LOST!
And now for another week of this ship's adventure. There is little to
record. As she drove to the south and west the breeze freshened by
strokes, and the foam, white as daylight, seethed with a leeward roll
to the channels, whose plates flashed jewelled fountains from her side.
It was noble sailing with a buckling stu'nsail boom, and every taut
weather-shroud and backstay spirited the sea-whitening keel with
sweet, clear songs of rejoicing. All the crew loved little Johnny, and
the great Newfoundland, placid, stately, and benign, was ever at his
side, courting the boy, with looks of love, to play. Always in this
fine weather the sunny-haired lad, in the miniature clothes of the
bluejacket, would of a dog-watch take his drum upon the forecastle, and
roll out a good rattling accompaniment to the cheerful piping of the
whistle. Then the sailors would dance whilst the ship's stem rent the
water into sweat, and the bow-sea rolled away in glory, and the western
heavens grew majestical with sunset.
And all this time no man spoke a hint as to the captain's state of
mind, because, as I have said, the sailor has no eyes for the human
nature of the quarter-deck until it should become as visible and
demonstrative as a windmill in a wind.
This Captain Layard was _not_; his moods and motions were of too subtle
a sort to be interpretable by the forecastle gaze, and all the strange
unconscious discoveries of himself he limited to Hardy, scarcely ever
speaking to the second mate unless to give him an order. But even when
he talked to Hardy, no man could have sworn that he was madder than
most dreamers are. It was only, as Hardy thought, that his talk was so
cursedly inconsequential. He reminded him of a diver who if you look to
port comes up to starboard, whose spot of emergence is always somewhere
else.
One day, at the end of the time just spoken of, the ship was stretching
her length along a wide blue sea enriched with running knolls, shadowed
by themselves into deepest violet, aflash with sudden meltings of foam
which whitened the windward picture, and ran with smooth curves from
the leeward yeast that rushed into the water from the side.
The captain was below. It was about ten o'clock in the morning. There
was now a sting in the light of the sun, as he floated upwards in an
almost tropic glory, undimmed by the flight of little clouds which
hinted at the Trade. Our friend the chief mate, Hardy, was walking up
and down the weather-side of the quarter-deck. A sailor stood at the
wheel trim for his trick; he was a British seaman, his easy floating
figure and swift look to windward, aloft, and into the compass bowl put
thoughts into one's head of the time when men like him wore pigtails
down their backs and fired the fury of hell, as the Spaniard said to
Nelson, into the gunports and sides of the audacious enemy.
There was music on that quarter-deck, for Johnny, who was admiral of
that ship, the captain being very much under him, had sent for the
whistle, and the sailor had come at once, bringing his music with him.
He was seated upon the skylight, and was piping that cheerful song, "A
Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," all over the ship to the delight of the
watch on deck, who worked the nimbler for it; and Johnny made martial
music of that sea-song with his drum.
The ship rushed along with festive lifts and falls and triumphant
choruses in her weather-rigging as the swing of the sea brought her
masts to windward, and all was beauty and sunlight, and white phantoms
of little sailing clouds, and swelling canvas yearning to the azure
recess at which the ship, like some goddess of the sea, was pointing
with her spear of jibboom.
Presently the boy grew tired; the piper went forward, and as the
captain's servant came along Johnny gave him his drum and sticks to
carry below. The great Newfoundland was lying at its length beside the
skylight, and Johnny sat upon him, and lifting his ear talked into
it, and the dog grunted in affectionate reply. But little boys soon
tire of anything save sweets, and Johnny joined Hardy, and they walked
together. The lad had a very inquisitive mind, and was constantly
wanting to know. He began to question Hardy about the ship. What is the
good of that little sail right on top up there? Why didn't they give
each mast one great sail? Wouldn't that save trouble? Couldn't they let
it down, and tie it up, as they did that middle sail there, when the
weather grew nasty? Wouldn't Hardy be glad to get home? How old was
he? Was he glad to be so old? Wouldn't he rather be eight? After much
interrogative conversation of this sort he felt tired, and strayed from
Hardy's side and walked about the quarter-deck, looking around him as
though he wished to pick up something which he could throw at the sea.
Going right aft, abaft the man at the wheel, his arch, sweet, wondering
eyes were taken by the sight of some Mother Carey's chickens; also the
splendid, dazzling stream of wake that was rushing off in snake-like
undulations attracted him. A stretch of ash-white grating protected the
wheel-chains and the relieving gear. It stood a little way under the
taffrail and was not very high above the deck, and the tiller worked
under it.
Unnoticed by Hardy, Johnny got upon this grating to watch the
sea-birds, also to obtain a view of the place where that giddy,
boiling, meteoric river of foam began. A sea-bird is a thing of beauty,
which is a joy to a little boy upon whom the shades of the prison-house
have not yet begun to close; and the dazzle of spinning foam hurling
seawards is also a beauty and a wonder and a miracle, as are many other
things in this pleasant world of flowers and valleys and streams;
for I have seen a little child pick a daisy and view it with greater
transport than could even be felt by a beautiful young woman bending
with beaming eyes over the bracelet of diamonds with which her lover
has just clasped her wrist.
Johnny fell upon his knees and crawled upon the grating to the
taffrail, the flat surface of which he kneeled upon, peering over and
down betwixt the gig and the taffrail to see the place where the white
water began under the counter. The poor little fellow overbalanced
himself, and Hardy, whose eye was upon him in that instant, saw him
vanish.
"O my God!" he shrieked. "Man overboard!" he shouted. "Hard down! hard
down!"
And whilst the wheel went grinding up to windward, and whilst the sails
aloft were beginning to thunder to the weather sweep of the rushing
bows, Hardy, tearing off his coat and waistcoat and shoes, leaped from
the quarter into the boiling yeast and struck out.
Scarcely had he shot overboard when the great dog Sailor, springing
up with a swift movement of his head around, leapt like a darting
flame on to the rail from which Hardy had plunged, and jumped. There
was plenty of foam in the sea, and it was almost blinding Hardy, who
swam strongly; but it did not blind the dog, who saw the mate but not
the child, and made for him. A sea swept Hardy to its summit, and he
perceived the child some three or four cables' length distant; a head
of foam rolled over that sun-bright speck and it disappeared, and as
Hardy sank into the trough the dog, that stemmed the brine like some
swiftly-urged boat, caught him by the collar and forced him round in
the direction of the ship, whose main-yards were now aback and one of
whose lee quarter boats was rapidly descending, with the captain on the
grating, waving his arms in frantic and heart-subduing pantomime.
"Sailor!" roared Hardy, struggling with his whole force to round the
noble creature's head in the direction where he had seen the bright
point vanish. "O God! doggie, dear doggie! Johnny is overboard, and
drowning! Go for him, Sailor! go for him, Sailor!"
And buoyed by the magnificent swimmer whose teeth were in his collar,
he stiffened his breast and pointed. But the Newfoundland, who had
not seen Johnny fall, had leapt to save the life of Hardy, and with
bitter, blighting despair in his heart the gallant young fellow felt
the beautiful animal at his side urging him irresistibly up one slope
and down another in the direction of the ship, with its dreadful figure
of human anguish gesticulating and shouting on the grating.
The hearts that bent the blades rowed with love of the boy and a
maddening passion to save him. They came to Hardy first and dragged him
and the dog over the gunwale, and a man standing up in the stern-sheets
steered the boat for the place where the little fellow had last been
seen from the deck of the ship. But they rowed in vain. Sodden with
brine, and half blinded by the tears of a manly sailor's heart, the
mate strained his vision over the running seas, and knew, O God! and
knew that Johnny had sunk for ever.
"Oh, what a pity!" said one of the men.
"The dog could have saved him," exclaimed another.
"No, he was gone before the dog could have reached the place," said
Hardy, and he sank upon a thwart and covered his face.
The Newfoundland laid his massive jaws upon his knee in caress and in
encouragement, knowing he was saved, and loving him as those majestic
creatures love the life they have torn from the grasp of death. The
men, with the lifted blades of their oars sparkling in the sun, gazed
silently around, but Johnny was gone. The tall seas seethed, and the
boat fell away with their melting heads and rose buoyant to the height
of the next slant, but Johnny was gone, and after they had lingered
half an hour the men, to the command of Hardy, turned the boat's head
toward the ship, and rowed away from that sun-lighted scene of ocean
grave which already the hand of viewless love had strewn with flowers
and garlands of foam.
Captain Layard was standing with tightly folded arms beside the
skylight when Hardy arrived on board, and approached him, shuddering
with grief and with the exhaustion that attends even a brief spell
of battling with the rolling seas of the ocean. The unhappy father's
face was utterly unintelligible in expression. And still a critical
eye, with good capacity for subtle penetration, would in this time of
sudden and awful bereavement have witnessed in that poor man's face the
dangerous condition of his soul.
The men who were hoisting the boat pulled with askant looks full of
respect and rough sympathy, and the boat rose in silence, so touched
were the sailors' hearts by this sudden loss of the bright-haired
little darling of the ship. The Newfoundland, shaking a shower from his
coat, came to the captain, seemed to know that grief was in him, and
looked up at him.
"Where is my little Johnny?" said the captain to Hardy, in a firm,
sharp tone.
Hardy could not answer him.
"There is no good in telling me that he's not on board this ship," said
the captain, letting fall his arms and swaying in a strange way with
the leeward and weather rolls of the arrested vessel. "Where is he
hidden?"
He stepped to the companion and shouted down, "Johnny, Johnny, my
darling! Come up with your drum! The men want music! Come up with your
drum, my Johnny!"
The sailors belayed the falls of the boat and secured her, and slowly
walked forward, never a one of them speaking. The captain went
below, calling "Johnny." Mr. Candy came up to Hardy. Both he and the
watch below had rushed on deck to that dreadful cry at sea of "Man
overboard!" and to that sudden change you feel in a ship when the yards
of the main are swung aback. All the concern that a man with white
eyelashes and pale hair and a skin like a cut of roasted veal can look
was in Candy's face as he said:
"This blow has turned the captain's head, sir."
"I cannot speak to you," Hardy answered.
"Let me fetch you some brandy, sir," said the second mate. Hardy raised
his arm. Candy walked to the quarter and stood staring at the sea where
the child had sunk. The Newfoundland dog was growing uneasy. You saw by
the creature's motion of head and by other signs that he knew something
was wrong. Twice he growled low and walked round the skylight smelling
the planks, then coming to the companionway he listened and sprang down
the steps.
Hardy stood waiting for the captain. It was not for him to order the
topsail-yard to be swung until the captain spoke. All the seamen were
forward standing in groups waiting for the command, and the boatswain,
in the face of the general grief, could find nothing for them to do
until the quarter-deck started them.
It filled Hardy with anguish, though he was only a mate in the British
Merchant Service, the one unrecognised condition of our national life,
spite of the pleading of its heroic traditions and the claims of its
English seamen of to-day, upon the admiration of their country, to
think of the poor, desolate, brain-afflicted father below, seeking in
his madness his beloved little boy. He knew that this man had tenderly
loved the mother of that child and mourned her loss with a sailor's
heart, and that the bright and spirited lad, whom God had summoned,
had been his constant companion since his wife's death, the light of
his life, the flower whose fragrance had sweetened the loneliness of
command.
He stood waiting, soaked to the flesh. Suddenly the captain appeared.
"Johnny is not below," he said. "He's somewhere in the ship. When did
you see him last, Mr. Hardy?"
And still Hardy could not answer him. The Newfoundland had followed his
master, and the whole frame and benign eyes of the noble creature, to
whom and to whose like man denies a soul, yielded preternatural token
of loss and disquiet that was human in eloquence.
The captain did not seem to heed Hardy's silence and manner. He looked
with great eagerness and a certain wildness along the decks, and
then putting his hand to the side of his mouth, with his face turned
forward, where the men stood watching him, he shouted in an imperious
voice as though he would frighten an answer from the concealed child:
"Johnny!--It is strange," said he, in a low voice, turning and looking
at Hardy, "Is he aloft?" And he turned his eyes up and scrutinised the
rigging, the tops, the crosstrees, the yards, stepping to the rail so
as to obtain a view past the leaches of the canvas.
"Shall I order those yards to be swung, sir, and way got upon the
ship?" said Hardy, speaking with difficulty.
"I want Johnny," was the captain's answer, and he walked slowly
forward, looking to right and left of him, as though the little lad
must be in hiding somewhere, flat beside a forward coaming or behind a
hencoop, or under the long-boat, for his figure had been small, and he
could have concealed himself within the flakes of the halliards coiled
down upon a pin.
The men drew back, scattered in a kind of dissolving way, gazed with
sheepish looks of sympathy, one rugged man with damp eyes, for he too
had lost a son beloved with the rough love of a heart unhardened by
salt and toil.
"Has any man among you," said the captain, bringing his head out of the
galley door--for the child had been a frequent guest of the cooks of
the ships he had sailed in: they would make him jam tarts and little
cakes, and his prattle to the fellows was as cheering to them as the
song of a canary--"has any man among you," he said, "seen my little
boy?"
"I don't think you'll find him forward, sir," answered the boatswain.
"Jim, jump below and see if he's in the fok'sle."
The sailors exchanged looks which seemed to suggest that they thought
it kind and wise in the boatswain to humour the captain, whose mind, to
them, appeared a little shaken and made uncertain by the shock of his
loss.
"No, I'll trust no man's eyes but mine," exclaimed the captain, with
a lofty expression of face, and, going to the scuttle, which is the
little hatch through which the seamen drop into their parlour, he put
his legs over and descended.
One man only was in this forecastle. He was the young seaman who had
played the whistle whilst Johnny beat the drum. He started up at the
sight of the captain, amazed by a visit that was unparalleled in his
experience or recollection of forecastle story. His face showed marks
of unaffected distress, and indeed this rude but sympathetic heart had
been seated for some minutes prior to the captain's entrance, with
bowed head resting in his wart-toughened palms, thinking of the child
and his sudden death.
It was a strange, gloomy interior. The swing of the lamp kept the
shadows on the wing, and oilskins and coats swayed upon the ship's wall
to the solemn plunge of the bows, and you heard the roar of the smitten
and recoiling surge in a low thunder, like the sound of a railway
train striking through the soil into a vault. Some bunks went curving
into the gloom past the light which fell through the hatch, and a few
hammocks stretched their pale, bale-like lengths under the upper deck.
Here, too, were sea-chests--a few only--and odds and ends of sea-boots,
and the raffle of the sailor's ocean home.
"Where's my son? Is he down here?" exclaimed the captain, haggard, and
with something dreadful in his looks in that light, uttering the words
as peremptorily as ever he delivered an order on the quarter-deck.
The young fellow gazed aghast at him in silence.
The captain, who did not seem to heed whether he was answered or not,
went to the bunks and examined them one by one, knelt and looked under
them, felt the sagged canvas of the hammocks. Oh, it was pitiful!
"He's not here," he exclaimed, turning to the young sailor. "Have you
got your whistle handy? Pull it out and pipe. The music will bring him
with his drum."
The young man went to his bunk and took the whistle from the head of
it. His face was full of awe and wonder; it was a bit of psychology, a
trick or two above all _his_ art of seamanship.
"What shall I play, sir?" he asked, in a shaking voice, with a glance
up through the scuttle at the men gathered near and listening.
"What's his favourite tune?" said the captain.
The young fellow reflected, and answered, "'Sally come up,' sir. It
runs well with the drum."
"Play it," said the captain.
The young fellow put the whistle to his lips and blew. The contrast
between the merry air, shrilling in the forecastle and out through the
hatch into the bright wind, and the captain's half-triumphant face of
expectancy would have melted a heart of steel. The poor man stepped
under the little hatch and shouted up, "On deck there!"
"Sir," answered the boatswain, showing himself.
"Can this whistle be heard aft?"
"Yes, sir."
"Watch a bit, and report if he's coming."
The young seaman, who was nearly heartbroken with his obligation of
playing, continued to pipe, and you beheld a vision of dancing sailors,
and swelling canvas reverberating the rattle of the drum.
The captain waited under the hatch, his poor face charged with ardent
expectation. He might have overheard a gruff voice say, "It oughtn't to
be allowed to go on. He'd get all right if he'd go to his cabin, where
it 'ud come to him." But he paid no heed.
Suddenly the whistling ceased, and the young fellow, flinging his
whistle into his bunk, cried, "It's choking me, sir."
The captain looked at him, and saying, "Where is Johnny?" climbed
through the hatch and, without a word to the sailors, walked slowly aft.
The whole ship seemed to tremble throughout her frame with every lift
and fall, as though like something alive she was now startled by this
strange delay, and the foretopmast studdingsail curved with the weight
of the wind from its boom, and no doubt, in the language of sailcloth,
cursed the maintopsail for stopping its eager drag.
Hardy stood beside the second mate, to leeward, on the quarter-deck,
and watched the captain coming aft. The great dog in a leap gained his
master's side and marched with him, looking with beautiful sagacity up
into the poor man's face. The captain walked with his eyes fixed upon
the sky, just over the sea-line astern, but if speculation were in his
gaze it was not interpretable; he saw, or seemed to see, something
beyond the blue haze of distance, and thus he watched it, without
speaking to the two mates, or turning his eyes upon them, until he
came to the companion-hatch, down whose steps he went, followed by the
dog.
Noon was near and an observation must be taken. Hardy, whose clothes
were plastered by water upon him, said to Candy:
"We must get an observation and swing the yards. This blow has thrown
his mind off its balance, and he might not thank us later if we should
go on as though he were responsible."
"I agree with you, sir," said Candy.
Hardy called to the boatswain, who came quickly.
"You know the law of the sea as well as I do," said the mate, "and I
don't want you and the men to believe that I have taken charge of the
ship even for five minutes because I mean to get way upon her."
"She wants it," said the boatswain, looking forward along the ship as
though she were a horse.
"I must get an observation," continued Hardy, "and you and the men will
judge that the captain would wish me to do what he himself would do if
his terrible loss had left him capable of doing anything."
"It don't need reasoning about, sir," said the boatswain.
"Hands lay aft and swing the maintopsail-yard!" shouted Hardy. "Lee
mainbrace! Mr. Candy, will you step below for your sextant? Kindly
bring mine."
Candy went below. The men came running aft. But the shadow of death
was upon the ship, bright, boundless, and streaming with the life of
the wind as were heaven and ocean, and the sailors dragged the great
yards round in silence. The ship heeled over a little more to the full
swell of her canvas, and as Hardy took his sextant from Candy she was
bursting the blue surge into white glory, and the leeward foam was
passing fast and faster.