We worked unknown to Tom at this, however. I bought the stuff, white
and black, and it cost us a whole week or more to finish the job, but it
was certainly a very creditable piece of work when finished. Quite a
big thing too, and all complete, and ready to be run up to the halyards
on which Tom hoisted a bit of bunting on high-days and holidays.
We never really thought of running it up, of course, but it was nice to
have it. We felt then we w'ere pirates, in imagination at all events.
Now here is a singular thing which I must relate. One morning after
being called by Tom--this was a regular part of Tom's duty--I looked
round to Jill's cot, and there he was sitting bolt upright in it, with
that sunny smile on his innocent sleepy face.
"What's up, Jill?" I asked.
"You're not," said Jill, "though I heard Tom sing out, `Five bells,
young gentlemen, please,' more than half an hour ago."
Then the next words spoken were said by both at precisely the same time,
_syllabic by syllable as if we had been wound up to it_.
"I've had such a funny dream."
We looked at each other, then I said:
"What was yours, Jill?"
"Nay," said Jill, "you tell me yours first, because you know you are the
eldest."
"Well, I dreamt we had captured the _Thunderbolt_, hoisted the black
flag and run off to sea with her."
"That was exactly my dream," said Jill.
"Did _you_ make Mr Moore and the rest walk the plank?"
"Oh no, Jack, I wouldn't dream of anything so very dreadful. I didn't
see them anywhere about."
"Neither did I in mine. But my dream was altogether jolly fun."
"So was mine and--"
"Gone six bells, young gentlemen. Really if this sort o' thing goes on,
I'll take the number o' your hammocks, and report ye on the quarter-deck
next time your aunt comes on board."
"All right, Captain Tom, we'll be out in five minutes."
And up we jumped, and were speedily dressed, and on deck for our morning
walk.
But we thought no more of the dream.
It went as completely out of our minds as if we had never dreamed it at
all.
But it was brought to our minds about a month afterwards in a way I am
never likely to forget.
Meanwhile we still kept up our game of playing at being pirates.
It was summer now, and dear sister Mattie came often to see us, more
often with her Mummy Gray than with Aunt Serapheema.
Of course we initiated her into the mystery of the pirate-game, and she
took a most active part in it too. She acted the rich old dowager who
had bags of gold and treasures untold, diamonds and all the rest of it,
and who was eventually captured, and made to walk the plank with the
rest of the unhappy crew.
I never saw any game take such complete possession of a child, as that
pirate-play did of Mattie. She came oftener on board now than she might
otherwise have done; she entered into the thing heart and soul,
suggesting many improvements we never should have thought about, and
acting her part as if to the manner born.
Of course she was told of the black flag, and must see it, and her eyes
actually sparkled as they fell on the weird white skull and bleached
cross-bones.
Things went on thus for some weeks longer, the pirate-play never losing
interest, and each of us being thorough masters of his or her part.
But one day Mr Moore with his wife were invited to Trafalgar Cottage
and Tom Morley was left in charge of the ship, while at her own special
request Mattie was also left on board.
We could play now to our hearts' content.
But we little knew what was before us.
CHAPTER SIX.
AN APPALLING ADVENTURE--"WE MUST PREPARE FOR INSTANT FLIGHT."
Just after tea, and while Tom was telling some of his most fascinating
stories, and we three children were listening with dilated eyes and
bated breath, we were hailed by a boatman.
"_Thunderbolt_ ahoy!"
"Ay, ay," cried Tom, jumping up and rushing to the gangway--we had been
having tea on the upper deck.
Then up sprang an old shipmate of Tom's, and we heard them talking
earnestly together and looking towards us. At last Tom advanced almost
shyly. "I dunno really," he said, "if one o' you young gentlemen would
like to be left in charge of the old _Thunderbolt_ for an hour or so.
Yonder's an old shipmate o' mine, and I'd dearly like to run on shore
for maybe an hour."
"Oh, we'd like it immensely." We spoke these words both at the same
time, as strangely enough we always did speak brief sentences, when
excited.
"Well then," said Tom, laughing and addressing me, "You're Captain Jack,
this is Commander Jill, and this is Mattie the mate."
"Hurrah!" we shouted. "Off you trundle, Tom, and see you enjoy yourself
properly; and if you don't report yourself in due form when you come on
board, we'll put you in irons. D'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay, sir," said Tom, saluting. Then over the side went he and his
friend, and we saw them--_no more_.
Tom had promised not to be gone longer than eight o'clock, but eight and
nine went by, and still he came not. The shades of night began to
darken over the water and over the town, and worse than all it came on
to blow.
We did not expect Mrs Moore to come back. Indeed it had been arranged,
that if she did not return by seven, Tom was to see to putting us all to
bed; and Tom--wicked, thoughtless Tom--had faithfully promised he would.
Alas! I fear that at that very moment Tom was tossing a can, and
singing one of Dibdin's songs.
"It's very romantic, isn't it?" said Mattie.
We both smiled like automata and said "yes"; but I don't think either of
us thought it was a desirable situation to be left in.
Jill and I were thinking about the ghost. But it would not do to say a
word concerning this to Mattie. Each knew, too, what the other was
thinking about. I am sure enough of this, because when, just as we were
retiring into the great cabin, Jill gave a little glance behind him, and
I said in his ear, "There are no such things, old Jill," he nodded and
smiled.
The wind shortly increased to nearly the force of a gale. It went
roaring through the rigging of our one mast in a way that was dismal to
listen to, though Mattie assured us it was perfectly delightful. The
water alongside was all in a seethe, and the great ship wriggled if she
did not roll, and kept pulling at her moorings as if she wanted to go
flying away on the wings of that strong north wind. We busied
ourselves, now, Jill and I, in getting supper, after which we put Mattie
to bed on the couch. The three of us determined to turn in
all-standing, as sailors phrase it when they mean that they do not
undress.
But Jill and I took rugs and lay down in the cabin, as we did not want
to be far from Mattie should she call during the night.
We had thought of keeping watch and watch in true navy fashion. But for
several reasons we abandoned the idea. First and foremost there really
was nothing to watch except Mattie, and we could watch her better if
beside her; secondly it would be dreadfully dreary; and thirdly there
was the very remotest chance, that the ghost of some of the brave
fellows whose life-blood stained the fighting deck might take it into
its head to visit the _Thunderbolt_ during the storm that was raging.
The three of us said our prayers together, Jill and I kneeling down by
Mattie's couch. Then we kissed "good night," and she went off like a
top.
After we were quite sure she was sound, Jill looked at me and I looked
at Jill, and up we both got as if we had arranged it all beforehand, and
carefully locked the door and loaded our pistols and lay down again. We
had no shot, but I said that did not matter, as if the noise of the
pistol did not alarm the ghost and show him he was not wanted, shot
would only go right through him and the holes would fill up again
immediately.
However, we knew ghosts did not like light, so we left the swing lamp
burning and lay down.
Not to sleep, for a time at all events. We could hear the roar of the
wind now more distinctly, and many strange noises that we could not
understand. It might have been rats, but there were footsteps so
audible overhead every now and then, that we fully expected to see the
door open and honest Tom appear to report himself.
I'm certain we heard scuffling and stamping outside the door, but at
last all sounds merged into dreams, and if we did start awake now and
then we could not be sure whether the noises that roused us were reality
or imaginary.
We did sleep sound at last, for long hours too; then all at once, as if
by instinct, or, as I said before, as if wound up to it like clockwork
automata, Jill and I both rose up and became fully sensible that we were
standing hand in hand in the centre of the room.
It was grey daylight on a lovely morning--very early, perhaps not quite
three o'clock, and Jill and I both stared in astonishment as we gazed
out of the port.
Why, the town was going round us. Houses and buildings and vessels were
passing by the window.
Could we be dreaming? No, yonder was the green of a hill now, and the
clouds moving also.
About the same moment that these wonderful phenomena were being
presented to our eyes, the midshipman on watch on one of the ships--who,
by the way, was half asleep--ran down below and reported to his
commander that a steamer was going up harbour, and would run into the
dockyard.
The commander said, "Get out of here, youngster. You're mad or
dreaming."
The middy went on deck, but came diving below again immediately, taking
two steps at a time.
"The _Thunderbolt_ has slipped her moorings, and is driving out to sea."
"Ay, lad," said the commander, "that is more like it. The steamer you
thought moving has been stationary."
And now on board the hulk the real situation began to dawn upon our
minds.
We were being run away with.
Then a great gun reverberated high over the howling wind, and gun after
gun followed.
The good people of the town made quite sure that one of two things had
happened: either a foreign enemy had landed, or the end of the world had
come.
At the first gun Mattie, wideawake, jumped off the couch, and we at once
explained to her the situation.
"Hullo!" she cried, "how nice! Hullo! hullo! Let's play at being
pirates."
Her mirth and excitement were infectious.
In a minute or two we were armed and had rushed on deck, and the play
was commenced.
The old _Thunderbolt_ now was making good way down the harbour, and how
she missed fouling and sinking some of the craft is to me a mystery to
this day. But some of them had a marvellously close shave.
The whole harbour was now alarmed, and the officers and crews swarmed on
the decks of the vessels. But the stately hulk held on her way,
heading--sometimes sterning--for more open water.
Meanwhile, Pirate Jill was cheering in the ratlines, and finally leaped
down, and the battle began with swords, we, the combatants, shouting as
wildly as we thought was desirable.
We were now bearing close down upon the flag-ship, and could distinguish
the officers on the poop.
"Hurrah!" cried Jill, "let's now play at being pirates proper."
"Hullo!" cried Mattie, "we're all pirates."
I ran speedily off for Tom's old battered speaking trumpet, and we were
very close to the flag-ship when I hailed her, in true pirate fashion.
"Lie to there, till we send a boat on board, or we'll blow you out of
the water."
A chorus of laughter came from quarter-deck and waist.
"Fire!" I cried.
Bang, bang, went both pistols at once.
"Hullo!" cried Mattie; "Hullo!"
And at the same moment, seeing she had the halyards in her hand, I
looked aloft just in time to see a little black bundle expand into a
huge flag, and lo! fluttering out in the morning air was the dark dread
ensign of the pirate, with its hideous skull and cross-bones.
"Hullo!" cried Mattie once more.
But Jill and I stood aghast!
Then our dream rushed back to our minds.
We did not foul the flag-ship, and were soon rolling away out seawards.
But what had we done? It was dreadful to think of--hoisted the pirate
flag and fired upon one of her Majesty's flags, right into the teeth of
her officers and crew.
So paralysed were we that we entirely forgot to haul down the flag, and
it was still flying when--an hour afterwards a couple of tugs managed to
get us in tow, and we were once more heading back for the harbour.
The first words the officer of the tug said to me, when he had time to
speak, were--
"Why, you're a pretty lot! Cutting out a man o' war under the very guns
of the flag-ship, and running off with it. Ha! ha! ha!"
Whatever the laugh might have meant, it sounded to me like the yell of a
hyena.
"If you please, sir," I advanced, "we didn't run away with the ship; the
ship ran away with us."
"Was it bullum _versus_ boatum," he said, "or boatum _versus_ bullum?"
"I don't talk Turkish," I said.
"Well," he said, "Turkish here or Turkish there, you young pirate, I
suppose you know what you'll catch?"
"Hang us, won't they?"
"Hang you? Yes. Drum-head court-martial, and hanging, and serve you
right too. You don't look very frightened," he added. "There get away
inside, the lot of you, and thank your stars it is no worse."
We did as we were told, at the same time I could not help wondering what
worse could befall us, than a drum-head court-martial with hanging to
follow.
I stopped behind Jill long enough to ask the officer this question:
"They won't hang our little sister Mattie?"
"No, not likely, we'll make much of her."
He caught Mattie up as he spoke, and soon had her laughing and crowing
like a mad thing as he galloped round the deck with her on his shoulder.
"They won't hang Mattie," I said to Jill.
"No," said Jill, "that is one good thing."
"Well, do _you_ want to be hanged, Jill?"
"I don't think I should like it _much_."
"Well, nothing can save us, you know."
"But flight, Jack."
"Yes, flight, Jill, that's it. I suppose they won't drum-head us
to-day?"
"I don't know. I'm not so sure. A drum-head court-martial _is_ a
drum-head court-martial, you see. And the beauty of it is--if there be
any beauty about it--that it's got up and got done with at once."
"Well, then, I move we prepare for instant flight."
"Quite right. I'm all ready as it is. Let us eat this pie, though."
We did eat the pie. In fact, we breakfasted very heartily. But we grew
very sad again when we thought of Mattie we must leave so soon, if
indeed we should be successful in getting away at all. However, we
could only try.
I got Mattie by the port, and said sadly enough--
"You won't ever, ever forget me, will you, dear Mattie?" I put the
question with a kiss.
"No, you silly boy; I promise I won't. But what a silly question.
We'll play at pirates again to-morrow."
I felt very much inclined to cry, but--I did not.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
ALONE ON THE MOOR--ADVENTURE IN THE CAVE.
On looking back through a long vista of years, and considering all the
_pros_ and _cons_ of the case, and remembering that Jill and I were only
boys, I do not think it any wonder we ran away from the dear old
_Thunderbolt_ hulk. I have always accused myself to myself, for the
folly of having given way to a sudden romantic impulse--for which I,
being the elder of the three on board, am alone accountable--playing at
pirates, firing at a flag-ship, and all the rest of it.
But when our little game was over, and the full enormity of the offence
stared us in the face, and after what the officer of the tug-boat had
told us, I repeat, it is no wonder we ran away. We were not to know the
officer was, figuratively speaking, laughing in his sleeve at us. We
believed him. We were convinced it would end in a drum-head
court-martial, with, next day, poor Jack swung up at one end of the
fore-yard, and poor dear Jill at the other. A pretty sight that would
have been on a summer's morning. Romantic? Oh, yes, I own there would
have been a good deal of romance about it. Rather much indeed. Our
position would have been far too exalted to suit even my ambition.
Some one has said that hanging is the worst use you can put a man to, so
it cannot be good for a boy.
That officer of the tug-boat, too, made so awfully light of the matter.
When I had asked him if hanging was very, very, dreadful,--
"Oh, dear me, no, my lad," he replied, laughing, "not half so bad as
having a tooth pulled."
Our darling mother told us never to hate anybody, but I do not think I
loved that officer very much just then.
Well, how did we get away? The fact is our escape was effected far more
safely and easily than I had anticipated. I had expected that there
would be a considerable deal of romance about that I felt sure they
would fire shot and shell and shrapnel at the boat that was bearing us
off, and if after throwing ourselves into the water we reached shore
safely, they would send a regiment or two of soldiers at the very least
to pursue us.
The old _Thunderbolt_, when she ran away, "showed a pair of clean
heels," so I heard that tug-boat fellow say, because wind and tide was
hurrying her on. But it was no such easy matter to get her back; so the
whole morning had fled before she was once more alongside her moorings.
Then the bustle and din and the loud talking were shocking, for nearly
an hour.
Mattie--I was so glad of this--got very sleepy, so we took her into Mrs
Moore's room and placed her on the bed. She bade us both good-night
prettily, but sleepily, and I was glad of this too, for the
"good-nights" did for the "good-byes." Ah! little did Mattie think we
were going to leave her, but she did not feel the tear that fell on her
beautiful hair as I bent over her. It was best. After this I suppose
it was activity that made us feel brave. We had to look sharp, I assure
you. We hurried into our cabin--ours, alas! no more--and exchanged our
hats for caps, and put on our monkey jackets--our winter ones. This
would not look odd, because there was quite a raw air over the water.
We went and packed our one portmanteau, taking nothing lumbersome, and
no books, except our little Bibles that mamma had given us.
Then I sat down and wrote a letter, a very brief one, to Mattie. It
only said, in a boy's scrawling hand--
"Dearest Mattie,--Please always pray for Jack and poor Jill.--Your
loving and affectionate Jack."
I folded this up, and glided away into the child's room and laid it on
her pillow. She was sound asleep, but I kissed her brow. If I had
stopped to look at her, I believe my heart would have broken in two.
Jill was waiting with the bag, and the difficulty was now to get a boat.
We had thought of getting into the dinghy and paying a man to return
it. It was better we didn't.
I opened the port. The fresh morning air blew in and calmed me, and
just at that moment, as if a good fairy had sent him, a shore boatman
rounded the stern of the hulk, and was close beneath us.
"Boatman," I said, "can you take us on shore?"
He looked about him a bit and nodded. Then I dropped my bag, and he
caught it _so_ neatly.
"We'll get in from a lower port," I said.
The man nodded again. Off Jill and I went down below to poor Tom
Morley's quarters. Nobody saw us, for everybody was on the upper deck
forward, and making a terrible din. In three minutes more we were well
away from the ship, but I made Jill lie down for fear of the shot and
shell and shrapnel which I expected to be flying about our ears soon,
and I myself pulled up the neck of my monkey jacket.
The man rowed right away up the harbour, and, to my intense joy, we had
soon put a wall between us and the ships of war.
My heart had been thumping violently, and I dare say so was poor Jill's.
When we landed, and I was diving for my purse to pay the mail, he held
up his hand deprecatingly.
"Look here, youngsters," he said, "I was a boy myself once. You've got
into a little scrape, and you're going to stop away from school till the
little storm blows over. I won't take a penny for this job, and I'll
take you both on board free and for nothing. My name's Joe Saunders;
you can ask for me."
Then we thanked him and shook hands with him, with the tears in our
eyes--in fact I think some rolled over. Next moment we were off and
away.
We walked very fast and took the quietest streets. We met some marines,
and our hearts began to beat again; but they hardly looked at us.
When we had gone some distance we were on high ground, and paused to
look back. We could see the forest of masts rising over the walls and
yards, and the smoke curling up from the chimneys. And as we gazed two
bells rang out almost simultaneously from all the ships, while
immediately afterwards, sweet and clear in the still morning air, rose
the music of the band on the flag-ship's quarter-deck.
It was very beautiful, but to us inexpressibly saddening.
We hurried on now, and were soon thankful to find ourselves out in the
green country, with music of another kind falling on our ears--the happy
songs of the birds.
We did not stay to listen then, however; we were in far too great a
hurry to put as many miles as the day would admit of between us and the
scenes of our wild piratical escapades. For we had not a doubt that, as
soon as the _Thunderbolt_ was once safely moored, the hue and cry would
go out for the capture of the daring pirates who had threatened to blow
one of Her Majesty's flag-ships, with a tame admiral on board of it, out
of the water.
So we went on, and on, and on, bearing away to the north, the country
becoming wilder and more desolate at every turn of the road. When it
was long past midday we began to feel very hungry, and, spying smoke
rising from a little roadside inn not far off, we determined to halt and
refresh ourselves.
A very quiet-looking, motherly sort of woman showed us into a neat
little parlour, and making her acquainted with our desires, she went out
and soon returned with a dinner fit for a king. Indeed I am sure that
King Charles, when he was in hiding, did not fare half so well. Here
were new potatoes, and boiled bacon and beans, and a jug of table beer,
to say nothing of the white cloth and the wild flowers. What more could
a king desire?
We felt exceedingly comfortable after dinner, and much bolder. Indeed
we felt so far braced up that I determined forthwith to write to Auntie
Serapheema and our darling mother. We had brought with us our little
writing-cases, so, with Jill looking over my shoulder, I began writing.
Auntie's letter did not take long. We expressed our sorrow, thanked her
for all her kindness, and told her we were determined to be sailors if
not captured; and that we hoped one day to return to England laden with
jewels and gold, and come back and live happy ever after in Trafalgar
Cottage. We sent our love to Sally and Robert, and our very dearest
love to little Mattie; and we signed the letter with our names in full.
That last was a stroke of policy, we thought.
Next we commenced writing to papa and mamma. I wrote letter after
letter and tore them all up, carefully stowing away the pieces in our
bag, lest if left about they might lead to our capture.
I hardly remember what sort of a tear-blotched, loving, and penitent
epistle the last was, but perhaps it would have answered as well as a
longer one. Just then a postman hove in sight. He stopped to refresh
himself, and I ran out and gave him the letters. I had not even
forgotten to put the correct number of stamps on poor mamma's.
So we had crossed the Rubicon.
But having sent the letter to mamma, a load appeared to have fallen off
my mind, all in a heap as it were.
When we asked the landlady how much was to pay, she looked at us and
said, "Sixpence each."
"Which way are you going?" she added.
"North," I answered.
"You'll be on a walking tour, young sirs?"
I nodded.
"Well, you better not walk farther the night. There isn't another house
now for seven miles. You're on the moor. I can give you a clean, nice
bed, and breakfast any time you like in the morning."
I consulted with Jill and we concluded to stay.
When alone again we counted our money. Financial ruin did not stare us
in the face, for our united fund from the savings of many a lucky
penny--dear aunt was so good to us--came to a few shillings over seven
pounds. We thought ourselves rich, but determined to be very cautious
nevertheless.
We slept well and did not dream once. Our bedroom was a little attic,
the window of which looked over the front causeway. The sound of many
voices awoke us next morning. I sprang out of bed, and peeped
cautiously out from under a corner of the blind.
To my horror and dismay the roadway was crowded with soldiers, and I
could distinctly see the glitter of fixed bayonets. Pale and trembling
were both of us now, but we dressed and waited. After about an hour's
terrible suspense the party broke up, one half--who, by the way, had a
prisoner--going south, and the rest going on in the direction of the
moor.
The men were only hunting for deserters, after all, so our appetite
returned, and we did ample justice to the good things set before us by
the kind landlady. Then we bade her good-bye, and started.
We had to move with great caution now, for we knew the soldiers were on
ahead, and we did not know what might happen. However, nothing did
happen all that forenoon. We must have missed our way somehow, for
instead of coming to the one house the woman spoke of, we came to quite
a little hamlet, with a shop or two, and here, not knowing what might be
before us, we bought provisions enough in the shape of bacon, butter,
bread, and red herrings--we were not dainty--to last us for a week at
least.
Then cautiously inquiring our way north, and after making a hearty lunch
at a small inn, we set out once more, and, feeling very buoyant and
fresh, walked on as straight as the road would take us till nearly
sundown.
We never came to an eminence, however, without getting up and gazing
round us, and when we came to a wooded turn in the road we deserted it
altogether and took to the bush.
Just about sundown we heard voices on ahead, and Jill and I leapt like
deer behind a hedge, and lay as still as snakes do. We soon saw the
gleam of scarlet. It was the soldiers returning, and with them, between
men with fixed bayonets, a poor dejected-looking lad with his fatigue
jacket open and soiled, and his head bare. He was handcuffed.
When right opposite us they all stopped.
"Give us a light, Bill," said one.
They had only stopped to light their pipes, though Jill and I trembled
like aspen leaves. I noticed that one of the men, after he had taken a
draw or two himself, wiped the pipe-stem and thrust it friendly-like
into the the prisoner's mouth. He must have been a good man.
But we gathered enough from their conversation, brief as it was, to
quite frighten us.
"He's on the moor," said one, "and they're bound to have him."
"A desperate character, isn't he?"
"Rather. Kill you as soon as wink."
Then they went on.
Who was this desperate character, abroad on the moor?
"Surely they can't refer to me, Jill?" I said.
"Oh no," said Jill; "certainly not. They would have mentioned me, you
know."
"I don't think so, Jill. You are not such a desperate character as I
am."
"Oh yes; I'm ten times worse," said Jill, awfully.
We soon after came into a country high, bleak, and desolate, with only
here and there a clump of trees. Hills there were in plenty, but houses
none.
And night was falling fast, and both of us were getting very tired. We
would have to sleep out, that was evident, and so determined to take the
first available shelter. So on coming to a bushy gully, with a tiny
streamlet going singing down the centre of it, we left the road and
followed the water upwards, and were soon at the foot of a rock. To my
surprise, on pulling some bushes aside I found a cave.
Some shepherd's, evidently, we thought, for here was a bed of withered
ferns, soft and dry; and not far from the mouth of the cave a place
where a fire had been.
So we camped at once and lit a fire, for I had forgotten nothing. We
made the fire between some stones, and placed thereon our tin billy with
water to boil for tea.
We soon had made an excellent supper, and Jill's dear eyes sparkled as
he sipped his tea.
"What a splendid bushman you are, Jack!" he said. "This is a first-rate
sort of a life, and, don't you know, I wouldn't mind living this way for
a month."
"Well," I said, "it seems pretty safe; and I propose we do stop here for
a few days. By that time they will think we are far away, and never
look here for us."
"Agreed," said Jill.
Then we went and gathered a quantity of fern, so that we had quite a
delightful bed in the cave; and as night was now over all the wastes
around us, we determined to retire. The stars were out and glimmering
down, and bats wheeling about, and every now and then the _tu-whit--
tu-whoo_! of the brown owl made us start. It sounded so close to us,
and oh, it was so mournful!
Other than that there was not a sound to be heard. We crept in, and I
lit a candle as coolly as if I had been an old campaigner. I stuck it
between two stones. Then I read a bit from mother's Bible, and down we
lay after that, leaving the candle burning for company's sake. We did
not like to be quite in the dark in so eeriesome a place.
But tired as we were, we lay and talked and planned for hours, and when
I looked at my watch--yes, we each had a watch--I was surprised to find
it was nearly twelve o'clock.
"We needn't hurry up in the morning though, Jill."
"Assuredly not," said Jill.
Five minutes after we were sound asleep.
It might have been an hour afterwards, or it might have been two. I
know not. But I do know we both awoke with a start at the same moment,
and sat up shaking and trembling with fear.
A terrible-looking man stood in the cave gazing down at us.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
GOOD ADVICE FROM A STRANGE QUARTER--MIDNIGHT AND ANXIETY.
The state of my mind at this moment must have been akin to that of a
snake-charmed bird. I felt utterly, abjectly helpless. Had the
apparition taken a knife out and proceeded to kill us, I do not think I
should have lifted a hand or uttered a cry, except a frightened moan
like a person in a nightmare.
He stood and looked down at us long and earnestly. A strangely haggard,
but not an evil face, black beard of a week's growth perhaps, and short
dark hair hardly seen for the napkin that bound his head instead of a
hat or cap.
We found voice at last, both at the same time. "Oh, sir," we said,
beseechingly, "do not kill us!" He started as we spoke the last two
words, started as if stung, and gazed behind him with quick dramatic
action, his black eyes all ablaze for the moment. So have I often since
seen a hunted wolf look when at bay.
The first words he spoke betrayed him to be a foreigner.
"Kill!" he said, "what for I kill you? You alone? All alone?"
"Yes," we replied, "yes, sir, quite alone."
"'Tis goot. Do not fear me. Where go you to-morrow day? What you do
here?"
I glanced at him for a moment before I spoke, and the truth flashed
across my mind. This was the terrible convict we heard the soldiers say
was abroad on the moor. He was not in convict dress, and though his
coat was in rags, his boots were good. We learned from him, afterwards,
that he had exchanged clothes, strange though it appeared, with a
scarecrow. There was some humour here, though sadly blended with
deepest pathos.
No, this man might rob, but he would not kill us. He was in trouble
like ourselves. So we told him we were running away from school.
He looked at us again, and I saw he believed us. "Angleese, I not speak
much. I am Espanol. I am a convict. Do not fear. I have never kill
one. No--no--no."
He sat down beside the candle and took out a knife and a turnip.
Something told me the poor fellow was famishing. I jumped up and went
to my bag, and placed bread and bacon in his hand. He ate ravenously
and thanked me. Perhaps it was only fancy, but I thought I saw tears in
his eyes.
While he ate, much to our astonishment, a little black mouse ran down
his sleeve, and sat on the back of his left hand, which he took care to
keep still. The creature ate hungrily of the crumbs he gave it, and
when finished, he held out his little finger, around which the mouse
entwined both its little arms, while it licked it as lovingly as a dog
would have done. Then, at a sign from the convict, it once more
retreated.
I am sure, even now, that it was his love for the gentle wee mouse that
made Jill and I take to this man, and believe what he told us. Briefly,
his story was this:
"Many years ago, one, two, ten perhaps, I am cast away on this shore.
My mate and me alone live. We trabel much. We seek for friend. No
find. Then we come to big town, Cardeef, you call it. Here we find
goot friend. We go seek for ship then to take us to Cadeeth. It is
night. All my money in my belt. Bad men come out, kill my mate. I
hear voices, footsteps. I run up to my mate. I pull out the ugly
knife. I am caught there. I am taken to preeson, tried before
justice--justice, ha! ha! I not kill my poor mate. All same. No one
speak my language well. I not can speak Angleese den. I get angry,
wild, mad. They put me away to preeson. Twenty year they say. But now
I am free. They never get me more. I die first."
"And the mouse?" said Jill.
"That is my preeson mate. I think 'tis the speerit of Roderigo, my
friend, in dat little mouse. The warder want to kill him. Den I say, I
escape or die. You may believe me. 'Tis all true. What for I tell
little chaps like you lie. I have good friend at home. I will tell all
dere. The Espanol Government will make de Angleese restitute. But dey
cannot bring back Roderigo."
"Did you love Roderigo very much?"
"He was best of friend. All same as brother. Yes, I love him. And
you? What you do?"
Then, boy-like, we told this man all our terrible tale. We expected him
to be visibly affected; perhaps, convict though he was, to shrink from
us.
He certainly was visibly affected, but in a way we little expected. He
laughed outright.
"For ten long year," he said, "I never laugh before."
The little mouse came down his sleeve again and sat on his wrist to wash
his face and blink at the candle. The convict pointed to it with a
forefinger and laughed again.
"Even Roderigo," he cried, "is much amoose. Ha, ha, ha! Ah, boys," he
added, almost immediately getting serious; "you have a home. Go back to
dat home. Go back, I say, go back. I speak as an all unworthy friend."
"But they will hang us for piracy."
"Do not make me laugh more. It does not become rags and grief to laugh.
See, I am widout money, and naked, still I laugh. Poor boys, go back!"
I considered for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject.
"How do you expect to get away? We saw soldiers to-day on the moor.
They were talking about you, and said you could not escape."
His face grew darker and sadder.
Then, with all a boy's generous abandon, I pulled out my purse and
showed him my money. Even little Roderigo--Jill afterwards declared--
paused in the act of washing his ears and gazed at the glittering coins.
"This is all we have," I said.
"You unwise boy! I might take all. I will not refuse de offer of
kindness. See, I take two. No more. This has save my life."
He dipped a finger and thumb into the coins in my palm and took two
sovereigns, and I put away the rest. He sat a long time silent after
this. Then he got up, and going out, soon returned with an armful of
ferns, which he placed in a corner.
"I sleep now," he said. "To-morrow day we talk."
Strange that now we felt no fear of this strange being. We slept
soundly and well, and daylight was streaming into the cave when we were
aroused. The convict had lightly touched me on the shoulder.
He was smiling, and looked now neither so haggard nor so terrible as on
the evening before.
"No warm breakfus," he said, smiling. "Soldiers have pass 'long de
highway. Think you they seek for de convict to put in preeson, or de
pirate boys to hang? Eh?"
We both trembled. But the keen air of the hill gave us an appetite and
we did not miss the tea.
"Now we talk," said the convict. "I have been think."
"And," I said, firmly, "I have also been thinking. It may not be so bad
as we thought. They may not want to hang us. But they would disgrace
and laugh at us, and I am a soldier's son. I will not go back. Would
you, Jill?"
"Assuredly not."
"Den what else you do?"
"Go to sea before the mast." The convict laughed again before he
replied--"Boys, I speak as your friend. Do not be fools. Go to sea?
What? Who take you? Though I have been long in preeson, I know all de
law. At sea what can you do? No dings. No capitan will have runaways.
Suppose you do hide, what you calls stowaway. Den they make you for to
work--"
"We don't mind that."
"Stop till I speak. Dey bring you back to de same port. Ha, ha!"
It had never struck us before in this light. Not that we intended to
stow away, but little goslings that we were, we fancied we had only to
make our way to a seaport and choose a ship, and that any captain would
be delighted to have us without asking any questions.
This convict was speaking sense, but he had already cast down our idols
and banished every morsel of sentiment from our situation.
I could have cried with vexation.
I almost hated the poor fellow now. Why could he not have left us to go
on a little longer in the flowery lane of our romance? Presently he
spoke again.
"You have to me been a friend. Now to you I will be a friend. I will
go to your aunt."
"No, no, no."
"Stop, my friend. I will tell her what you do wish me to speak. No
dings more. Shall I go?"
"Tell her," I said, "that we are well and happy. No, tell her we are
wretched. No, no. Jill, what shall we tell her?"
"Well," said Jill, with his old smile, "you can't say we're jolly. Just
say we won't come back. That we want to get a ship to go to mother."
"_No_, Jill, not like that, a ship to go to sea. They will not take us
without aunt's leave--then, we must get it."
"Ah!" cried the convict, "dat is sensibeel now. You speak like one
young man. I go to-night. You stay in de cave. Do not be seen. I
will quickly return."
"But you will not bring Aunt Serapheema!"
I felt angry at the time for speaking thus, but I could not help it. To
have been dragged back now would have broken both our hearts, of this I
am convinced.
"No," said the convict. "As I am a good Catholic--no."
This was enough for me. I took out once more my little writing-case,
and feeling more happy and hopeful now, I wrote a long letter to auntie.
It might have been but a repetition of the last, but it breathed even
more emphatically than before our firm determination not to return till
we had been to sea, adding that if this dream--that is the very word I
used--were denied to us, we would work for our daily bread with the
sweat of our brow.
It may have been a foolish boyish letter, and I dare say was, but it
spoke our feelings, and no letter can do more than that.
This I entrusted to our friend the Spaniard, and he put it in his
breast.
We kept close to the cave all that day, and several times heard voices
in the distance, but no one came near us.
At night, as soon as the stars shone out, the convict left us, and we
now felt very lonely indeed, but made the best of it, eating a hearty
supper and talking till long past midnight.
As I write, poor Auntie Serapheema's diary lies before me, and as the
following entry refers to Jill and me, I take the liberty of
transcribing it in full.
"_July_ 25, 18--. Last night, being the fourth since the
disappearance of the dear foolish boys, and just as Sarah was bringing
the Book, there came a knock to the hall door. Poor Mattie and I both
started. Every knock makes us start now. It was only Robert, but he
came to say a strange man wanted to see me on business. I made Sarah
re-light the lamp in the drawing-room and retire. He stood near the
mantelpiece as I entered, and bowed with almost stage politeness. I
could see at once he was a foreigner. Englishmen are not urbane. He
was clean shaved with the exception of the moustache, which was long
and tinged with grey like his hair--also long. His eyes were very
dark and piercing, and he looked altogether interesting and like a man
who had come through some grievous sorrow. He handed me the bill of
the reward of 50 pounds for the dear lads. `Yes, it was I who offered
it,' I said. Speaking in broken English, he told me I must take the
bills in to-morrow, and issue others saying the lads were found. _He_
knew where they were, and could arrange for me to meet them.
`Where?'--`At Bristol.'--`No, nearer?'--`Not a mile,' he said. Did he
want the reward then? I said this to try him. He did not speak. He
appeared about to faint. I made him sit down, and caused Sarah to
bring wine and a little food. While he ate he handed me a letter from
my most foolish of lads. I watched him while he refreshed himself.
Strange to say, a little mouse he called Roderigo came from his sleeve
and sat in his hand, and he fed it. It then retired. I knew then I
had a strange being to deal with, but I also felt I could trust him.
But he would give me none of his own history; yet if he had asked me
then for the whole of the money I would have handed it over. He only
asked for twenty pounds to carry out his plans on the morrow. Yes, in
answer to his question, he could sleep under my roof and welcome.
Would I forgive him if he retired soon. Yes, again; he looked tired
and was so polite. He said, was I the boys' eldest sister. I am
often taken to be very young. While we talked Mattie came in. I was
surprised to see the child turn red and white by turns as he looked at
her. Then she advanced and held out her hand. She said, `I am glad
you have come.' I said, `What do you say, child?' Her reply was a
strange one as she gazed from my face to the man's. `Is that not--oh,
I cannot call you to name. But I saw you--and oh, it must have been
in a dream.' She looked half in a dream now, and I was about to call
Sarah, fearing she might be ill, when she smiled, and was soon after
talking with the mysterious stranger as if they had long known each
other. She marvelled much at the little mouse. He called it his
friend, his mate, his brother, and though she laughed, she seemed to
understand him.
"This morning he went away, and soon returned improved in habiliment.
Poor fellow, he does not look well off. Now he has gone, and
to-morrow I start for Bristol. But though Mattie would fain come, I
must go all alone. That is the agreement."
Here the extract ends.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the day after the Spaniard left us, nothing occurred till near
evening, when we were much frightened by the sudden appearance at the
cave mouth of a huge dog. We thought it was a bloodhound, and that we
were to be tracked thus, or our friend the Spaniard. The dog gave one
startled look and retired, and presently, on venturing to look through
the bushes, we found, much to our relief, he was running behind a man on
horseback.
Nothing happened all that night, and next day we felt very uneasy as
hour after hour went by and our new friend never returned. What could
have occurred? False I felt he would not prove. But was he re-taken or
dead? Oh, that would indeed have been dreadful.
The time went wearily, wearily on. We never ventured out of the cave,
lest we might be seen, for once again we saw soldiers pass and repass.
When the evening star appeared shining bright and clear over the valley
far beneath us, we felt more safe. Then the bats went wheeling past and
past, and the mournful cry of the brown owl sounded drearily over the
moor again.
We thought we should pray for our friend. We did this, lit our candle,
and read from the Book, as dear auntie always called it. While we were
yet reading we heard the distant sound of wheels, and speedily put the
light out lest it might betray us.
We were badly frightened again when the carriage stopped down on the
bridge. We ran inside the cave, for we had come out to look, but just
then we heard the owl's cry three times repeated, and this was the
signal.
We got our bag and ran down the brook-side, and there stood the
Spaniard--for he spoke--but so changed we did not know him.
We were so happy then. And we had more questions to ask than the
faithful man could easily answer.
CHAPTER NINE.
A MIDNIGHT DRIVE--ARRIVAL AT BRISTOL--THE GOOD SHIP "SALAMANDER"--HOW
TOM MORLEY DIED.
My brother and I jumped up into the dog-cart, I making Jill sit in front
for safety's sake, he being the younger, and the roads being hilly in
parts. Then up jumped our Jehu as I may now call our friend the
Spaniard, all the more truly in that he was arrayed from chin to knee in
a double breasted buff-coloured coachman's coat with buttons of brass.
The coat, when daylight came, looked a little the worse for wear, but,
to use a paradox, this was all the better for the part he was playing.
I had only time to press Adriano's hand and ask for auntie and Mattie
before we started. They were well and it was all right, and aunt would
meet me at Bristol.
I should have liked to have asked many more questions, but the noise and
jolting of the cart prevented me. Besides, Adriano seemed but little
inclined to talk, and I noticed that he gave frequent glances from side
to side, scanning as well as he could that portion of the moor which
could be seen in the starlight.
Jill put his hand over the back of the seat and I placed it in my bosom,
and thus felt I had my brother's company and he mine. There was no need
to speak to him then. Jill and I understood each other's thoughts by
touch as well as by talk. But indeed I was myself but in small humour
for conversing. I felt safe--that was enough for the present; but why
Adriano had brought a cart, or where he was driving us to, I had no
desire to be informed.
In about half an hour, far away on the horizon to the right, I thought I
could perceive the reflection of a great fire behind the hills. The
flames looked increasing every minute. Surely, I thought, some forest
must be on fire away over yonder. But soon the moon rose red and round,
and apparently laughing at the trick it had played me. I watched it
mount higher and higher, getting paler and more silvery, fighting its
way through the clouds, and changing their blackness into beauty and
brightness, just as our souls may change sorrows and afflictions, if we
but have true faith in the Father.
Ere long, the moon ruled queen of the heavens' blue arch, and the very
stars seemed to pale before its glory.
I could not help thinking as we jogged along, how very differently
things had all turned out from the morning--very far away it seemed--
when poor Jill and I had left the ship with, figuratively speaking, rope
around our necks. So true is it that we cannot even guess from hour to
hour what is before us. You may try the experiment, if you please, of
imagining what some place you are going to will be like, or some person
you are going to meet for the first time. Your imagination will be very
far out indeed. Still, I am certain of one thing, that if we do our
duty simply and well, and leave the rest in the hands of the Providence
we entrust with our life-guidance, all will turn out for the best. Who
could have dreamt of our meeting the "terrible" convict, or of his
giving us such honest, fatherly advice. With our heads full of silly
romance, and our purses brimming over with three pounds ten each, where
would Jill and I have landed. We would soon have been poor little
ragged, bare-footed boys, with never a penny to buy bread or a
postage-stamp, and oh, I tremble now to think what we might not have
come to.
As I was musing thus, the road began rapidly to descend till we found
ourselves in a deep, wooded ravine and on a bridge.
Adriano had quick eyes. He saw two men spring from the bank a little
ahead before I did, and slackened speed. One stood at each side of the
road as we drove very slowly past.
Adriano simply raised his whip hand as Jehus do by way of salute, but
spoke no word. A moment afterwards, however, he raised his cap as if to
scratch his head and the moon glinted on his grey hair--which _I_ knew
was a wig.
The men were very upright and soldierly in their bearing, but dressed in
dark clothes tightly fitting.
One caught the back-board of the dog-cart, and walked some little way,
helping himself along up the hill by the hold he had taken, which was
only natural. But my heart began to jump and flicker, and my mouth grew
suddenly dry with dread. Luckily I did not lose the power of speaking,
nor did I falter much.
"You're late out, my lad?"
"Y-es."
"Going far?"
"Y-es, very far. Going to see my poor aunt."
I had taken my handkerchief out, for what reason I do not know. But a
sudden inspiration made me raise it momentarily to my face.
The man noticed it.
"Ah! poor boy," he said; "I hope you'll find her better than you
expect."
"I hope so," I said, and in my heart of hearts I did.
"Death comes sooner or later to us all, lad," he added. "Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
Not a word was spoken by any of us in the trap, till we were a good mile
past the place. Then Adriano turned round.
"Who you think those men are?" he asked.
"I can guess."
"They belong to the preeson. I know them. Ha, ha, they not know me."
There were no further adventures that night, but just as day was
breaking slowly in the east, we all alighted near a brook, and Adriano
put a nose-bag on the horse after letting him drink. Then our friend
took out a basket from the cart. It contained one of auntie's pies--
auntie was famous for pies--and many other good things. I could not
help thinking now how truly good at heart she was, and how ungrateful I
had been. Hope returned to my heart, however, while eating, and I
prayed inwardly I might live to reward her for all her kindness.
We were now in a very lonely and also a very quiet place, so that when
Adriano suggested a few hours' sleep, nothing seemed more natural. He
gave us a rug and we lay down together, Jill and I under a bush, and
very soon indeed all our tiredness and all our troubles were alike
forgotten.
My watch had run down and so had Jill's, so I have no actual notion how
long we slept, only it must have been for many hours, because the sun
was over in a different part of the sky and we were hungry. This last,
I have often proved in deserts and wilds, is an excellent way of knowing
the time when you do not happen to possess a watch.
We slept that night at a little country inn, and were up and away before
the sun was well over the woods. We took our time on the road to-day,
lazed and dawdled in fact, while Jill and I committed all kinds of
frolics. We culled huge bunches of wild flowers, and even bedecked the
horse's head, so that when we arrived in the evening at a little village
the people at once put us down as boys on a holiday.
Next night we drove into Bristol, and now Jill and I forgot all about
the wild flowers, as we thought of our interview with auntie.
I pictured to myself all sorts of dreadful and impossible situations.
How would she receive us? How would we advance? How apologise for all
the trouble and inconvenience we had been to her? How this, that; and
fifty other things, that were all scattered to the winds when we drove
into the inn yard and found auntie all smiles and ribbons, actually
waiting to help us down out of the trap?
"Poor dear lads, you must be so tired and hungry. But dinner is waiting
when you've had a wash. I declare to you, boys, I'm not a bit sorry to
come to Bristol. It is quite a holiday to me. And old associations do
so crowd round my heart. Your grandpa, my dear father, used to sail
regularly from Bristol. Oh, Reginald, you do look unkempt. Sleeping in
your clothes, I dare say. Come along. We will say good-night, Senor
Adriano. Be here at ten to-morrow."
And it was not till just before we went down to one of the nicest
dinners ever a boy sat down to, that auntie said, "Now, boys, say not a
word again about the _Thunderbolt_. All is past and forgiven. It was
not to be, boys. You were not destined for the navy."
We clung to her hands, and thanked her.
"And after all," mind you, "I believe with my dear father, that we have
far better sailors in the merchant service than in the navy."
On the whole, then, our reunion was more like coming home after being
away on a holiday than anything else. So different from anything we
could have expected.
We were too tired to talk much that night, and next morning Adriano bade
us good-bye after doing some business with auntie.
I felt some sorrow at parting; so did Jill.
"Shall we ever, ever see each other again, Adriano?" I said.
"Quien sabe? de world is not wide to de sailor. We meet--perhaps.--I go
home now, I hope. I will see my government--I will return here or to
Cardeef--a free man. _A dios. A dios_."
This was a busy day with auntie, and a busy day for us too. We saw the
inside of many a shipping office before evening, and I was proud to
learn that my Aunt Serapheema was so well known and so highly respected
by every one, but I was not aware then that she was owner of a great
many shipping shares.
I remember what one white-haired old gentleman said to her.
"The boys are big enough for their years, and look strong and well, but
are they not just a little too young?"
"Their grandfather," said auntie, proudly, "went to sea when barely
ten."
"I know your father was an exceptional youngster, and no man could have
died more highly respected. No man."
"Let me see now," said auntie, speaking more to herself than to Mr
Claremont, "the _Salamander_ belongs to only a few shareholders."
"Belongs mostly to you, Miss Domville."
"And the captain is a gentleman."
"Captain Coates is an excellent fellow."
"Takes his wife with him most trips?"
"He does so in September."
"I love a man who does that. He is a true sailor."
"Perhaps too soft-hearted, though," said Mr Claremont. "Don't you
think so, Miss Domville?"
"No, I don't."
"So brusque and cheerful. Just like your father, Miss. Just like dear
old Captain Domville."
"And I couldn't be like a better man, could I, Mr Claremont?"
"True, true, true."
"Well, my boys shall go out in September with Captain and Mrs Coates."
"_So_ like her father. _So_ like her father. Why, Miss Domville, do
you know that your words sound very like a command?"
"And so they are meant to sound, Mr Claremont," said auntie, laughing.
"But mind you, it is _I_, not you, who are giving it. It is with me all
responsibility rests, remember. I, not you, have to account to Major
Jones, their dear father, and to my sister."
"Yes, Miss, yes, yes, yes. I am just your adviser."
"That's all. So that settles it."
"_So_ like her father. So _very_ like her father," said the old
gentleman, as he bowed us to the door.
I looked at Jill after we got into the street, and Jill looked at me,
and the wish uppermost in our minds at that moment was to take off our
caps and shout, as we used to do when playing pirates; and the greatest
sorrow in our hearts at the same moment was that we could not do
anything of the sort, because it would have looked so silly.
When at luncheon that afternoon, auntie told us she would remain with us
until our ship sailed in September, we of course felt very glad.
"But," I said, "will they not miss you at home?"
"I was thinking of Mattie."
"Oh, no," said auntie, "who is to miss me? Poor dear Mattie has her
Mummy Gray, the canaries have Sarah, and Trots has Robert to wash his
feet and exercise him. You see, Reginald, I am free. I love to be
free. That is the sole reason why I do not get married."
Poor auntie, it struck me even then she did not look much like a
marrying lady; but I did not say anything.
Captain Coates called in the evening. He was not your beau ideal of a
sailor quite, being rather tall, thin, and dressed like a landsman. The
peculiar feature of his face was his nose. It was a big nose, but sharp
and thin. If his nose had been a circus horse, a clown would hardly
have cared to ride bare-back on it. I may as well state here, at once,
that Captain Coates never drank anything stronger than tea; still his
nose was somewhat flushed at all times, and more so during an east wind.
Mrs Coates was with him, a round-faced, cosy, bonnie wee woman that
Jill and I took to at once.
She was very proud of her husband, and he was fond of her.
"Jack," she told us that evening, "is every inch a sailor. Oh, it is
fine to hear him carrying on when we're shortening sail in front of a
puff. And all the men obey him, too."
Captain Coates laughed aloud--rather a pleasant, hearty laugh it was.
"Obey me, do they! Quite an exceptional thing on board a ship.
Thunder! Miss Domville, the man who didn't obey me would soon be
scratching an ailing head."
"That's just his way," Mrs Coates whispered to me. "Jack is such a
fellow.--Oh, by the way, you're called Jack. We'll have two?"
"Oh, it won't matter much," I said, "I've a whole barrowful of names
besides to pick and choose from."
"I'm sure you'll like the sea and Captain Coates, and that we shall all
pull together famously. By the way, Miss Domville, I'm taking a maid
again."
"You had one last time."
"Yes, and a nice handful she was. Ill for weeks, and I had to attend
upon her. This is a black girl, so humorous, kindly, and good, and been
to sea quite a long time."
We were very happy that evening, especially when aunt told us that we
were going to India, and that we should call at the Cape and probably
see mamma.
"Oh," I shouted, "I'm so glad that we played pirates."
"So am I," cried Jill, and began to dance.
"Auntie," I said, "promise me one thing. Oh, you must promise."
"Well, well, if I must promise, what is it?"
"You'll write and tell mamma we've gone to sea. But don't say _where_.
We want to pop in on her unawares. Don't we, Jill?"
"Certainly."
"Well," said auntie, "I'll humour you for once."
There is always something in this life happening to mar one's joy, just
when it is at its height. That is my experience. But things are wisely
ordered. Heaven does not desire us to get too fond of this world. If
it were all sunshine we would be sure to, and forget there is a happier
land beyond the grave.
But before we went to bed, auntie told us about the sad fate of poor Tom
Morley.
She seemed unwilling at first to tell us anything to damp our spirits,
but as we had mentioned Tom, and saw there was something behind her
first simple statement that Tom was dead, we pressed her and she
withheld nothing.
The brief narrative of his latter end was related to her by Tom's own
quondam shipmate, the man who had come on board for him on that
unfortunate evening before our final foolish adventure on the
_Thunderbolt_; and when we heard it from auntie's lips it made an
impression on us I am never likely to forget.
Boys do take fancies for persons, whether men or women, whom they get in
tow with--to use a sea phrase--when young, and I think they are more
likely to be lasting ones if these persons have any memorable oddity
about them. Tom had several, his hoarse but not unpleasant voice, his
flower-pot coloured face, and his exceeding good nature when off duty.
To put it in few words, he then used to let us do as we liked. I think
I see Jill yet jumping round him and singing--
"Dear old Tom Morley,
Come tell us a storley."
Then we would catch him and "lug him below" (the phrase is Tom's) and
seat him in his armchair, and even light his pipe for him, and then sit
down to listen.
Tom's stories nearly always had much about the same plan of
commencement, which was somewhat as follows:--
"When I was in the old _Semiramis_, young gentlemen, ah! ships were
ships in them days, and officers and men _were_ officers and men, I can
tell you, and knowed their duty, and did it too, no matter what stood in
their way. Well, one day we were a-cruisin' off a bit o' land,"--and so
on and so forth.
Yes, we did like Tom. But sad was the pity he had that predilection for
"tossing cans" with friends, else he might have gone aloft in a
different fashion and his body filled an honoured grave.
But Tom met his old messmate that day, and went off with him, and they
must have a can together for old times, and many more than one perhaps.
The evening probably passed away quickly enough, what with talking of
the dear old days "when ships were ships and you I were young, lad."
But, according to his friend, Tom pulled himself up with a round turn at
last, and as he pulled out his big, old-fashioned silver watch.
"Oh dear," he cried, "I'd no idea how the time was flyin'; and those
dear children on board, too, all by their dear little selves. Now, old
chummy, I'm off. Duty's duty, and we may meet again another day."
"I don't think you can get off to-night to the _Thunderbolt_," replied
his friend.
"What d'ye mean?" said Tom.
"Why I mean that it's blowin' big guns."
"No matter if it blows fifty-sixes or Armstrongs, Tom's goin' off if
birds can fly."
"There won't be a boat'll take you off to-night, Tom," said the
landlord.
"Then I'll swim," said Tom Morley, doggedly. "I've done that afore,
when duty was duty."
"I know you has, Tom; but take my advice, don't try any such foolish
game on a night like this, or you'll get left."
"Good-night, landlord.--Come on," cried Tom to his friend.
Away they went together.
It was past ten by the time they reached the usual steps. No boatman
was there.
"Tom, come on back. Sleep on shore to-night, old man."
"What," cried Tom, "and those three darlings on board! Don't ye try to
persuade me, Bill. You knows Tom o' the old. Duty is duty, and Tom'll
face it."
The moon was shining quite brightly, and though the water was rough, the
wind was favourable.
"D'ye see the dear old _Thunderbolt_ yonder, Bill? Well, Tom'll sleep
there to-night or--in a sailor's grave. I think I see the anxious wee
faces at the port yonder watching for me. Coming, darlings Tom's
a-coming."
Tom had kicked off his boots as he spoke; then he relieved himself of
what he called his top hamper. But even now his old shipmate could not
believe him in earnest. He did, though, when Tom darted from his side
and took a header into the tide.
He swam up close in shore first for a good distance, then struck out
across, but still heading up. For a time his messmate could even hear
him singing a stave of that charming old song--
"Good-night--all's well."
"The last long notes," said his mate, "rang down the wind like a
death-knell."
And death-knell it was to poor Tom. If ever he reached the ship's
longitude, he must have been carried past her with fearful speed, and--
the curtain drops.
CHAPTER TEN.