Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
PHILOSOPHER JACK, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
TREATS OF OUR HERO AND OTHERS.
If the entire circuit of a friend's conversation were comprised in the
words "Don't" and "Do,"--it might perhaps be taken for granted that his
advice was not of much value; nevertheless, it is a fact that
Philosopher Jack's most intimate and valuable--if not valued--friend
never said anything to him beyond these two words. Nor did he ever
condescend to reason. He listened, however, with unwearied patience to
reasoning, but when Jack had finished reasoning and had stated his
proposed course of action, he merely said to him, "Don't," or "Do."
"For what end was I created?" said the philosopher, gloomily.
Wise and momentous question when seriously put, but foolish remark, if
not worse, when flung out in bitterness of soul!
Jack, whose other name was Edwin, and his age nineteen, was a student.
Being of an argumentative turn of mind, his college companions had
dubbed him Philosopher. Tall, strong, active, kindly, hilarious,
earnest, reckless, and impulsive, he was a strange compound, with a
handsome face, a brown fluff on either cheek, and a moustache like a
lady's eyebrow. Moreover, he was a general favourite, yet this favoured
youth, sitting at his table in his own room, sternly repeated the
question--in varied form and with increased bitterness--"Why was I born
at all?"
Deep wrinkles of perplexity sat on his youthful brow. Evidently he
could not answer his own question, though in early life his father had
carefully taught him the "Shorter Catechism with proofs," while his good
old mother had enforced and exemplified the same. His taciturn friend
was equally unable, or unwilling, to give a reply.
After prolonged meditation, Jack relieved his breast of a deep sigh and
re-read a letter which lay open on his desk. Having read it a third
time with knitted brows, he rose, went to the window, and gazed
pathetically on the cat's parade, as he styled his prospect of slates
and chimney cans.
"So," said he at last, "my dreams are over; prospects gone; hopes
collapsed--all vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision."
He turned from the cat's parade, on which the shades of evening were
descending, to the less romantic contemplation of his empty fire-grate.
"Now," said he, re-seating himself at his table and stretching his long
legs under it, "the question is, What am I to do? shall I kick at fate,
throw care, like physic, to the dogs, cut the whole concern, and go to
sea?"
"Don't," said his taciturn friend, speaking distinctly for the first
time.
"Or," continued Jack, "shall I meekly bow to circumstances, and struggle
with my difficulties as best I may?"
"Do," replied his friend, whose name, by the way, was Conscience.
For a long time the student sat gazing at the open letter in silence.
It was from his father, and ran thus:--
"Dear Teddie,--It's a long time now that I've been thinkin' to write
you, and couldn't a-bear to give you such a heavy disappointment but
can't putt it off no longer, and, as your mother, poor soul, says,
it's the Lord's will and can't be helped--which, of course, it
shouldn't be helped if that's true--but--well, howsomever, it's of no
use beatin' about the bush no longer. The seasons have been bad for
some years past, and it's all I've been able to do to make the two
ends meet, with your mother slavin' like a nigger patchin' up the
child'n's old rags till they're like Joseph's coat after the wild
beast had done its worst on it--though we _are_ given to understand
that the only wild beasts as had to do with that coat was Joseph's own
brothers. Almost since ever I left the North of England--a small
boy--and began to herd cattle on the Border hills, I've had a strange
wish to be a learned man, and ever since I took to small farmin', and
perceived that such was not to be my lot in life, I've had a powerful
desire to see my eldest son--that's you, dear boy--trained in
scientific pursoots, all the more that you seemed to have a natural
thirst that way yourself. Your mother, good soul, in her own broad
tongue--which I've picked up somethin' of myself through livin' twenty
year with her--was used to say she `wad raither see her laddie trained
in ways o' wisdom than o' book-learnin',' which I'm agreed to myself,
though it seems to me the two are more or less mixed up. Howsomever,
it's all up now, my boy; you'll have to fight your own battle and pay
your own way, for I've not got one shillin' to rub on another, except
what'll pay the rent; and, what with the grey mare breakin' her leg
an' the turnips failin', the look-out ahead is darkish at the best."
The letter finished with some good advice and a blessing.
To be left thus without resources, just when the golden gates of
knowledge were opening, and a few dazzling gleams of the glory had
pierced his soul, was a crushing blow to the poor student. If he had
been a true philosopher, he would have sought counsel on his knees, but
his philosophy was limited; he only took counsel with himself and the
immediate results were disastrous.
"Yes," said he, with an impulsive gush, "I'll go to sea."
"Don't," said his quiet friend.
But, regardless of this advice, Edwin Jack smote the table with his
clenched fist so violently that his pen leapt out of its ink-bottle and
wrote its own signature on one of his books. He rose in haste and rang
the bell.
"Mrs Niven," he said to his landlady, "let me know how much I owe you.
I'm about to leave town--and--and won't return."
"Ech! Maister Jack; what for?" exclaimed the astonished landlady.
"Because I'm a beggar," replied the youth, with a bitter smile, "and I
mean to go to sea."
"Hoots! Maister Jack, ye're jokin'."
"Indeed I am very far from joking, Mrs Niven; I have no money, and no
source of income. As I don't suppose you would give me board and
lodging for nothing, I mean to leave."
"Toots! ye're haverin'," persisted Mrs Niven, who was wont to treat her
"young men" with motherly familiarity. "Tak' time to think o't, an'
ye'll be in anither mind the morn's mornin'. Nae doot ye're--"
"Now, my good woman," interrupted Jack, firmly but kindly, "don't bother
me with objections or advice, but do what I bid you--there's a good
soul; be off."
Mrs Niven saw that she had no chance of impressing her lodger in his
present mood; she therefore retired, while Jack put on a rough
pilot-cloth coat and round straw hat in which he was wont at times to go
boating. Thus clad, he went off to the docks of the city in which he
dwelt; the name of which city it is not important that the reader should
know.
In a humble abode near the said docks a bulky sea-captain lay stretched
in his hammock, growling. The prevailing odours of the neighbourhood
were tar, oil, fish, and marine-stores. The sea-captain's room partook
largely of the same odours, and was crowded with more than an average
share of the stores. It was a particularly small room, with charts,
telescopes, speaking-trumpets, log-lines, sextants, portraits of ships,
sou'-westers, oil-cloth coats and leggings on the walls; model ships
suspended from the beams overhead; sea-boots, coils of rope, kegs, and
handspikes on the floor; and great shells, earthenware ornaments,
pagodas, and Chinese idols on the mantel-piece. In one corner stood a
child's crib. The hammock swung across the room like a heavy cloud
about to descend and overwhelm the whole. This simile was further borne
out by the dense volumes of tobacco smoke in which the captain enveloped
himself, and through which his red visage loomed over the edge of the
hammock like a lurid setting sun.
For a few minutes the clouds continued to multiply and thicken. No
sound broke the calm that prevailed, save a stertorous breathing, with
an occasional hitch in it. Suddenly there was a convulsion in the
clouds, and one of the hitches developed into a tremendous cough. There
was something almost awe-inspiring in the cough. The captain was a huge
and rugged man. His cough was a terrible compound of a choke, a gasp, a
rend, and a roar. Only lungs of sole-leather could have weathered it.
Each paroxysm suggested the idea that the man's vitals were being torn
asunder; but not content with that, the exasperated mariner made matters
worse by keeping up a continual growl of indignant remonstrance in a
thunderous undertone.
"Hah! that _was_ a splitter. A few more hug--sh! ha! like that will
burst the biler entirety. Polly--hallo!"
The lurid sun appeared to listen for a moment, then opening its mouth it
shouted, "Polly--ahoy!" as if it were hailing the maintop of a
seventy-four.
Immediately there was a slight movement in one corner of the room, and
straightway from out a mass of marine-stores there emerged a fairy! At
least, the little girl, of twelve or thereabouts, who suddenly appeared,
with rich brown tumbling hair, pretty blue eyes, faultless figure, and
ineffable sweetness in every lineament of her little face, might easily
have passed for a fairy or an angel.
"What! caught you napping?" growled the captain in the midst of a
paroxysm.
"Only a minute, father; I couldn't help it," replied Polly, with a
little laugh, as she ran to the fireplace and took up a saucepan that
simmered there.
"Here, look alive! shove along! hand it up! I'm chokin'!"
The child held the saucepan as high as she could towards the hammock.
The captain, reaching down one of his great arms, caught it and took a
steaming draught. It seemed to relieve him greatly.
"You're a trump for gruel, Polly," he growled, returning the saucepan.
"Now then, up with the pyramid, and give us a nor'-wester."
The child returned the saucepan to the fireplace, and then actively
placed a chair nearly underneath the hammock. Upon the chair she set a
stool, and on the top she perched herself. Thus she was enabled to
grasp the lurid sun by two enormous whiskers, and, putting her lips out,
gave it a charming "nor'-wester," which was returned with hyperborean
violence. Immediately after, Polly ducked her head, and thus escaped
being blown away, like a Hindoo mutineer from a cannon's mouth, as the
captain went off in another fit.
"Oh! father," said Polly, quite solemnly, as she descended and looked up
from a comparatively safe distance, "isn't it awful?"
"Yes, Poll, it's about the wust 'un I've had since I came from
Barbadoes; but the last panful has mollified it, I think, and your
nor'-wester has Pollyfied it, so, turn into your bunk, old girl, an'
take a nap. You've much need of it, poor thing."
"No, father, if I get into my crib I'll sleep so heavy that you won't be
able to wake me. I'll just lie down where I was before."
"Well, well--among the rubbish if ye prefer it; no matter s'long as you
have a snooze," growled the captain as he turned over, while the fairy
disappeared into the dark recess from which she had risen.
Just then a tap was heard at the door. "Come in," roared the captain.
A tall, broad-shouldered, nautical-looking man entered, took off his
hat, and stood before the hammock, whence the captain gave him a stern,
searching glance, and opened fire on him with his pipe.
"Forgive me if I intrude, Captain Samson," said the stranger; "I know
you, although you don't know me. You start to-morrow or next day, I
understand, for Melbourne?"
"Wind and weather permittin'," growled the captain. "Well, what then?"
"Have you completed your crew?" asked the stranger.
"Nearly. What then?" replied the captain with a touch of ferocity, for
he felt sensations of an approaching paroxysm.
"Will you engage _me_?" asked Philosopher Jack, for it was he.
"In what capacity?" demanded the captain somewhat sarcastically.
"As an ordinary seaman--or a boy if you will," replied Edwin, with a
smile.
"No," growled Samson, decisively, "I won't engage you; men with kid
gloves and white hands don't suit me."
From the mere force of habit the young student had pulled on his gloves
on leaving his lodging, and had only removed that of the right hand on
entering the captain's dwelling. He now inserted a finger at the wrist
of the left-hand glove, ripped it off, and flung it with its fellow
under the grate. Thereafter he gathered some ashes and soot from the
fireplace, with which he put his hands on a footing with those of a
coal-heaver.
"Will you take me now, captain?" he said, returning to the hammock, and
spreading out his hands.
The captain gave vent to a short laugh, which brought on a tremendous
fit, at the conclusion of which he gasped, "Yes, my lad, p'r'aps I will;
but first I must know something about you."
"Certainly," said the philosopher, and at once gave the captain a brief
outline of his circumstances.
"Well, you know your own affairs best" said Captain Samson when he had
finished; "I'm no judge of such a case, but as you're willin' to ship,
I'm willin' to ship you. Come here before ten to-morrow. Good night.
There, it's a-comin'--hash--k--!"
In the midst of another furious paroxysm Edwin Jack retired.
Not long after, the captain raised himself on one elbow, listened
intently for a few seconds, and, having satisfied himself that Polly was
asleep, slipped from his hammock--as only seamen know how--and proceeded
to dress with the utmost caution. He was evidently afraid of the little
sleeper among the rubbish. It was quite interesting to observe the
quiet speed with which he thrust his great limbs into his ample
garments, gazing anxiously all the time at Polly's corner.
Issuing from his own door with the step of an elephantine mouse, the
captain went rapidly through several streets to the house of an intimate
friend, whom he found at supper with his wife and family.
"Evenin', Bailie Trench; how are 'ee, Mrs T? how's everybody?" said the
captain, in a hearty rasping voice, as he shook hands right and left,
while one of his huge legs was taken possession of, and embraced, by the
bailie's only daughter, a pretty little girl of six.
"Why, Samson," exclaimed the bailie, after quiet had been restored, and
his friend had been thrust into a chair with little Susan on his knee,
"I thought you were laid up with influenza--eh?"
"So I was, bailie, an' so I am," replied the captain; "leastwise I'm
still on the sick-list, and was in my hammock till about half an hour
ago, but I'm gettin' round fast. The night air seems to do me a world
o' good--contrariwise to doctor's expectations."
"Have some supper?" said Mrs Trench, who was a weakish lady with watery
eyes.
"No supper, Mrs T, thank 'ee; the fact is, I've come on business. I
should be on my beam-ends by rights. I'm absent without leave, an' have
only a few minutes to spare. The passenger I spoke of has changed his
mind and his berth is free, so I'm glad to be able to take your son Ben
after all. But he'll have to get ready quick, for the _Lively Poll_
sails the day after to-morrow or next day--all bein' well."
The eyes of young Benjamin Trench sparkled. He was a tall, thin, rather
quiet lad of eighteen.
"I can be ready to-night if you wish it, Captain Samson," he said, with
a flush on his usually pale face.
Beside Mrs Trench there sat a sturdy little boy. He was the bosom
friend of Ben--a bright ruddy fellow of fourteen, overflowing with
animal spirits, and with energy enough for three lads of his size. This
youth's countenance fell so visibly when Ben spoke of going away, that
Mrs Trench could not help noticing it.
"Why, what's the matter, Wilkins?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing!" returned the boy, "only I don't like to hear Ben speak of
leaving us all and going to Australia. And I would give all the world
to go with him. Won't you take me as a cabin boy, Captain Samson?"
"Sorry I can't, lad," said the captain, with a grin, "got a cabin boy
already."
"Besides, your father would not let you," said Mrs Trench, "and it
would never do to go without his leave. Only misfortune could come of
that."
"Humph! it's very hard," pouted the boy. "I wanted him to get me into
the navy, and he wouldn't; and now I want him to get me into the
merchant service, and he won't. But I'll go in spite of him."
"No, you won't, Watty," said Ben, laying his hand on his friend's
shoulder.
"Yes, Ben, I will," returned little Wilkins, with such an air of
determination that every one except Ben laughed.
"Now, bailie," said the captain, rising, "I'm off. The truth is, I
wouldn't have come if it had not been important to let you know at once
to get your boy ready; but I had no one to send except Polly, and I
wouldn't send her out at night by herself for all the wealth of Indy.
Moreover, _she_ wouldn't have let me out to-night for any consideration
whatever. She's very strict with me, is my little keeper. I wouldn't
for the world she should wake and find me gone. So, good-night all."
Ten minutes more, and the guilty man entered his dwelling on tiptoe. In
order to get into his hammock with extreme caution he forsook his
ancient method of a spring, and mounted on an empty cask. The cask was
not equal to the emergency. He went through the head of it with a
hideous crash! Spurning it from him, he had just time to plunge into
his place of repose and haul the clothes over him, when Polly emerged
from her lair with wondering eyes.
"What ever was that, father?"
"Nothin', my dear, nothin' in partickler--only a cask I kicked over.
Now, then, Poll, since you're keepin' me awake in this fashion, it's
your dooty to soothe me with an extra panful, and another nor'-wester--
so, up wi' the pyramid; and after you've done it you must turn into your
crib. I'll not want you again to-night; the cough's much better.
There--thank 'ee. Pollyfy me now--that's right. Good-night."
Oh, base mariner! little did you merit such a pleasant termination to
your evening's work; but you are not the only wicked man in this world
who receives more than he deserves.
Two days after the incidents just related a noble ship spread her canvas
to a favouring breeze, and bowing farewell to her port of departure,
commenced the long long voyage to the Antipodes.
She was not a passenger ship, but a trader; nevertheless there were a
few passengers on her quarter-deck, and among these towered the colossal
figure of Captain Samson. Beside him, holding his hand, stood a
fairy-like little creature with brown curls and pretty blue eyes. Not
far from her, leaning over the bulwarks, Benjamin Trench frantically
waved a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. The signal was responded to,
with equal feeling, by the bailie, his wife, and little Susan. A good
number of people, young and old, assembled at the pier-head, among whom
many waved handkerchiefs, and hands, and scarfs, and hats to the crew.
Among the sailors who gazed wistfully towards the pier was one who made
no farewell signal, and received no parting wave. Philosopher Jack had
concealed his intention of going to sea from all his college chums, and
a bitter feeling of loneliness oppressed his heart as he thought of his
old father and mother, and the lowly cottage on the Border hills. He
had not, indeed, acted in direct opposition to the wishes of his
parents, but he had disobeyed the well-known Scripture command to do
them "honour," for he had resolved on his course of action without
consulting them, or asking their advice. He felt that he had very
selfishly forsaken them in their old age; in the hour of their sore
distress, and at a time when they stood woefully in need of his strong
muscles, buoyant spirit, and energetic brain. In short, Edwin Jack
began to feel that he required all his philosophy, and something more,
to enable him to face the future with the unflinching courage of a man.
So the ship moved slowly on, revealing on her stern the "_Lively Poll_"
in letters of burnished gold--past the pier-head, down the broad river,
out upon the widening firth, beyond lighthouse, buoy, and beacon, until
at last the fresh Atlantic breezes filled her snowy sails.
And ever as she rose and sank upon the rolling waves, their swish and
thud fell strangely on the ear of one who lay deep down in the recesses
of the hull, where--among barrels of pork, and casks of tar, and cans of
oil, and coils of rope, and other unsavoury stores--he consorted with
rats and mice and an uneasy conscience, in thick darkness. This was a
"stowaway." He was a sturdy, bright, ruddy little fellow of fourteen.
Down in that unwholesome place, with a few ship-biscuits and a bottle of
water to keep him alive, he would have looked like a doubled-up
overgrown hedgehog if there had been light enough to reveal him.
Thus, with its little world of hopes and fears, its cares and pleasures,
and its brave, trembling, trusting, sorrowing, joyful, anxious, reckless
hearts, the good ship passed from the shores of Britain, until her sails
quivered like a petrel's wings on the horizon, and then vanished into
the boundless bosom of the mighty sea.
CHAPTER TWO.
TELLS OF A GHOST AND AN OVERWHELMING DISASTER.
It may seem strange, nevertheless it is true, that ignorance is a
misfortune which now and then results in good. Of course we do not make
this remark in commendation of ignorance, but if Baldwin Burr had not
been ignorant and densely stupid, Philosopher Jack would not have had
the pleasure of instructing him, and the seaman himself would not have
enjoyed that close intimacy which frequently subsists between teacher
and pupil. Even Polly Samson derived benefit from Baldwin's want of
knowledge, for, being remarkably intelligent for her years, and having
been well taught, she took great pleasure in enlightening his darkness.
"How is it," she asked one day, while sitting on the cabin skylight and
looking up in the man's rugged countenance, "how is it that you are so
stupid?"
Burr, who was steering, gave the wheel a turn, looked up at the
mast-head, then round the horizon, then down at his questioner with a
bland smile, and said--
"Well now, Miss Polly, d'ee know, that's wot I can't exactly tell.
P'r'aps it's 'cause of a nat'ral want of brains, or, maybe, 'cause the
brains is too much imbedded in fat--for I'm a fleshy man, as you see--
or, p'r'aps it's 'cause I never went to school, my parients bein' poor,
uncommon poor, though remarkably honest. I've sometimes thought, w'en
meditatin' on the subject, that my havin' bin born of a Friday may have
had somethin' to do with it."
"Oh, Baldwin," said Polly with a little laugh, "surely you can't believe
that. Father says it's all nonsense about Friday being an unlucky day."
"P'r'aps it is, an' p'r'aps it ain't," returned the cautious seaman. "I
regard your father, my dear, as a deeply learned man, and would give in,
if I could, to wotever he says, but facts is facts, and opinions is
opinions, you can't change that, nohow you fix it. Wot's the cap'n's
opinions, now, as to ghosts?"
"He don't believe in 'em at all," was Polly's prompt answer. "No more
do I, for father knows everything, and he's always right."
"He's a lucky man to have you, Polly, and there's a lucky boy knockin'
about the world somewheres lookin' out for you. A good daughter, it's
said, inwariably makes a good wife; which you don't understand just now,
but you'll come to in course of time. Hows'ever, as I wos observin',
I've been of the same opinion as your father till two nights ago, when I
heard a ghost right under the deck, it seemed to me, blow my hammock,
where there's nothin' but ship's stores and rats."
"Heard a ghost!" exclaimed Polly, with opening eyes.
"Ay, an' seed 'im too," said Burr. "Night before yesterday I heer'd 'im
as plain as I hear myself. He wos groanin', an' it's quite impossible
that a tar-barrel, or a cask, or a rat, could groan. The only thing
that puzzled me wos that he seemed to snore; more than that he sneezed
once or twice. Now, I never heard it said that a ghost could sleep or
catch cold. Did you, Polly?"
Polly laughed and said that she never did, and asked eagerly what the
ghost was like.
"It was wery much like an or'nary man of small size," said the seaman,
"but it were too dark to make out its face. I know the figure of every
soul in the ship by this time, an' I could swear before a maginstrate,
or a bench of bishops, that the ghost is neither one of the crew nor a
passenger."
"Why didn't you speak to it?" asked Polly.
"So I did speak to it, but it wouldn't answer; then I made a grab at it,
but it was as active as a kitten, dodged round the mainmast, flew for'ed
on inwisible wings, and went slap down the fore-scuttle, head first,
with a crash that would have broke the neck of anything but a ghost."
At this interesting point the conversation was interrupted by Edwin
Jack, whose turn it was to relieve the man at the wheel. He nodded to
Polly as he came up, took his post, and received the ship's "course"
from Burr, who thrust his hands into his pockets, and left the
quarter-deck.
Edwin was by this time a considerably changed man, although but a few
days at sea. The rough blue trousers, guernsey, and pea-jacket, took as
naturally to his strong limbs as if he had been born and bred a sailor;
and already some huge blisters, a few scars, and not a little tar, had
rendered his hands creditable.
Steering at the time was a mere matter of form, as a dead calm
prevailed. Our philosopher therefore amused himself and Polly with
commentaries on the ghost-subject which Burr had raised.
Late that night, when the stars were shining in a cloudless sky, and
winking at their reflections in the glassy ocean, the ghost appeared to
Edwin Jack. It was on this wise:
Jack, being one of the watch on deck, went to the port bulwarks near the
foremast shrouds, leant over, and, gazing down into the reflected sky,
thought sadly of past, present, and future. Tiring at last of his
meditations, he went towards a man who appeared to be skulking under the
shadow of the long-boat and remarked that it was a fine night, but the
man made no reply.
"A most enjoyable night, shipmate," he said, going closer.
"I'm glad you think so," said the ghost, "it's anything but enjoyable to
_me_. The state of the weather hasn't much effect, either one way or
another, on a fellow who is half-dead with hunger, half-choked with a
cold caught among the rats and stores, and half-killed by a tumble down
the fore-scuttle, or whatever may be the name of that vile ladder that
leads to the regions below."
"Surely," exclaimed Jack in surprise, seizing the ghost by the shoulders
and looking close into its face, "I have heard your voice before now,
and, eh?--no, I don't know you."
"Yes, Philosopher Jack, you do know me," returned the ghost; "I've had
the honour of playing cricket with you on the green, though you've
forgotten me, and no wonder, for I've suffered much from bad air and
sea-sickness of late. My name is Walter, more familiarly Watty
Wilkins."
"Little Wilkins!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise, "well, you _are_ changed;
you don't mean to say that you've run away from home?"
"That's just what I've done," said the poor lad in a tone of
despondency; "but you've no occasion to shake your head at me so
solemnly, for, to all appearance, you have run away too."
"No, Wilkins, you are wrong, I have walked away, being my own master,
and I have done it openly, though I admit somewhat hastily--"
Jack was interrupted at that moment by Ben Trench laying a hand on his
shoulder.
"It strikes me," he said, in some surprise, "that I recognise the voice
of a townsman--Mister Jack, if I mistake not?"
"No, sir," replied the philosopher, "not _Mister_, only Edwin Jack,
seaman aboard the _Lively Poll_. You are right, however, in styling me
townsman. Allow me to introduce you to another townsman, Mr Watty
Wilkins, stowaway on board of the same vessel!"
Trench had not, in the darkness, recognised his friend. He now seized
him by both shoulders, and peering into his face, said--
"O Watty, Watty, have you really done it? I had thought better of you."
"I _said_ I would do it, and I've _done_ it," returned the little youth
somewhat testily; "and now I want to know what is to be done next."
"Report yourself and take the consequences," said Jack, promptly.
This advice being seconded by Ben Trench, Watty Wilkins went aft to the
captain, who had just come on deck, touched his cap, and confessed
himself.
For some moments the captain spoke not a word, but looked at the young
culprit with a portentous frown. Then, uttering something like a deep
bass growl, he ordered the lad to follow him into his private cabin.
When there, Captain Samson seated himself on a locker, and with a hand
on each knee, glared at his prisoner so long and so fiercely from under
his shaggy brows, that Watty, in spite of his recklessness, began to
feel uneasy.
"So, youngster, you've run away?" he said at length, in deep solemnity.
"Yes, sir," replied Wilkins.
"And you think yourself a fine clever fellow, no doubt?"
"No, sir, I don't," said Watty, with much humility.
"I knew your father, boy," continued the captain, assuming a softer and
more serious tone, "and I think he is a good man."
"He is, sir," returned the boy promptly.
"Ay, and he is a kind man; he has been kind to _you_, I think."
Watty hung his head.
"He has fed you, clothed you, educated you since you was a babby; nursed
you, maybe, in sickness, and prayed for you, no doubt that God would
make you a good, obedient and loving son."
The boy's head drooped still lower.
"And for all this," continued the captain, "you have repaid him by
running away. Now, my lad, as you have made your bed you shall lie on
it. I'll clap your nose to the grindstone, and keep it there.
Steward!"
A smart little man answered to the call.
"Take this boy for'ed, and teach him to clean up. Don't spare him."
In obedience to this order the steward took little Wilkins forward and
introduced him to the cook, who introduced him to the coppers and
scrubbing brushes. From that day forward Master Watty became deeply
versed in the dirty work and hard work of the ship, so that all the
romance of a sea life was driven out of him, and its stern realities
were implanted. In less than three weeks there was not a cup, saucer,
or plate in the ship that Watty had not washed; not a "brass" that he
had not polished and re-polished; not a copper that he had not scraped;
not an inch of the deck that he had not swabbed. But it must not be
supposed that he groaned under this labour. Although reckless, hasty,
and inconsiderate, he was not mean-spirited. Making up his mind to do
his best in the circumstances, he went cheerfully to his dirty work, and
did it well.
"You see," said he to Philosopher Jack, as they chanced one dark night
to have a few minutes' talk together near the weather gangway, where
Watty paused on his way to the caboose with a soup-tureen, "as the
captain says, I've made the bed myself, so I must lie on it and I'm
resolved to lie straight, and not kick."
"Right, Watty, right," said Jack, with a sigh; "we have both been fools,
so must grin and bear it."
Watty greeted this remark, to Jack's surprise, with a sudden and
unexpected yell, as he received a cut from a rope's-end over the back.
"What, idling, eh?" cried the steward, flourishing the rope's-end again.
In a burst of rage the poor boy raised the soup-tureen, and would
infallibly have shattered it on the man's head if Jack had not caught
his arm.
"Come, Wilkins, mind what you're about," he said, pushing him towards
the forepart of the ship to prevent a scuffle.
A moment's reflection sufficed to convince Wilkins of the folly, as well
as uselessness, of rebellion. Pocketing his pride and burning with
indignation, he walked forward, while the tyrannical steward went
grumbling to his own private den.
It chanced that night that the captain, ignorant of what had occurred,
sent for the unfortunate stowaway, for the mitigation of whose sorrows
his friend Ben Trench had, more than once, pleaded earnestly, but in
vain. The captain invariably replied that Watty had acted ungratefully
and rebelliously to a kind father, and it was his duty to let him bear
the full punishment of his conduct.
Watty was still smarting from the rope's-end when he entered the cabin.
"Youngster," said the captain, sternly, "I sent for you to tell you of a
fact that came to my knowledge just before we left port. Your father
told me that, being unwilling to disappoint you in your desires, he had
managed to get a situation of some sort for you on board a well-known
line of ocean steamers, and he only waited to get the thing fairly
settled before letting you know about it. There, you may go for'ed and
think what you have lost by running away."
Without a word of reply Watty left the cabin. His day's work had just
been completed. He turned into his hammock, and, laying his head on his
pillow, quietly wept himself to sleep.
"Ain't you rather hard on the poor boy, father?" said Polly, who had
witnessed the interview.
"Not so hard as you think, little woman," answered the captain, stroking
the child's head with his great hand; "that little rascal has committed
a great sin. He has set out on the tracks of the prodigal son you've
often read about, an' he's not sufficiently impressed with his guilt.
When I get him into a proper frame o' mind I'll not be so hard on him.
Now, Polly, go putt your doll to bed, and don't criticise your father."
Polly seized the huge whiskers of her sire, and giving him an
unsolicited "nor'-wester," which was duly returned, went off to her
little cot.
We do not mean to trouble the reader with all the incidents of a
prolonged voyage to southern latitudes, during which Philosopher Jack
formed a strong friendship with Ben Trench and Watty Wilkins; continued
his instruction of the amiable and unfathomable Baldwin Burr, and became
a general favourite with the crew of the _Lively Poll_. Suffice it to
say that all went well, and the good ship sailed along under favouring
breezes without mishap of any kind until she reached that great ocean
whose unknown waters circle round the Southern Pole.
Here, however, good fortune forsook them, and contrary-gales baffling
the _Lively Poll_ drove her out of her course, while tumbling billows
buffeted her severely.
One night a dead calm prevailed. The air became hot, clouds rose
rapidly over the sky, and the barometer--that faithful friend of the
mariner--fell unusually low.
"How dreadfully dark it is getting," said Polly, in a low,
half-frightened tone to Baldwin Burr, who was at the wheel.
"We're going to have a night of it, my dear," replied the seaman.
If he had said that the winds and waves were going to "have a night of
it" Baldwin Burr would have been more strictly correct. He had scarcely
uttered the words when the captain gave orders to close-reef the
top-sails. Our philosopher, springing aloft with his comrades, was out
on the top-sail yard in a few seconds. Scarcely had the sails been
reefed when the gale burst upon the ship, and almost laid her flat upon
the foaming sea. At first the very violence of the wind kept the waves
down, but they gradually rose until the ship was tossed on their crests
and engulfed in their hollows like a cork. As the force of the gale
increased sail was further reduced, until nothing but a mere rag was
left and even this at last was split and blown to ribbons. Inky clouds
soon obscured the sky, and, as night descended on the wild scene, the
darkness became so intense that nothing could be seen except the pale
gleam of foaming billows as they flashed past over the bulwarks. In the
midst of the turmoil there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed
instantly by a terrible crash of thunder. This was succeeded by a sound
of rending which was not the result of elemental strife.
"Foremast gone, sir," cried one of the men, staggering aft.
Seizing an axe, the captain sprang forward. Edwin Jack followed. They
found the ship's-carpenter already at work cutting the shrouds and other
ropes that held the wreck of the mast. As flashes of lightning followed
in quick succession they revealed a scene of ruin on the forepart of the
vessel, with the tall figure of Edwin as he stood on the bulwarks
wielding an axe. At last the wreck was cleared, but the seas were now
bursting over the decks and sweeping away everything not made fast.
Among other things the long-boat was carried away, and ere long all the
other boats were torn from their fastenings or destroyed. It was a
fearful night. Even the most reckless among the sailors were overawed
by such a display of the terrors of God. At such times scoffers are
wont to become tremblers, and those who "trust in God" find Him "a very
present help in trouble."
The gale was as short-lived as it was fierce. By the dawn of the
following day it had abated considerably, and it was found that less
damage had been done to the ship than might have been expected.
"We're all right, Polly, thank God!" said the captain, earnestly, when
he ventured to open the companion hatch and go below. "You prayed for
us, dear, didn't you?"
"Yes, father, I did; I prayed that our lives might be spared, if He
pleased."
"Well, Polly, our prayers have been answered," said the captain; "our
lives are spared and the ship is safe, though we've lost the foremast
and the boats. However, that can be putt to rights; we'll rig up a
jury-mast and get on famously, so keep up your heart, old girl, and give
us a nor'--. There, you'd better stay below yet awhile; it's dirty on
deck."
The weather was not long of improving. A profound calm followed the
storm. Bright sunshine banished the thunder-clouds. The contrast
between the dangers just past and the peaceful condition that prevailed
had the effect of raising the spirits of all on board the _Lively Poll_
to an unusual height, so that snatches of song, whistling, and cheery
remarks, were heard on all sides among the busy crew as they rigged up a
new mast, bent on new sails, and repaired the various damages. When
night put a stop to their labours, and every one sought repose, except
the watch and the captain and the man at the wheel, the same peaceful
calm continued. Only the long undulating swell of ocean remained to
tell of the recent storm, while the glassy surface reflected a universe
of stars.
It was at this time of profound repose and fancied security that the
death-knell of the _Lively Poll_ was sounded. In the southern seas
there is a little creature, named the coral insect (of which we shall
have more to say hereafter), which is ever at work building walls and
ramparts on the bottom of the sea. These rise by degrees to the
surface,--rise above it--and finally become some of the fairest isles of
the Pacific. Charts tell of the isles, but no charts can tell the
locality of coral reefs which have just, or barely, reached the surface.
The _Lively Poll_ was forging slowly ahead under a puff of air that
only bulged her top-sails as she rose and sank on the majestic swell.
Presently she rose high, and was then let down on a coral reef with such
violence that the jury-mast with the main-topmast and all the connected
rigging, went over the side. Another swell lifted her off, and flung
her on the ocean's breast a total wreck.
The scene that followed may be imagined. Whatever could be done by an
able and active seaman in such an emergency was done by Captain Samson.
Water was rushing in through the shattered hull. To pass a sail under
the ship's bottom and check this was the first act. Then the pumps were
rigged and worked by all on board. Besides Ben Trench there were three
gentlemen passengers. These took their turn with the rest, but all was
of no avail. The ship was sinking. The utmost efforts of those whose
lives seemed dependent on her only delayed the final catastrophe.
"There is no hope," said the captain in a low tone to his chief mate, to
whom he gave some rapid orders, and went below.
It was daybreak, and the first gleam of light that leaped over the
glassy sea tinged the golden curls of Polly Samson as she lay sleeping
on one of the cabin sofas. She awoke and started up.
"Lie still, darling, and rest as long as you may," said the captain in a
low tender voice, "and pray, Polly, pray for us again. God is able to
save to the uttermost, my pet."
He said this without pausing, as he went to his berth and brought out a
sextant, with which he returned on deck.
Standing near the foot of the companion-ladder, Watty Wilkins had heard
the words, "There is no hope," and the few sentences addressed to the
child. His impressionable spirit leapt to the conclusion that the fate
of all on board was sealed. He knew that the boats had all been swept
away, and a feeling of profound despair seized him. This was quickly
followed by contrition for his past conduct and pity for his father,
under the impulse of which he sat down in a corner of the steward's
pantry and groaned aloud. Then he wrote a few lines in pencil on a
piece of paper, bidding farewell to his father. Often had he read of
such messages from the sea being wafted ashore in bottles, but little
did he expect ever to have occasion to write one. He had just put the
paper in a bottle, corked it up, and dropped it out of one of the cabin
windows, when he was summoned on deck, and found that a raft was being
hastily prepared alongside. Already some casks of biscuits and water
had been lowered on it, while the carpenter and several men were busily
at work increasing its size and binding it together with iron clamps,
hawsers, and chains.
There was urgent need for haste, as the ship was fast settling down.
"Now then, my lads, look alive!" cried the captain, as he lifted his
little daughter over the side. "The ship can't float much longer.
Here, Jack, catch hold."
Edwin sprang to the side of the raft, and, standing up, received Polly
in his arms.
"Take care of her! Hold her tight!" cried the anxious father.
"Trust me," said Philosopher Jack.
The child was placed on the highest part of the raft with the
passengers, and partially covered with a shawl. The crew were then
ordered to leave the ship. Having seen every one out of it Captain
Samson descended and gave the order to shove off. This was quickly
done, and the distance was slowly increased by means of two large oars.
The huge mass of spars and planks moved gradually away from the doomed
vessel, whose deck was by that time little above the level of the sea.
They had not got more than a few hundred yards off, when Baldwin Burr,
who pulled one of the oars, uttered an exclamation. Edwin Jack and Ben
Trench, who knelt close to him fastening a rope, looked up and saw the
captain standing on the high part of the raft near Polly and little
Wilkins, waving his right hand. He was bidding farewell to the old
ship, which suddenly went down with a heavy roll. Another moment, and
only a few ripples remained to mark the spot where the _Lively Poll_ had
found an ocean tomb.
CHAPTER THREE.
ADRIFT ON THE GREAT OCEAN.
Sunshine gladdens the heart of man and causes him more or less to forget
his sorrows. The day on which the _Lively Poll_ went down was bright
and warm, as well as calm, so that some of those who were cast away on
the raft--after the first shock had passed, and while busily employed in
binding the spars and making other needful arrangements--began to feel
sensations approaching almost to hilarity.
Polly Samson, in particular, being of a romantic turn of mind, soon
dried her eyes, and when called on to assist in the construction of a
little place of shelter for herself on the centre of the raft, by means
of boxes and sails, she began to think that the life of a castaway might
not be so disagreeable after all. When this shelter or hut was
completed, and she sat in it with her father taking luncheon, she told
him in confidence that she thought rafting was "very nice."
"Glad you find it so, Polly," replied the captain with a sad smile.
"Of course, you know," she continued, with great seriousness of look and
tone, "I don't think it's nice that our ship is lost. I'm very very
sorry--oh, you can't think how sorry!--for that, but this is such a
funny little cabin, you know, and so snug, and the weather is _so_ fine;
do you think it will last long, father?"
"I hope it may; God grant that it may, darling, but we can't be sure.
If it does last, I daresay we shall manage to reach one of the islands,
of which there are plenty in the Southern Seas, but--"
A roar of laughter from the men arrested and surprised the captain. He
raised the flap of sail which served as a door to the hut--Polly's
bower, as the men styled it--and saw one of the passengers dragged from
a hole or space between the spars of the raft, into which he had slipped
up to the waist. Mr Luke, the passenger referred to, was considered a
weak man, mind and body,--a sort of human nonentity, a harmless
creature, with long legs and narrow shoulders. He took his cold bath
with philosophic coolness, and acknowledged the laughter of the men with
a bland smile. Regardless of his drenched condition, he sat down on a
small keg and joined the crew at the meal of cold provisions which
served that day for dinner.
"Lucky for us," said one of the sailors, making play with his
clasp-knife on a junk of salt pork, "that we've got such a fine day to
begin with."
"That's true, Bob," said another; "a raft ain't much of a sea-goin'
craft. If it had blowed hard when we shoved off from the ship we might
ha' bin tore to bits before we was well fixed together, but we've had
time to make all taut now, and can stand a stiffish breeze. Shove along
the breadbasket, mate."
"You've had your allowance, Bob; mind, we're on short commons now," said
Baldwin Burr, who superintended the distribution of provisions, and
served out a measured quantity to every man. "There's your grog for
you."
Bob Corkey growled a little as he wiped his knife on his leg, and
accepted the allowance of "grog," which, however, was only pure water.
"Are you sure the raft can stand a storm?" inquired Watty Wilkins of
Philosopher Jack, who sat eating his poor meal beside him.
"Sure?" responded Jack, "we can be sure of nothing in this life."
"Except trouble," growled Corkey.
"Oh yes, you can be sure of more than that," said Baldwin Burr; "you can
always be sure of folly coming out of a fool's mouth."
"Come, come, Baldwin, be civil," said Philosopher Jack; "it's cowardly,
you know, to insult a man when you can't fight him."
"Can't fight him?" repeated Burr with a grin; "who said I couldn't fight
him, eh? Why, I'm ready to fight him now, right off."
"Nevertheless, you can't," persisted the philosopher; "how could two men
fight on a raft where there's not room for a fair stand-up scrimmage
between two rats? Come now, don't argue, Burr, but answer little
Wilkins's question if you can."
"Stowaways don't desarve to have their questions answered," said Corkey;
"in fact, they don't desarve to live. If I had my way, I'd kill little
Wilkins and salt him down to be ready for us when the pork and biscuit
fail."
"Well, now, as to the safety of this here raft in a gale, small
Wilkins," said Baldwin, regardless of Corkey's interruption, "that
depends summat on the natur' o' the gale. If it was only a half-gale
we'd weather it all right, I make no doubt; but, if it should come to
blow hard, d'ee see, we have no occasion to kill and eat you, as we'd
all be killed together and eaten by the sharks."
"Sharks!" exclaimed Mr Luke, whose damp garments were steaming under
the powerful sun like a boiler on washing-day; "are there sharks here?"
"Ay," said Corkey, pointing to the sea astern, where the glassy surface
was broken and rippled by a sharp angular object, "that's a shark
a-follerin' of us now, leastwise the back fin of one. If you don't
believe it, jump overboard and you'll soon be convinced."
This reference to the shark was overheard by Polly, who came out of her
bower to see it. The monster of the deep came close up at that moment,
as if to gratify the child, and, turning on its back, according to shark
habit when about to seize any object, thrust its nose out of the water.
For one moment its double row of teeth were exposed to view, then they
closed on a lump of pork that had been accidentally knocked overboard by
Corkey.
"Is that the way you take care of our provisions?" said the captain,
sternly, to Baldwin.
"We've got a big hook, sir," said Edwin Jack, touching his cap; "shall
we try to recover the pork?"
"You may try," returned the captain.