“FILLED WITH GOLD DOUBLOONS--SIRR, ARE YE LISTENING?”
The _’Liza Ann_ was about as strange-looking a craft as ever Tom had
clapped eyes upon. He was not well enough yet to be hypercritical; but
for all that he could not resist the temptation of making his boatman
pull right round and round her at some distance away, so that he might
see her from every point of the compass.
She lay like a duck on the water, there was no doubts about that; in
fact she had about the same comparative breadth of beam that a duck
possesses, the same lowness of free-board, and the same depth or rather
absence of depth of hull. Her masts, two in all, were set in with a
pretty, though rather old-fashioned rake. She was brig-rigged, though,
considering her length, she might easily have been a barque. Her spars
were not of great height, and her yards were very long. There was no
mistake about it, she could take a good spread of canvas. Well, she was
painted dark green all over; picked out as to ports with a lighter
green, and her bulwarks inside were also light green.
Tom smiled to himself as he sized her up. Barnaby Blunt saw that smile.
He was probably six hundred yards away at the time, and standing on the
quarter-deck of his own ship; but he had eyes like a hawk, and
“barnacles,” as he called the lorgnettes that hung in a patent leather
case by his side, to aid those eyes.
“That Britisher is a-sizing of my ship up,” he said to Pebbles his mate.
“Britishers don’t know everything. I’ll talk to him.”
The Yankee was politeness itself to his passenger. He had a seat all
ready for him on deck under a snow-white awning, a delightfully easy
deck chair, in which one might sleep as comfortably as in a hammock, or
dream without sleeping.
The mate hastened to assist Tom on board, but the captain was before
him.
“With all due deference to you, Mr. Pebbles,” he said, “I’m going to do
everything for our guest with my own hands. If my wife was on board I’d
turn him over to her. As she ain’t, I does the honours. Take my arm,
young man. You ain’t so strong as you think. You’re as shaky as an old
chimney-pot.”
“Thank you,” said Tom; “you really are good.”
“I’d do the same for a nigger, sirr, if he were as shaky as you; and if
my wife were on board, she’d do more. Now, sit down there; I’m not going
to pester you with any extra attentions. Whatever you needs you hollers
for.”
“I don’t think,” said Tom, “I’ll have to holler for anything. This chair
is delightful, and the awning is a happy thought.”
“We don’t sail before to-morrow morning, cause I’ve more stores to get
off. And now, as we don’t dine for an hour yet, suppose we have a drink.
What shall it be--wine, old rye, a cup o’ coffee, or a cock-tail?”
“I’d prefer coffee, I think; but isn’t it rather hot?”
“O, bless your innocence, we’ll have it iced! Ginger Brandy, where are
you?”
A bullet-headed nigger boy, dressed in white calico, with face and
calves as black as pitch, rushed up.
“Heeh I is, sah,” he said.
“Mr. Talisker, here’s your slave. His name is Ginger Brandy. If he
irritates you, don’t hit him over the back with a capstan-bar, ’cause
you’ll break the bar. Don’t heave a cocoa-nut at his head, ’cause you’ll
damage the cocoa-nut. Just get up and toe his shins. Now, Ginger Brandy,
bring the ice, and the coffee, and the lemons, and my pipe, and a bundle
of smokes. Skedaddle!”
Ginger skedaddled quickly, brought out a little table from the raised
poop, spread a white cloth, and in two minutes more had placed thereon
two cups of fragrant coffee, with lumps of clear ice floating in each.
And when Tom lit his cigar after drinking half of the coffee, Ginger
Brandy took his stand beside his chair with a huge fan, and our hero
felt as happy and comfortable as ever he had done in his life.
The Yankee’s pipe stood on deck, an immense hubble-bubble; the smoke,
which passed through iced-water, being conducted to his lips by means of
a tube that seemed yards in length. Sitting there in his rocker, with
his long legs dangling over the bulwarks and his eyes half closed,
Barnaby Blunt looked the quintessence of enjoyment.
“And what d’ye think o’ my little yacht, sirr,” he drawled at last.
“Mind ye, I twigged you sizing her up. I see’d your smile; yes, sirr, I
think I heard it.”
“Well,” said Tom, “to tell you the truth, I never saw so strange a craft
before; and had I met her at sea, I shouldn’t have been able to say what
was her nationality.”
“You do me honour. She’s my own idee. I’ve sailed in all kinds o’ craft,
and saved a little pile. ‘Barn,’ says my wife to me onct, ‘why don’t ye
build a boat o’ your own, and deal in notions?’ Well, sirr, the same
thing had been runnin’ thro’ my head for months, and I set to work and
planned out the _’Liza Ann_. She is the safest brig that sails. She’s
maybe not the fastest. Safety before speed, sirr. ‘I don’t mind waitin’
a month or six weeks,’ says my wife to me; ‘I don’t mind that, Barn,’
says she, ‘but always come home in your own ship, and not atop o’ the
hencoop.’
“Yes, sirr, and the _’Liza Ann_ won’t broach to either, and she can’t
be taken aback, and the sticks won’t blow out o’ her, and she’ll float
in shoal water if a punt can, and if she does ship green seas, sirr, why
they slide off again like rain off a garden roller. That’s what my
_’Liza Ann_ is, sirr.”
Tom laughed at the Yankee’s enthusiasm.
“All my own idee--all my own and ’Liza’s remember.”
“Well, it must be a pleasant life--going anywhere and seeing anything.”
“You bet it is; making a few dollars too. There is nothing I won’t trade
in. Now, those curios o’ yours--they did tempt me. I guess you’d better
sell. The white ants may eat them all if they lie long at Guayaquil.”
“I’ve provided against that. They’re all preserved in tin cases; but as
they are for my uncle, I wouldn’t sell them for the world.”
“What! you’re goin’ to pawn them then?”
“No, no, no; I don’t mean _that_ uncle. I mean my uncle Robert; who,
like yourself, is a splendid fellow and a thorough sailor. And I’m sure
he’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance if ever he has the good
luck to meet you.”
“Give us your hand, young man. That little speech is good enough for the
senate. I say, what a pity you ain’t a true-born American. I guess
you’re a sailor yourself out and out.”
Tom was indeed a sailor out and out. When he went on deck next day he
found that the _’Liza Ann_, with all sail set and almost dead before the
wind, was ploughing and plunging southwards through the Gulf of
Guayaquil. The anchor had been weighed, and a start made in the
moonlight long before the sun or Tom either had dreamt of rising.
“Young man, come in to breakfast,” said a voice behind him. “Ye can’t
live without eating, you know. Good-morning. I hope you slept--and your
cat? Droll idee a cat. Ha, ha! Well, come and tuck in a bit. Why, you’re
looking better already.”
Talking thus, Captain Barnaby Blunt led the way into the poop, which was
flush with the upper deck in the grand old fashion. He pointed to two
chairs.
“There’s a seat for you, sirr, and one for your friend. Droll idee,
truly. Ha, ha, ha! Looks as wise as a Christian, and I daresay is better
than many. Now, sirr, you see what’s on the table. Eat, drink, and be
merry; and during all this voyage I’m your servant, Brandy’s your slave,
and you’ve nothing to do but get well.”
Before touching a knife or fork, however, this strange Yankee lifted his
right hand piously to his ear to ask a blessing. It was quite the length
of a short prayer, but evidently came right away from the speaker’s
heart.
Tom liked him better after this.
“Now fall to, sir. Ginger Brandy, keep that fan moving.”
It was pretty evident that during this voyage Barnaby Blunt was going to
do most of the talking. Tom was rather pleased than otherwise that it
should be so. He was now in that delightful, half-dreamy stage of
convalescence that all must have experienced who have ever been
downright ill, and in which existence itself seems a pleasure, and
everything one looks at is seen through rose-coloured glasses.
But had Tom been even in robust health, a voyage like that he was now
embarked in would have been pleasant in the extreme.
The ship was everything that could be desired from bowsprit to binnacle.
She had every good quality except speed. But who could wish to speed
over an ocean like that which sparkled all around them in the sun’s
rays; a sun, mind, that did not feel a single degree too hot, albeit
they were almost on the equator. The wind too was favourable, and kept
so for over a week, and when it did at last die almost down, no one on
board appeared to regret it; even the ship herself seemed to think it
was the most natural thing in the world she should take it easy a bit.
There were plenty of books on board, plenty of ice, Ginger Brandy with
his fan, and Barnaby Blunt with his ever cheery smile and his wealth of
droll conversation.
“Say, young man,” said Barnaby to Tom one day as both reclined in their
chairs on deck, “don’t you wonder where you’re goin’ to?”
“No,” said Tom with half-shut eyes. “It never occurred to me to ask. You
said I was to come with you, and I’ve come. By the way, where are we
going? To Tahiti, to Fife, New Zealand, or where?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Well, that cat and you are a pair, I guess. Ha, ha, ha! How
’Liza, my wife, would enjoy you. But now, look here. I’m going to tell
you a story.”
“I’m all attention.”
“Well, don’t go to sleep. Once upon a time--”
“That’s a nice beginning,” said Tom.
“Once upon a time a ship filled with gold doubloons--Sirr, are you
listening?”
“Yes, gold doubloons--”
“Seems to me you nodded. But never mind. She sailed away from Calla--O.
It was all specie and nothing else she had on board. There must have
been pretty near five million dollars. Are you awake?”
“I’m listening. I like to keep my eyes shut when anyone else is telling
a good story. Go on.”
“Well, sirr, a certain bad lot who lived at Lima got wind of it, and
pursued this craft in a hired cruiser, with a hired
crew--assassins--overtook--ugly affair--spared
none--plank--sharks--Australia--back--island--mutiny--gold
hidden--terrible sufferings--death--nobody found--Galapagos Islands--”
The above disjointed sentences are the skipper’s strange story as Tom
heard it--not as the Yankee told it; and at the word “islands” Tom
dropped to sleep altogether, and did not awake until Barnaby had
finished.
“Very remarkable story indeed!” said Tom; “very remarkable! And of
course they hanged him?”
“Hanged whom--eh?”
“Why, didn’t you say that somebody--Why, I do believe I _was_ half
asleep.”
“I guess you were, and so was the cat. But there, it don’t matter. I
mean to find that pile. If I don’t somebody else will, and then Barnaby
Blunt won’t have it--eh?”
“Certainly not.”
“And when Barnaby Blunt does find it and does get it on board, then
hurrah! for ’Frisco and my old woman ’Liza, and no more going to sea for
me on this side the grave. Only, altho’ I must confess you ain’t the
most inquisitive coon ever I came across, still I thought I’d tell you
the strange story, and let you know where I was bearing up for, and the
kind o’ notion Barnaby Blunt had in his long head.”
“Well, I’m much obliged, Captain Blunt, for your confidence in me; and
all will, I hope, turn out well and for the best.”
It may as well be confessed here at once that Tom’s notions even now as
to where the ship was going to were the most hazy imaginable.
All went well in the _’Liza Ann_ for two more weeks.
The men called her the lazy _’Liza_; but certainly they appeared to
enjoy the ship’s laziness very much. They were only ten all told,
including Ginger Brandy; but _dolce far niente_ was their motto, from
Pebbles the mate all the way down.
The masts, as I have said, were not tall, and as there was patent
reefing tackle they never had far aloft to go; so their work was very
easy. But they kept the ship as clean as a new sovereign. They sang all
day long, and danced in the evening--verily a happy-go-lucky crew.
Tom the cat was a favourite forward; indeed, this strange puss, being
thoroughly up to the ways of ships and sailors, seemed happier now than
ever he had been in his life.
He used to sit in the weather-bow of a night till a flying-fish came on
board, then catch it and come aft with it to his master, and go back and
wait for another. The men averred that these fish flew at Tom’s eyes,
because they looked like a couple of ship’s lanterns in the dark.
Perhaps this was the true explanation. At all events, the fish did fly
on board, and were duly cooked for breakfast every morning; and if there
be anything nicer for breakfast than a broiled flying-fish, I have yet
to learn something new about the sea, and things in general.
Years and years after this, Tom--our hero, not the cat--used to look
back to the days he spent on board of the lazy _’Liza_ as among the most
delightful--dreamily delightful--in all his experience of a seafarer’s
life.
Ah! but they came to an end in a sadly unexpected way.