Near the tip of this tongue, almost within "licking" distance, on an
evening in the month of June, 18--, a group of the kind last alluded
to--three or four castaways upon a spar--might have been seen by any eye
that chanced to be near.
Fortunately for them, there was none sufficiently approximate to make
out the character of that dark speck, slowly approaching the white
sandspit, like any other drift carried upon the landward current of the
sea.
It was just possible for a person standing upon the summit of one of the
sand "dunes" that, like white billows, rolled off into the interior of
the continent, it was just possible for a person thus placed to have
distinguished the aforesaid speck without the aid of a glass; though
with one it would have required a prolonged and careful observation to
have discovered its character.
The sandspit was full three miles in length. The hills stood back from
the shore another. Four miles was sufficient to screen the castaways
from the observation of any one who might be straying along the coast.
For the individuals themselves it appeared very improbable that there
could be any one observing them. As far as eye could reach--east,
north, and south, there was nothing save white sand. To the west,
nothing but the blue water. No eye could be upon them, save that of the
Creator. Of his creatures, tame or wild, savage or civilised, there
seemed not one within a circuit of miles: for within that circuit there
was nothing visible that could afford subsistence either to man or
animal, bird or beast. In the white substratum of sand, gently shelving
far under the sea, there was not a sufficiency of organic matter to have
afforded food for fish--even for the lower organisms of _mollusca_.
Undoubtedly were these castaways alone; as much so as if their locality
had been the centre of the Atlantic, instead of its coast!
We are privileged to approach them near enough to comprehend their
character, and learn the cause that has thus isolated them so far from
the regions of animated life.
There are four of them, astride a spar; which also carries a sail,
partially reefed around it, and partially permitted to drag loosely
through the water.
At a glance a sailor could have told that the spar on which they are
supported is a topsail-yard, which has been detached from its masts in
such a violent manner as to unloose some of the reefs that had held the
sail--partially releasing the canvas. But it needed not a sailor to
tell why this had been done. A ship has foundered somewhere near coast.
There has been a gale two days before. The spar in question, with
those supported upon it, is but a fragment of the wreck. There might
have been other fragments, other of the crew escaped, or escaping in
like manner, but there are no others in sight. The castaways slowly
drifting towards the sandspit are alone. They have no companions on the
ocean, no spectators on its shore.
As already stated, there are four of them. Three are strangely alike,
at least, in the particulars of size, shape, and costume. In age, too,
there is no great difference. All three are boys: the eldest not over
eighteen, the youngest certainly not a year his junior.
In the physiognomy of the three there is similitude enough to declare
them of one nation, though dissimilarity sufficient to prove a distinct
provinciality both in countenance and character. Their dresses of dark
blue cloth, cut pea-jacket shape, and besprinkled with buttons of
burnished yellow, their cloth caps of like colour, encircled by bands of
gold lace, their collars, embroidered with the crown and anchor, declare
them, all three, to be officers in the service of that great maritime
Government that has so long held undisputed possession of the sea--
midshipmen of the British navy. Rather should we say, had been. They
have lost this proud position, along with the frigate to which they had
been attached; and they now only share authority upon a dismasted spar,
over which they are exerting some control, since with their bodies bent
downwards, and their hands beating the water, they are propelling it in
the direction of the sandspit.
In the countenances of the three castaways thus introduced, I have
admitted a dissimilitude something more than casual; something more,
even, than what might be termed provincial. Each presented a type that
could have been referred to that wider distinction known as a
nationality.
The three "middies" astride of that topsail-yard were, of course,
castaways from the same ship, in the service of the same Government,
though each was of a different nationality from the other two. They
were the respective representatives of Jack, Paddy, and Sandy, or, to
speak more poetically of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, and had the
three kingdoms from which they came had been searched throughout their
whole extent, there could scarcely have been discovered purer
representative types of each, than the three reefers on that spar
drifting towards the sandspit between Bojador and Blanco.
Their names were Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, and Colin Macpherson.
The fourth individual, who shared with them their frail embarkation,
differed from all three in almost every respect, but more especially in
years. The ages of all three united would not have numbered his; and
their wrinkles, if collected together, would scarce have made so many as
could have been counted in the crowsfeet indelibly imprinted in the
corners of his eyes.
It would have required a very learned ethnologist to have told to which
of his three companions he was compatriot; though there could be no
doubt about his being either English, Irish, or Scotch.
Strange to say, his tongue did not aid in the identification of his
nationality. It was not often heard; but even when it was, its
utterance would have defied the most linguistic ear; and neither from
that, nor other circumstance known to them, could any one of his three
companions lay claim to him as a countryman. When he spoke--a rare
occurrence already hinted--it was with a liberal misplacement of "h's"
that should have proclaimed him an Englishman of purest Cockney type.
At the same time his language was freely interspersed with Irish "ochs"
and "shures"; while the "wees" and "bonnys", oft recurring in his
speech, should have proved him a sworn Scotchman. From his countenance
you might have drawn your own inference and believed him any of the
three; but not from his tongue. Neither in its accent, nor the words
that fell from him, could you have told which of the three kingdoms had
the honour of giving him birth.
Whichever it was, it had supplied to the Service a true British tar: for
although you might mistake the man in other respects, his appearance
forbade all equivocation upon this point.
His costume was that of a common sailor, and, as a matter of course, his
name was "Bill". But as he had only been one among many "Bills" rated
on the man-o'-war's books (now gone to the bottom of the sea) he carried
a distinctive appellation, no doubt earned by his greater age. Aboard
the frigate he had been known as "Old Bill"; and the soubriquet still
attached to him upon the spar.