ON BOARD THE "MERRY ANDREW."
While the "Merry Andrew" was lying at Blackwell taking in cargo, Capt.
Liddle, like the shrewd captain he was, had caused it to be notified
that he would be happy to take a certain number of passengers to the
New World at fifty pounds per head. It happened, as it usually happens
in such like cases, that just at that time the exact number of persons
that the ship could accommodate found either that Great Britain was
too crowded for them to move freely in, or that at length the hour had
arrived for them to make a fresh start in life. The captain of the
"Merry Andrew" offered them the necessary opportunity. His ship would
take them to a country where they would be able to turn without being
elbowed. And there was no doubt that the start they contemplated would
be a fresh one, inasmuch as in the new land their heads would be where
their feet were now, and night was day and day night, and cherries
grew with their stones outside, and many other wonders were
commonplaces of every-day life. Accordingly, these enterprising souls,
much to Capt. Liddle's satisfaction, paid their fifty pounds per head
for four months of quiet misery on the sea. By that stroke of business
Capt. Liddle served two purposes. He put money in his pocket as chief
owner of the vessel, and he provided society for his wife, who was to
accompany him on the voyage. Mrs. Liddle was a cheerful little body,
who, although she was thirty years of age, had as much sentiment as a
tender-hearted miss of eighteen. Her engagement with Capt. Liddle had
been a long one. It was now more than twelve years since she first saw
him and fell in love with him, as he did with her; but she happened to
be blessed in a father who entertained not uncommon ideas as to the
value of money, and as to the difference it made in a man, especially
in a man who presumed to fall in love with his daughter. At that time
Capt. Liddle was only second mate, and his matrimonial overtures were
pooh-poohed by Capt. Prue, which was the name and title of his wife's
father; Bessie Prue was hers. Capt. Prue (retired from the service)
declared that he loved sailors and loved the sea, and that nothing
would please him better than that his Bessie should marry a sailor.
But then, that sailor must be a captain, he declared, and that captain
must be absolute owner of the ship he commanded. Having passed the
principal part of his life on sea, in a position where his word was
law, he was, as most old sea-captains are, intolerant of opposition.
Having given the word, he would not depart from it. Consequently,
second-mate Liddle found that all his arguments and rhapsodies were as
wind--a fluid which is much more useful at sea than on land, however
it is produced. Bessie, as it proved, possessed a goodly share of her
old father's determination of character. Having fallen in love with
second-mate Liddle, and having determined to marry him or die an old
maid, she informed her lover that if he would be faithful to her, she
would be faithful to him--a form of declaration which has been very
popular from time immemorial. The pledge being sealed by the
infatuated ones in the usual manner--that is, with much protestation,
with much unnecessary solemnity, (as if they were doomed to execution,
and were to be beheaded within a few hours), with many kisses and
tender embracings--Bessie went to her father and apprised him,
melodramatically, of her determination.
"You wouldn't marry without my consent?" was the obstinate old
captain's question, after a little consideration. They were absurdly
happy, these two determined persons. Bessie was the apple of his eye,
the pride of his heart; she had not a wish, except the wish
matrimonial, that he would not have made any sacrifice to satisfy.
"You wouldn't marry without my consent, my pretty?" he repeated
anxiously, for she did not answer his question immediately.
"I won't, on one condition," replied Bessie categorically; "and that
is, that you won't ask me or wish me, or try to persuade me to marry
anybody but John Liddle; for I love him with all my heart, and I
wouldn't give him up--no, not to be made Lord High Admiral."
"I give you my promise, my pretty," said Capt. Prue, secretly admiring
his daughter's determination, and loving her the more for it; "I'll
never ask you, nor wish you, nor try to persuade you to marry anybody
but John Liddle."
It may be guessed how willingly the old sea-captain gave the pledge,
when it is known that he looked forward with absolute dread to the
time when Bessie might be taken from him to another home. He would
give her any thing, help her to anything but a husband. What right had
any body else to her? Why, the ship would go on the rocks without her
"And when John Liddle is skipper and owns a ship," he added, "I'll
give my consent free and willing." In which last words Capt. Prue was
not quite ingenuous. But the compact was made and adhered to.
Second-mate Liddle was informed of it, and was compelled to abide by it.
He trusted to chance, as many other men, not lovers, have done before
him; and he derived consolation from the thought, that when Capt. Prue
and Bessie pledged their word, it would need something very
extraordinary and unlooked-for to induce them to break it. He rose
from second mate to first mate, from first mate to skipper; and when
he returned from his voyages, he found Bessie faithful and true, and
received a hearty welcome from her father. And during these long and
many years of probation, he learned to love his true-hearted little
woman more deeply than he had done at first; she taught him to
understand what love really was; she taught him the true beauty of it,
the holiness of it--that it was something more than a sentiment,
something higher than a passion; she taught him to understand that it
was a sacrament.
It seems fated for this story, that its narration should necessitate,
for the most part, the depicting of the higher virtues, and what is
most noble and self-sacrificing in our natures. But it should be none
the less acceptable because of that.
A short time after Bessie's lover became skipper, a relative of his
died, and left him some money. Directly he came into possession of it,
he bought a share in the "Merry Andrew." Bessie was then twenty-six
years of age, as pretty as ever, and as fresh at heart as ever. One
would have thought that her father would have spoken to her of his own
accord, there and then, and that he would have given her the reward of
her faithfulness and devotion. But the truth must be told; he was a
selfish old curmudgeon, and he trembled at the thought of losing her.
So once more Capt. Liddle sailed away from his lady-love on the voyage
in which our Joshua commenced his apprenticeship at sea. The "Merry
Andrew" was away, as you know, for more than four years; and when it
returned, and Capt. Liddle went to see his Bessie, he found her in
mourning. Her father was dead. Before he died he had made her the only
reparation in his power. The last codicil to his will, written a few
weeks before his death, contained expressions of his love for her, his
admiration of her lover, his consent to their marriage, and his regret
that he had not consented to it years ago. But it is so easy to regret
_after_ a thing has occurred which we might have prevented or
remedied. I have not yet made up my mind as to the value of deathbed
repentance. Neither am I satisfied that we may sin properly for six
days in the week, in a comfortable knowledge that we can evade the
penalty by crying, "I have sinned!" on the sabbath.
However, the departed Captain Prue had been in all other respects a
kind and tender father, and no word of reproach passed the lips of
Bessie and John Liddle. They were not too old for the enjoyment of
life's blessings. Two months before the present sailing of the "Merry
Andrew" they were married; and it is not to be doubted that the
circumstances of their engagement promised them a lasting happiness.
Mrs. Liddle had a maid, a beautiful brown-complexioned girl, whose
appearance might have suggested some suspicion of a gypsy breed, had
it not been for her manners, which showed a refinement no gypsy-girl
could have acquired in her vagrant life, and for her eyes, which were
gray despite their brightness. The circumstances of her becoming Mrs.
Liddle's maid were somewhat peculiar. She had presented herself to
that lady a few days before the "Merry Andrew" sailed, and stating
that she had heard by accident that Mrs. Liddle wanted a maid to
accompany her on the voyage, asked to be engaged in that capacity.
There was something so winsome about the girl, that Mrs. Liddle--who
had not succeeded in engaging a maid willing to brave the terrors of a
sea-voyage--was at once attracted to her, and lent a sympathizing ear
to her story of being alone in the world and without friends. Perhaps
it was Mrs. Liddle's romantic happiness that caused her to be less
prudent than usual; but certain it is that the girl was engaged, and,
setting about her duties at once, proved so apt and attentive, that
Mrs. Liddle congratulated herself upon her decision. Captain Liddle
did not interfere in the matter; but when he first saw the girl her
face seemed familiar to him, and he glanced at her more than once,
wondering where he had met her. But he could not settle the doubt, and
the matter was not of sufficient importance to permanently engage his
attention. Thus it was that Minnie succeeded in obtaining a passage in
the "Merry Andrew," and in being near to the man who was dearer to her
than all other earthly considerations. She was not influenced by any
dishonoring passion; she simply desired not to be parted from the man
she loved. She did not want him to see her or speak to her--at least,
so she thought at that time; it was sufficient for her to know that
she was in the same ship with him, and that she would perhaps now and
again catch a glimpse of her hero, without his knowing that she was
by. When she first made up her mind to leave her home, she did not
pause to consider what would be the consequences of her rash act. She
was unhappy there and utterly miserable; everybody was against her;
and when she discovered, as she did discover, that Susan was playing
the spy upon her, she became defiant and more resolved. She loved her
father and honored him; but she loved Joshua with all the passion of
her passionate nature, and in her mistaken sense of right and wrong,
the stronger love usurped the place of duty, and made her oblivious of
all else. She was blinded by love, and by love in which there was not
a shade of impure passion.
She had had at first a wild idea of dressing herself in sailor's
clothes, and had saved a few shillings towards the purchasing of them;
but her success with Mrs. Liddle set that aside. When she went on to
the ship with her mistress, she was careful that Joshua should not see
her; but indeed, if they had met face to face at that time, it is not
likely that he would have recognized her in her disguise; for his
thoughts were with Ellen, and his heart was too full as yet to be
curious about the passengers. But the Lascar saw her, and was puzzled
about her directly he set eyes upon her face. He watched her like a
cat, and yet he could not make up his mind about her. He had seen her
often in Stepney, but he could scarcely believe that the fair girl
with the beautiful hair and this dark gypsy with the short curls were
one and the same. He knew her name and all about her from Solomon
Fewster, and he was quite ready to believe in the villainy of Joshua.
Resolved to make sure of the value of his suspicions, he contrived to
pass close by her as she was taking some bandboxes down stairs to the
saloon, and as he passed her, he muttered the name of "Minnie
Kindred." A start, a frightened look over her shoulders, and the
dropping of the bandboxes down the stairs, were sufficient
confirmation of his doubts; and before the pilot left the ship he gave
him a scrawl for Solomon Fewster to the effect that Joshua and Minnie
had run away together. He was cautious enough also to send upon
another piece of paper a private scrawl to Solomon Fewster, saying he
was not quite sure, but that Fewster would know how to act if Minnie
were missing from home.
But when the Lascar next saw Minnie's face, which was not until the
"Merry Andrew" was a thousand miles the other side of the Bay of
Biscay, his doubts returned, and he thought that, after all, he must
have been mistaken. He did not know the cunning of Minnie. In the
startled glance she had thrown over her shoulder when her name was
pronounced, she had marked the Lascar's face, so that she was sure she
would know it again; and when, after the lapse of weeks, she detected
him gazing at at her, she looked at him so boldly and contemptuously
that he drooped his eyes before her. What added to his perplexity was,
that he never saw Joshua speak to her, never saw him look at her. When
she came on deck, which she did very rarely, and never unless her duty
to her mistress called her there, she was careful not to give Joshua
an opportunity of speaking to her or of looking closely at her; and
he, detecting in her manner a wish to avoid any little attention he
might have it in his mind to offer her, did not trouble himself even
by giving her a thought. She was as distant and reserved to all the
officers; and in a little while it began to be understood, that the
handsome gypsy-maid did not wish to be spoken to by any one on board
but her mistress; and her wish was scrupulously respected.
To readers who are not well acquainted with ship-life, it may seem
strange that Minnie should have been able to keep herself so free from
observation; but there really can be--and there often is--as much
exclusiveness on board a passenger-ship as there is in society on
land. You may live in a ship for months, and travel for thousands upon
thousands of miles over the seemingly interminable waste of waters,
without having any more personal knowledge of those who sleep within a
few yards of you than you would have of them if you and they were
living at the extreme ends of a great city. When the long, long voyage
is at an end, and the ship is being piloted into the bay that skirts
the land of Pisgah, men and women whom you do not remember ever to
have seen before appear magically on deck; and you wonder where they
come from, and how it is you have not set eyes on them during all the
time that you and they have been living in the wonderful house of wood
and iron that has brought you safely over the raging seas.
Joshua knew the Lascar directly he saw him on board, and was not
pleased to find that he was one of the crew. But the man did his duty,
and worked as well and apparently as willingly as the other sailors;
and as he was uniformly respectful, Joshua could not, even if he had
been so inclined, treat him harshly with any sense of justice.
And so the "Merry Andrew," containing within its wooden walls its load
of human love and hate, cleaves through the ocean onward to its goal
steadily and patiently, while before it, with every new rising of the
sun, a monotonous hill of waters, never varying, never changing, lies
in the gray distance mocking its progress. Through cold weather,
through hot weather, burnt up in the torrid zone, and chilled by winds
which rush from ice-bound waters; through days when scarce a ripple
can be seen on the grand ocean's breast, and others when the waves
leap at its throat furiously, as an enemy might do; through nights
when the moon rises threateningly in the heavens, like a blazing ball
of lurid fire, suggesting thoughts of a dreadful to-morrow; and
through dark nights, solemnly beautiful, when the track of the vessel
is marked by the brilliant Medusæ (the sailor's girdle of Venus) which
gleam and shine--a line of living light--in the wondrous sea: through
all these, with unerring faith, the ship pursues its way steadily and
patiently to the garden of the world. Now the captain smells the
breeze, and hoarse cries, unintelligible to all but the initiated,
travel about the ship to clap on sail and make good use of the breath
of Boreas. Then the ship dashes on like a god drunk with joy, dives
into awful depths, and climbs water-mountains that a moment ago
threatened to fall in upon it and dash it to pieces. The curling seas
break over the deck, and the toilers that are battling with wind and
wave cling fast for dear life to ropes and spars; while ever and anon
a water-titan, more angry than his fellows, breaks against the side
with such tremendous force that the vessel reels and quivers beneath
the mighty shock. So! the breeze slackens and dies away; the anger of
the sea subsides, and after many days the ship is becalmed. Then the
passengers lie about the white deck in happy indolence, and muse and
dream of the great whale they saw a while ago, hung round with
sea-weed and barnacles; of the cloudless night, star-gemmed above and
below; of the beautiful Southern Cross and the strange Magellan
clouds; and while they muse and dream, the white sky stares down
lazily into blue peaceful waters. Every one on board is contented with
the change, excepting the skipper, who paces the deck restlessly and
prays for the breeze to spring up--taking advantage of the calm,
however, like the good skipper he is, to splice ropes, and make new
sails and mend old ones. Soon wind and water wake into life again, and
the waves sparkle, and the fresh breeze blows merrily, when a sudden
cry rings through the ship that a man is overboard. The next moment
every soul on board is bending over the bulwarks, watching the
retreating form of the sailor who is floating on his back, gazing with
agonizing dread at the cruel beaks of the swan-white albatrosses,
which are already hovering above him. Quickly the ship is put about; a
boat, with rowers in it, is lowered into the sea; and after the lapse
of many anxious moments a wild cheer rings through the air, as the man
saved from death, is dragged into the boat. He tells afterwards to
eager listeners--he is a notable man on board from that day forth--how
it seemed to him that he was floating on his back for full a day, and
how the only fear he felt was that the albatrosses would pick out his
eyes. Then the following week a young man died who was in a
consumption when he was first brought on to the ship, and who had
hoped that the warm breezes of the South would give him a new lease of
life; but he was never to breathe the balmy southern air. The little
colony of human beings is very sad when the funeral service is read
over the body, and the canvas coffin slips with a dull thud into the
sea; and a fear arises that some calamity is near. And surely that
night there is a fearful storm. The wind howls and roars; heavy seas
dash down the two men at the wheel; the sails split into a thousand
shreds; masts and spars crack like reeds. The sobs and lamentations of
the passengers are dreadful to bear. Minnie, creeping from her cabin
into the saloon, sees a dozen men and women, half-dressed, on their
knees, praying for mercy and forgiveness, making vows of reformation,
and indulging in all the fear-impelled evidences of a suddenly
awakened contrition. Pursued by the conviction that in a few minutes
she and all in the ship will meet their doom, she yearns with all her
soul to see Joshua, to touch him, to whisper in his ear that Minnie is
by his side. Then, if he will but take her hand, she will be content
to go down with him into the solemn depths of the awful sea. She
creeps to the wet stairs leading to the deck, only to find that the
hatches are fastened down, and that she is a prisoner. She tears at
the cruel door that separates her from Joshua, until her fingers bleed
and her strength gives way. She calls aloud to him, but she cannot
hear her own voice, so weak is it and so overwhelming is the roar of
the storm. She sinks, despairing, at the foot of the stairs, and in
the agony of her mind and the terror of the time so entirely loses
consciousness, that the cold waters which steal down the hatchway are
powerless to arouse her. But with the next rising of the sun the storm
has passed away, and the captain looks joyful, and the sailors sing
blithely at their work, and the passengers forget their vows of
reformation. So the ship sails on and on, until land is sighted, and
the passengers begin to prepare their best clothes to go on shore in.
Then comes a quiet evening when the "Merry Andrew" drops quietly down
the beautiful bay, and as evening deepens into night, a thousand
twinkling lights from distant hills welcome the wanderers and gladden
their hearts. How peaceful, how lovely, is the night! The balmy air,
the restful sound of dipping oars, the floating strains of music that
come from a neighboring ship, the beautiful star-lit waters--all these
bring grateful feelings to weary travellers, and silent prayers of
thankfulness arise to Heaven for the mercy that has brought them
safely through the perils of the mighty sea.