novice their occasional remarks would have sounded harsh

and brutal, he felt mightily cheered by them, for his experienced ear

immediately recognized the welcome fact that his abilities were being

appreciated at their full value. And when, in answer to the skipper’s

order of “Loose thet gaff taupsle,” addressed to no one in particular,

he sprang up the main rigging like a monkey and cast off the gaskets,

sending down the tack on the right side, and shaking out the sail in

a seamanlike fashion, he distinctly heard the skipper remark to the

chap at the wheel, “Looks ’sif we’d struck a useful nipper at last,

Jake,” the words were heady as a drink of whisky. Disdaining the

ratlines, he slid down the weather backstays like a flash and dropped

lightly on deck, his cheek flushed and his eye sparkling, all his

woeful loneliness forgotten in his present joy of finding his services

appreciated. But the grinning darky cook just then put his head outside

his caboose door and shouted “Brekfuss.” With old habit strong upon

him, the boy bounded forrard to fetch the food into the fo’c’sle, but

to his bewilderment, and the darky’s boisterous delight, he found that

in his new craft quite a different order of things prevailed. Here all

hands messed like Christians at one common table in the cabin, waited

upon by the cook, and eating the same food; and though they looked

rough and piratical enough, all behaved themselves decently--in strong

contrast to the foul behaviour our hero had so often witnessed in the

grimy fo’c’sles of merchant ships. All this touched him, even though he

was so ravenously hungry that his senses seemed merged in the purely

physical satisfaction of getting filled with good food. At last, during

a lull in the conversation, which, as might be expected, was mostly

upon their prospects of striking a good run of cod at an early date,

the skipper suddenly looked straight at the boy, and said--

“Wut djer say yer name wuz, young feller?”

“Tom Burt, sir,” he answered promptly, although he was tempted to say

that he hadn’t yet been asked his name at all.

“Wall, then, Tom Burt,” replied the skipper, “yew shape ’s well ’s

yew’ve begun, and I’m doggoned ef yew won’t have no eend of a blame

good time. Th’ only kind er critter we kain’t find no sort er use fer

in a Banker ’s a loafer. We do all our bummin’ w’en we git ashore, ’n

in bad weather; other times everybody’s got ter git up an’ hustle fer

all they’re wuth.”

Tom looked up with a pleasant smile, feeling quite at his ease among

men who could talk to him as if he, too, were a human being and not

a homeless cur. He didn’t make any resolves to do his level best--he

would do that anyhow--but his heart beat high with satisfaction at his

treatment, and he would have kept his end up with any man on board to

the utmost ounce of his strength. But meanwhile they had drawn clear of

the land, and behind them dropped a curtain of fog hiding it completely

from view. To a fresh easterly breeze which had sprung up, the graceful

vessel was heading north-east for the Grand Banks, gliding through the

long, sullen swell like some great, lithe greyhound, and yet looking

up almost in the wind’s eye. In spite of the breeze, the towering

banks of fog gradually drew closer and closer around them until they

were entirely enveloped therein, as if wrapped in an impenetrable veil

which shut out all the world beside. The ancient tin horn emitted its

harsh discords, which seemed to rebound from the white wall round about

them, and in very deed could only have been heard a ship’s length or so

away. And presently, out of the encircling mantle of vapour, there came

a roar as of some unimaginable monster wrathfully seeking its prey,

the strident sounds tearing their way through the dense whiteness

with a truly terrific clamour. All hands stood peering anxiously out

over the waste for the first sight of the oncoming terror, until, with

a rush that made the schooner leap and stagger, a huge, indefinite

blackness sped past, its grim mass towering high above the tiny craft.

The danger over, muttered comments passed from mouth to mouth as to

the careless, reckless fashion in which these leviathans were driven

through the thick gloom of those crowded waters in utter disregard of

the helpless toilers of the sea. Then, to the intense relief of all

hands, the fog began to melt away, and by nightfall all trace of it was

gone. In its stead the great blue dome of the heavens, besprinkled with

a myriad glittering stars, shut them in; while the keen, eager breeze

sent the dancing schooner northward at a great rate to her destined

fishing-ground, the huge plateau in the Atlantic, off Newfoundland,

that the codfish loves.

But it was written that they should never reach the Virgin. The bright,

clear weather gave way to a greasy, filmy sky, accompanied by a

mournful, sighing wail in the wind that sent a feeling of despondency

through the least experienced of the fishermen, and told the more

seasoned hands that a day of wrath was fast approaching, better than

the most delicately adjusted barometer would have done. When about

sixty miles from the Banks the gale burst upon the staunch little

craft in all its fury, testing her powers to the utmost as, under a

tiny square of canvas in the main rigging, she met and coquetted with

the gathering immensities of the Atlantic waves. No doubt she would

have easily weathered that gale, as she had done so many others, but

that at midnight, during its fiercest fury, there came blundering along

a huge four-masted sailing-ship running under topsails and foresail

that, like some blind and drunken giant staggered out of the gloom and

fell upon the gallant little schooner, crushing her into matchwood

beneath that ruthless iron stem, and passing on unheeding the awful

destruction she had dealt out to the brave little company of men. It

was all so sudden that the agony of suspense was mercifully spared

them, but out of the weltering vortex which swallowed up the Rufus B.

only two persons emerged alive--Tom Burt and Jem the cook. By a miracle

they both clung to the same piece of flotsam--one of the “dorys” or

flat little boats used by the Bankers to lay out their long lines when

on the Banks. Of course she was bottom up, and, but for the lifeline

which the forethought of the poor skipper had caused to be secured to

the gunwale of every one of his dorys, they could not have kept hold of

her for an hour. As it was, before they were able to get her righted in

that tumultuous sea, they were almost at their last gasp. But they did

succeed in getting her right way up at last, and, crouching low in her

flat bottom, they dumbly awaited whatever Fate had in store for them.

[Illustration: A huge sailing-ship crushed her into matchwood.]

A mere fragment in the wide waste, they clung desperately to life

through the slowly creeping hours while the storm passed away, the

sky cleared, and the sea went down. The friendly sun came out in his

strength and warmed their thin blood. But his beams did more: they

revealed at no great distance the shape of a ship that to the benumbed

fancies of the two waifs seemed to behave in most erratic fashion. For

now she would head toward them, again she would slowly turn as if upon

an axis until she presented her stern in their direction, but never

for five minutes did she keep the same course. Dimly they wondered

what manner of ship she might be, with a sort of impartial curiosity,

since they were past the period of struggle. Well for them that it was

so, for otherwise their agonies must have been trebled by the sight of

rescue apparently so near and yet impossible of attainment. So they

just sat listlessly in their empty shell gazing with incurious eyes

upon the strange evolutions of the ship. Yet, by that peculiar affinity

which freely floating bodies have at sea, the ship and boat were surely

drawing nearer each other, until Tom suddenly awoke as if from a trance

to find that they were so close to the ship that a strong swimmer might

easily gain her side. The discovery gave him the needed shock to arouse

his small store of vital energy, and, turning to his companion, he

said--his voice sounding strange and far away--“Doc, rouse up! Here’s

the ship! Right on top of us, man!” But for some minutes the negro

seemed past all effort, beyond hearing, only known to be living by his

position. Desperate now, Tom scrambled towards him, and in a sudden

fever of excitement shook, beat, and pinched him. No response. Then,

as if maddened by the failure of his efforts, the boy seized one of

the big black hands that lay so nervelessly, and, snatching it to his

mouth, bit a finger to the bone. A long dry groan came from the cook

as he feebly pulled his hand away, and mechanically thrust the injured

finger into his mouth. The trickling blood revived him, his dull eyes

brightened, and looking up he saw the ship close alongside. Without a

word he stooped and plunged his hands into the water on either side

the dory, paddling fiercely in the direction of the ship, while Tom

immediately followed his example. Soon they bumped her side, and as

she rolled slowly towards them, Tom seized the chain-plates and clung

limpet-like for an instant, then, with one supreme effort, hauled

himself on board and fell, fainting but safe, on her deck.

When he returned to life again, his first thought was of his chum,

and great was his peace to find that the cook had also gained

safety. He lay near, stretched out listlessly upon the timber, with

which the vessel’s deck was completely filled, rail-high, fore and

aft. Feebly, like some decrepit old man, Tom rose to his knees and

shuffled towards the cook, finding that he was indeed still alive,

but sleeping so soundly that it seemed doubtful whether waking would

be possible. Reassured by finding the cook living, the boy dragged

himself aft, wondering feebly how it was that he saw no member of this

large vessel’s crew. He gained the cabin and crawled below, finding

everything in disorder, as if she had been boarded by pirates and

ravaged for anything of value that might be concealed. She seemed a

staunch, stout, frigate-built ship, of some eleven or twelve hundred

tons register, English built, but Norwegian owned; and to a seaman’s

eye there was absolutely no reason why she should thus be tumbling

unguided about the Atlantic--there was no visible cause to account

for her abandonment. Aloft she was in a parlous condition. The braces

having been left unbelayed, her great yards had long been swinging to

and fro with every thrust of the wind and roll of the ship, until it

was a marvel how they still hung in their places at all. Most of the

sails were in rags, the unceasing grind and wrench of the swinging

masses of timber to which they were secured having been too much for

their endurance, and their destruction once commenced, the wind had

speedily completed it.

All this, requiring so long to tell, was taken in by the lad in a few

seconds, but his first thought was for food and drink wherewith to

revive his comrade. He was much disappointed, however, to find that

not only was the supply of eatables very scanty, but the quality was

vile beyond comment--worse than even that of some poverty-stricken old

British tub provisioned at an auction sale of condemned naval stores.

The best he could do for Jem was to soak some of the almost black

biscuit in water until soft, and then, hastening to his side, he roused

the almost moribund man, and gently coaxed him to eat, a morsel at a

time, until, to his joy, he found the poor darky beginning to take a

returning interest in life. Fortunately for them, the weather held fine

all that day and night, relieving them from anxiety about handling the

big vessel, and by morning they were both sufficiently themselves

again to set about the task of getting her under control. A little at

a time they reduced the chaotic web of gear aloft to something like

its original systematic arrangement, and under such sail as was still

capable of being set they began to steer to the south-westward. In

this, as in everything else now, the boy took the lead, for Jem had

never set foot upon a square-rigged ship before, and even his schooner

experience had been confined to the galley. But Tom had spent his three

years at sea entirely in large square-rigged ships, and, being a bright

observant lad, already knew more about them and their manipulation

than many sailormen learn all their lives. He it was who set the

course, having carefully watched the direction steered from Gloster by

the hapless Rufus B., and now he judged that a reversal of it would

certainly bring them within hail of the American seaboard again, if

they could hold on it long enough. So all day long the two toiled like

beavers to make things aloft more shipshape, letting the vessel steer

herself as much as possible, content if she would only keep within four

points of her course. With all their labours they could not prevent her

looking like some huge floating scarecrow that had somehow got adrift

from its native garden and wandered out to sea. Her appearance simply

clamoured for interference by any passing ship in trumpet tones had

one entered the same horizon, but much to the youngster’s wonder, and

presently to his secret delight, not a sail hove in sight day after

day.

Thus a fortnight passed away satisfactorily enough but for the wretched

food and the baffling winds, that would not permit them to make more

than a meagre handful of miles per day towards the land, and worried

Tom not a little with the idea that perhaps the Gulf Stream might be

sweeping them steadily eastward at a much greater rate than they were

able to sail west. But he did not whisper a syllable of his fears to

his shipmate in case of disheartening that docile darky, whom even now

he often caught wistfully looking towards him, as if for some further

comfort. He himself was full of high hopes, building a fantastic mental

edifice upon the prospect of being able to make the land unaided, and

therefore becoming entitled not only to the glory of a great exploit

in ship-handling but also to the possession of a fortune, as he knew

full well his share of the salvage of this ship would be. For although

she contained but a cheap cargo of lumber, yet from her size and

sea-worthiness she was worth a very large sum could she be brought

into port without further injury, her hull being, as sailors say,

“as tight as a bottle”--that is, she leaked not at all. But both the

shipmates were puzzled almost to distraction to account for a vessel

in her condition being abandoned. Nearly every spare moment in which

they could be together was devoted to the discussion of this mystery,

and dark Jem showed a most fertile inventiveness in bringing out new

theories, none of which, however, could throw the slightest glimmer

of explanation upon the subject. Except that from the disorder of the

cabin and fo’c’sle, and the absence of the boats, with their lashings

left just as they had been hacked adrift, there was no other clue to

the going of her crew; and, if, as was probable, the deserters had

afterwards been lost by the swamping of their frail craft, this mystery

was but another item in the long list of unravelled sea-puzzles.

But one evening the sun set in a lowering red haze, which, though

dull like a dying fire, stained the oily-looking sea as if with stale

blood. The feeble uncertain wind sank into fitful breaths, and at

last died completely away. Gigantic masses of gloomy cloud came into

being, apparently without motion of any kind, marshalling their vast

formlessness around the shrinking horizon. As the last lurid streaks

faded out of the sky, and utter darkness enfolded them, the two lonely

wanderers clung together, as if by the touch of each other’s living

bodies to counteract the benumbing effect of the terrible quiet.

Deeper, denser grew the darkness, heavier grew the burden of silence,

until at the thin cry of a petrel out of the black depths their hearts

felt most grateful. It was like a tiny message telling them that

the world was not yet dead. A sudden, hissing spiral of blue flame

rent the clouds asunder, and immediately, as if it leaped upon them

through the jagged cleft in that grim barrier, the gale burst. Wind,

lightning, thunder, rain; all joined in that elemental orchestra, with

ever-increasing fury of sound as they smote upon the amazed sea, as

if in angry scorn of its smoothness. In the midst of that tremendous

tumult the two chums were powerless--they dared not move from the

helm, even though, with yards untrimmed, their presence there was

useless. But, in some curious freak of the neglected vessel, she flung

her head off the wind farther and farther until the boy suddenly

snatched at hope again, and spun the wheel round to assist her. Off

she went before the wind like a hunted thing, and knowing it was their

only chance for life, the two friends laboured to keep her so. It was

so dark that they could not see anything aloft, so that they did not

know how far the small amount of sail on her when the gale burst still

remained; but that mattered little, since they were powerless in any

case. But they stuck to their steering, caring nothing for the course

made as long as she could be kept before the gale. And in the bitter

grey of the morning they saw a graceful shape, dim and indefinite,

yet near, that reminded them painfully of their late vessel and her

hapless crew. The shadowy stranger drew nearer, until, with thumping

hearts, they recognized one of the schooners belonging to that daring,

hardy service, the New York Pilots. Rushing to the side, Tom waved his

arms, for they were now so close together that he could see the figures

grouped aft. With consummate seamanship, the schooner was manœuvred

towards the ship until so close that three men sprang from her rail

into the ship’s mizzen rigging. Few words passed, but leaving one of

their number at the wheel, the other two worked like giants to get a

little sail set, while the schooner, shaking out a reef, bounded ahead

to bespeak steam aid.

With such assistance, the troubles of the two wanderers were now at an

end, and in less than thirty hours they were snugly anchored in New

York harbour, with a blazing fire in the galley and a Christian meal

before them. At the Salvage Court, held soon after, their share came

to $7,000, equally divided between the two of them, the pilot crew

receiving $3,000 for their two days’ work. Feeling like millionaires,

they hurried back to Gloster, fully agreed to do what they could for

the benefit of their late shipmates’ bereaved ones, and handing over

to the authorities for that purpose on their arrival half of their

gains. Then Jem, declaring that he had seen all he wanted of fishing,

opened a small oyster saloon in Gloster, while Tom, aided by the advice

of a gentleman who was greatly interested in the whole story, entered

himself at Columbia College. He will be heard of again.

THE END

A PICTURESQUE BOOK OF THE SEA.

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Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a

predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they

were not changed.

Dialect spacing and variations were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation

marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left

unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs

and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support

hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to

the corresponding illustrations.

Page 96: “hard-earned pay” was printed as “hard-earned lay”. Changed

here.

End of Project Gutenberg's Deep-Sea Plunderings, by Frank Thomas Bullen