MARTIN, BEING WILLING TO GO TO SEA, GOES TO SEA AGAINST HIS WILL
Four years rolled away, casting chequered light and shadow over the
little village of Ashford in their silent passage,--whitening the
forelocks of the aged, and strengthening the muscles of the young. Death,
too, touched a hearth here and there, and carried desolation to a home;
for four years cannot wing their flight without enforcing on us the
lesson--which we are so often taught, and yet take so long to learn--that
this is not our rest,--that here we have no abiding city. Did we but
ponder this lesson more frequently and earnestly, instead of making us
sad, it would nerve our hearts and hands to fight and work more
diligently,--to work in the cause of our Redeemer,--the only cause that
is worth the life-long energy of immortal beings,--the great cause that
includes all others; and it would teach us to remember that our little
day of opportunity will soon be spent, and that the night is at hand in
which no man can work.
Four years rolled away, and during this time Martin, having failed to
obtain his aunt's consent to his going to sea, continued at school, doing
his best to curb the roving spirit that strove within him. Martin was not
particularly bright at the dead languages; to the rules of grammar he
entertained a rooted aversion; and at history he was inclined to yawn,
except when it happened to touch upon the names and deeds of such men as
Vasco di Gama and Columbus. But in geography he was perfect; and in
arithmetic and book-keeping he was quite a proficient, to the delight of
Mrs. Dorothy Grumbit, whose household books he summed up; and to the
satisfaction of his fast friend, Mr. Arthur Jollyboy, whose ledgers he
was--in that old gentleman's secret resolves--destined to keep.
Martin was now fourteen, broad and strong, and tall for his age. He was
the idol of the school,--dashing, daring, reckless, and good-natured.
There was almost nothing that he would not attempt, and there were very
few things that he could not do. He never fought, however--from
principle; and his strength and size often saved him from the necessity.
But he often prevented other boys from fighting, except when he thought
there was good reason for it; then he stood by and saw fair play. There
was a strange mixture of philosophical gravity, too, in Martin. As he
grew older he became more enthusiastic and less boisterous.
Bob Croaker was still at the school, and was, from prudential motives, a
fast friend of Martin. But he bore him a secret grudge, for he could not
forget the great fight.
One day Bob took Martin by the arm, and said, "I say, Rattler, come with
me to Bilton, and have some fun among the shipping."
"Well, I don't mind if I do," said Martin. "I'm just in the mood for a
ramble, and I'm not expected home till bed-time."
In little more than an hour the two boys were wandering about the
dock-yards of the sea-port town, and deeply engaged in examining the
complicated rigging of the ships. While thus occupied, the clanking of a
windlass and the merry "Yo heave O! and away she goes," of the sailors,
attracted their attention.
"Hallo! there goes the _Firefly_, bound for the South Seas," cried Bob
Croaker; "come, let's see her start. I say, Martin, isn't your friend,
Barney O'Flannagan, on board?"
"Yes, he is. He tries to get me to go out every voyage, and I wish I
could. Come quickly; I want to say good-bye to him before he starts."
"Why don't you run away, Rattler?" inquired Bob, as they hurried round
the docks to where the vessel was warping out.
"Because I don't need to. My aunt has given me leave to go if I like; but
she says it would break her heart if I do; and I would rather be screwed
down to a desk for ever than do that, Bob Croaker."
The vessel, upon the deck of which the two boys now leaped, was a large,
heavy-built barque. Her sails were hanging loose, and the captain was
giving orders to the men, who had their attention divided between their
duties on board and their mothers, wives, and sisters, who still lingered
to take a last farewell.
"Now, then, those who don't want to go to sea had better go ashore,"
roared the captain.
There was an immediate rush to the side.
"I say, Martin," whispered Barney, as he hurried past, "jump down below
for'ard; you can go out o' the harbour mouth with us and get ashore in
one o' the shore-boats alongside. They'll not cast off till we're well
out. I want to speak to you--"
"Man the fore top-sail halyards," shouted the first mate.
"Ay ay, sir-r-r," and the men sprang to obey. Just then the ship
touched on the bar at the mouth of the harbour, and in another moment
she was aground.
"There, now, she's hard and fast!" roared the captain, as he stormed
about the deck in a paroxysm of rage. But man's rage could avail nothing.
They had missed the passage by a few feet, and now they had to wait the
fall and rise again of the tide ere they could hope to get off.
In the confusion that followed, Bob Croaker suggested that Martin and he
should take one of the punts, or small boats which hovered round the
vessel, and put out to sea, where they might spend the day pleasantly in
rowing and fishing.
"Capital!" exclaimed Martin. "Let's go at once. Yonder's a little fellow
who will let us have his punt for a few pence. I know him. Hallo, Tom!"
"Ay, ay," squeaked a boy who was so small that he could scarcely lift the
oar, light though it was, with which he sculled his punt cleverly along.
"Shove alongside, like a good fellow; we want your boat for a little to
row out a bit."
"It's a-blowin' too hard," squeaked the small boy, as he ranged
alongside. "I'm afeared you'll be blowed out."
"Nonsense!" cried Bob Croaker, grasping the rope which the boy threw to
him. "Jump on board, younker; we don't want you to help us, and you're
too heavy for ballast. Slip down the side, Martin, and get in while I
hold on to the rope. All right? now I'll follow. Here, shrimp, hold the
rope till I'm in, and then cast off. Look alive!"
As Bob spoke, he handed the rope to the little boy; but, in doing so, let
it accidentally slip out of his hand.
"Catch hold o' the main chains, Martin,--quick!"
But Martin was too late. The current that swept out of the harbour
whirled the light punt away from the ship's side, and carried it out
seaward. Martin instantly sprang to the oar, and turned the boat's head
round. He was a stout and expert rower, and would soon have regained the
ship; but the wind increased at the moment, and blew in a squall off
shore, which carried him further out despite his utmost efforts. Seeing
that all further attempts were useless, Martin stood up and waved his
hand to Bob Croaker, shouting as he did so, "Never mind, Bob, I'll make
for the South Point. Run round and meet me, and we'll row back together."
The South Point was a low cape of land which stretched a considerable
distance out to sea, about three miles to the southward of Bilton
harbour. It formed a large bay, across which, in ordinary weather, a
small boat might be rowed in safety. Martin Rattler was well known at the
sea-port as a strong and fearless boy, so that no apprehension was
entertained for his safety by those who saw him blown away. Bob Croaker
immediately started for the Point on foot, a distance of about four miles
by land; and the crew of the _Firefly_ were so busied with their stranded
vessel that they took no notice of the doings of the boys.
But the weather now became more and more stormy. Thick clouds gathered on
the horizon. The wind began to blow with steady violence, and shifted a
couple of points to the southward; so that Martin found it impossible to
keep straight for the Point. Still he worked perseveringly at his single
oar, and sculled rapidly over the sea; but, as he approached the Point,
he soon perceived that no effort of which he was capable could enable him
to gain it. But Martin's heart was stout. He strove with all the energy
of hope, until the Point was passed; and then, turning the head of his
little boat towards it, he strove with all the energy of despair, until
he fell down exhausted. The wind and tide swept him rapidly out to sea;
and when his terrified comrade reached the Point, the little boat was but
a speck on the seaward horizon.
Well was it then for Martin Rattler that a friendly heart beat for him on
board the _Firefly_, Bob Croaker carried the news to the town; but no one
was found daring enough to risk his life out in a boat on that stormy
evening. The little punt had been long out of sight ere the news reached
them, and the wind had increased to a gale. But Barney O'Flannagan
questioned Bob Croaker closely, and took particular note of the point of
the compass at which Martin had disappeared; and when the _Firefly_ at
length got under weigh, he climbed to the fore-top cross-trees, and stood
there scanning the horizon with an anxious eye.
It was getting dark, and a feeling of despair began to creep over
the seaman's heart as he gazed round the wide expanse of water, on
which nothing was to be seen except the white foam that crested the
rising billows.
"Starboard, hard!" he shouted suddenly.
"Starboard it is!" replied the man at the wheel, with prompt obedience.
In another moment Barney slid down the back-stay and stood on the deck,
while the ship rounded to and narrowly missed striking a small boat that
floated keel up on the water. There was no cry from the boat; and it
might have been passed as a mere wreck, had not the lynx eye of Barney
noticed a dark object clinging to it.
"Lower away a boat, lads," cried the Irishman, springing overboard;
and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the water closed
over his head.
The _Firefly_ was hove to, a boat was lowered and rowed towards Barney,
whose strong voice guided his shipmates towards him. In less than a
quarter of an hour the bold sailor and his young friend Martin Rattler
were safe on board, and the ship's head was again turned out to sea.
It was full half an hour before Martin was restored to consciousness in
the forecastle, to which his deliverer had conveyed him.
"Musha, lad, but ye're booked for the blue wather now, an' no mistake!"
said Barney, looking with an expression of deep sympathy at the poor boy,
who sat staring before him quite speechless. "The capting'll not let ye
out o' this ship till ye git to the gould coast, or some sich place. He
couldn't turn back av he wanted iver so much; but he doesn't want to, for
he needs a smart lad like you, an' he'll keep you now, for sartin."
Barney sat down by Martin's side and stroked his fair curls, as he sought
in his own quaint fashion to console him. But in vain. Martin grew quite
desperate as he thought of the misery into which poor Aunt Dorothy
Grumbit would be plunged, on learning that he had been swept out to sea
in a little boat, and drowned, as she would naturally suppose. In his
frenzy he entreated and implored the captain to send him back in the
boat, and even threatened to knock out his brains with a handspike if he
did not; but the captain smiled and told him that it was his own fault.
He had no business to be putting to sea in a small boat in rough weather,
and he might be thankful he wasn't drowned. He wouldn't turn back now for
fifty pounds twice told.
At length Martin became convinced that all hope of returning home was
gone. He went quietly below, threw himself into one of the sailor's
berths, turned his face to the wall, and wept long and bitterly.