DOG-CAPTAIN
The day of departure arrived with the 5th of April. The admission
of the doctor on board had given the crew more confidence. They knew
that where the worthy doctor went they could follow. However, the
sailors were still uneasy, and Shandon, fearing that some of them
would desert, wished to be off. With the coast out of sight, they
would make up their mind to the inevitable.
Dr. Clawbonny's cabin was situated at the end of the poop, and occupied
all the stern of the vessel. The captain's and mate's cabins gave
upon deck. The captain's remained hermetically closed, after being
furnished with different instruments, furniture, travelling
garments, books, clothes for changing, and utensils, indicated in
a detailed list. According to the wish of the captain, the key of
the cabin was sent to Lubeck; he alone could enter his room.
This detail vexed Shandon, and took away all chance of the chief
command. As to his own cabin, he had perfectly appropriated it to
the needs of the presumed voyage, for he thoroughly understood the
needs of a Polar expedition. The room of the third officer was placed
under the lower deck, which formed a vast sleeping-room for the
sailors' use; the men were very comfortably lodged, and would not
have found anything like the same convenience on board any other ship;
they were cared for like the most priceless cargo: a vast stove
occupied all the centre of the common room. Dr. Clawbonny was in his
element; he had taken possession of his cabin on the 6th of February,
the day after the _Forward_ was launched.
"The happiest of animals," he used to say, "is a snail, for it can
make a shell exactly to fit it; I shall try to be an intelligent snail."
And considering that the shell was to be his lodging for a considerable
time, the cabin began to look like home; the doctor had a _savant's_
or a child's pleasure in arranging his scientific traps. His books,
his herbals, his set of pigeon-holes, his instruments of precision,
his chemical apparatus, his collection of thermometers, barometers,
hygrometers, rain-gauges, spectacles, compasses, sextants, maps,
plans, flasks, powders, bottles for medicine-chest, were all classed
in an order that would have shamed the British Museum. The space of
six square feet contained incalculable riches: the doctor had only
to stretch out his hand without moving to become instantaneously a
doctor, a mathematician, an astronomer, a geographer, a botanist,
or a conchologist. It must be acknowledged that he was proud of his
management and happy in his floating sanctuary, which three of his
thinnest friends would have sufficed to fill. His friends came to
it in such numbers that even a man as easy-going as the doctor might
have said with Socrates, "My house is small, but may it please Heaven
never to fill it with friends!"
To complete the description of the _Forward_ it is sufficient to say
that the kennel of the large Danish dog was constructed under the
window of the mysterious cabin but its savage inhabitant preferred
wandering between decks and in the hold; it seemed impossible to tame
him, and no one had been able to become his master; during the night
he howled lamentably, making the hollows of the ship ring in a sinister
fashion. Was it regret for his absent master? Was it the instinct
of knowing that he was starting for a perilous voyage? Was it a
presentiment of dangers to come? The sailors decided that it was for
the latter reason, and more than one pretended to joke who believed
seriously that the dog was of a diabolical kind. Pen, who was a brutal
man, was going to strike him once, when he fell, unfortunately,
against the angle of the capstan, and made a frightful wound in his
head. Of course this accident was placed to the account of the
fantastic animal. Clifton, the most superstitious of the crew, made
the singular observation that when the dog was on the poop he always
walked on the windward side, and afterwards, when the brig was out
at sea, and altered its tack, the surprising animal changed its
direction with the wind the same as the captain of the _Forward_ would
have done in his place. Dr. Clawbonny, whose kindness and caresses
would have tamed a tiger, tried in vain to win the good graces of
the dog; he lost his time and his pains. The animal did not answer
to any name ever written in the dog calendar, and the crew ended by
calling him Captain, for he appeared perfectly conversant with ship
customs; it was evident that it was not his first trip. From such
facts it is easy to understand the boatswain's answer to Clifton's
friend, and the credulity of those who heard it; more than one repeated
jokingly that he expected one day to see the dog take human shape
and command the manoeuvres with a resounding voice.
If Richard Shandon did not feel the same apprehensions he was not
without anxiety, and the day before the departure, in the evening
of April 5th, he had a conversation on the subject with the doctor,
Wall, and Johnson in the poop cabin. These four persons were tasting
their tenth grog, and probably their last, for the letter from
Aberdeen had ordered that all the crew, from the captain to the stoker,
should be teetotallers, and that there should be no wine, beer, nor
spirits on board except those given by the doctor's orders. The
conversation had been going on about the departure for the last hour.
If the instructions of the captain were realised to the end, Shandon
would receive his last instructions the next day.
"If the letter," said the commander, "does not tell me the captain's
name, it must at least tell me the destination of the brig, or I shall
not know where to take her to."
"If I were you," said the impatient doctor, "I should start whether
I get a letter or no; they'll know how to send after you, you may
depend."
"You are ready for anything, doctor; but if so, to what quarter of
the globe should you set sail?"
"To the North Pole, of course; there's not the slightest doubt about
that."
"Why should it not be the South Pole?" asked Wall.
"The South Pole is out of the question. No one with any sense would
send a brig across the whole of the Atlantic. Just reflect a minute,
and you'll see the impossibility."
"The doctor has an answer to everything," said Wall.
"Well, we'll say north," continued Shandon. "But where north? To
Spitzbergen or Greenland? Labrador or Hudson's Bay? Although all
directions end in insuperable icebergs, I am not less puzzled as to
which to take. Have you an answer to that, doctor?"
"No," he answered, vexed at having nothing to say; "but if you don't
get a letter what shall you do?"
"I shall do nothing; I shall wait."
"Do you mean to say you won't start?" cried Dr. Clawbonny, agitating
his glass in despair.
"Certainly I do."
"And that would be the wisest plan," said Johnson tranquilly, while
the doctor began marching round the table, for he could not keep still;
"but still, if we wait too long, the consequences may be deplorable;
the season is good now if we are really going north, as we ought to
profit by the breaking up of the ice to cross Davis's Straits; besides,
the crew gets more and more uneasy; the friends and companions of
our men do all they can to persuade them to leave the _Forward_, and
their influence may be pernicious for us."
"Besides," added Wall, "if one of them deserted they all would, and
then I don't know how you would get another crew together."
"But what can I do?" cried Shandon.
"What you said you would do," replied the doctor; "wait and wait till
to-morrow before you despair. The captain's promises have all been
fulfilled up to now with the greatest regularity, and there's no
reason to believe we shan't be made acquainted with our destination
when the proper time comes. I haven't the slightest doubt that
to-morrow we shall be sailing in the Irish Channel, and I propose
we drink a last grog to our pleasant voyage. It begins in an
unaccountable fashion, but with sailors like you there are a thousand
chances that it will end well."
And all four drank to their safe return.
"Now, commander," continued Johnson, "if you will allow me to advise
you, you will prepare everything to start; the crew must think that
you know what you are about. If you don't get a letter to-morrow,
set sail; do not get up the steam, the wind looks like holding out,
and it will be easy enough to sail; let the pilot come on board; go
out of the docks with the tide, and anchor below Birkenhead; our men
won't be able to communicate with land, and if the devil of a letter
comes it will find us as easily there as elsewhere."
"By heavens! you are right, Johnson!" cried the doctor, holding out
his hand to the old sailor.
"So be it," answered Shandon.
Then each one entered his cabin, and waited in feverish sleep for
the rising of the sun. The next day the first distribution of letters
took place in the town, and not one bore the address of the commander,
Richard Shandon. Nevertheless, he made his preparations for
departure, and the news spread at once all over Liverpool, and, as
we have already seen, an extraordinary affluence of spectators
crowded the wharfs of New Prince's Docks. Many of them came on board
to shake hands for the last time with a comrade, or to try and dissuade
a friend, or to take a look at the brig, and to know its destination;
they were disappointed at finding the commander more taciturn and
reserved than ever. He had his reasons for that.
Ten o'clock struck. Eleven followed. The tide began to go out that
day at about one o'clock in the afternoon. Shandon from the top of
the poop was looking at the crowd with uneasy eyes, trying to read
the secret of his destiny on one of the faces. But in vain. The sailors
of the _Forward_ executed his orders in silence, looking at him all
the time, waiting for orders which did not come. Johnson went on
preparing for departure. The weather was cloudy and the sea rough;
a south-easter blew with violence, but it was easy to get out of the
Mersey.
At twelve o'clock nothing had yet been received. Dr. Clawbonny marched
up and down in agitation, looking through his telescope,
gesticulating, impatient for the sea, as he said. He felt moved,
though he struggled against it. Shandon bit his lips till the blood
came. Johnson came up to him and said--
"Commander, if we want to profit by the tide, there is no time to
be lost; we shall not be clear of the docks for at least an hour."
Shandon looked round him once more and consulted his watch. The twelve
o'clock letters had been distributed. In despair he told Johnson to
start. The boatswain ordered the deck to be cleared of spectators,
and the crowd made a general movement to regain the wharves while
the last moorings were unloosed. Amidst the confusion a dog's bark
was distinctly heard, and all at once the animal broke through the
compact mass, jumped on to the poop, and, as a thousand spectators
can testify, dropped a letter at Shandon's feet.
"A letter!" cried Shandon. "_He_ is on board, then?"
"He was, that's certain, but he isn't now," said Johnson, pointing
to the deserted deck.
Shandon held the letter without opening it in his astonishment.
"But read it, read it, I say," said the doctor.
Shandon looked at it. The envelope had no postmark or date; it was
addressed simply to:
"RICHARD SHANDON,
"Commander on board the brig
"_Forward_."
Shandon opened the letter and read as follows:--
"Sail for Cape Farewell. You will reach it by the 20th of April. If
the captain does not appear on board, cross Davis's Straits, and sail
up Baffin's Sea to Melville Bay.
"THE CAPTAIN OF THE 'FORWARD,'
"K. Z."
Shandon carefully folded this laconic epistle, put it in his pocket,
and gave the order for departure. His voice, which rang above the
east wind, had something solemn in it.
Soon the _Forward_ had passed the docks, and directed by a Liverpool
pilot whose little cutter followed, went down the Mersey with the
current. The crowd precipitated itself on to the exterior wharf along
the Victoria Docks in order to get a last glimpse of the strange brig.
The two topsails, the foresail and the brigantine sail were rapidly
set up, and the _Forward_, worthy of its name, after having rounded
Birkenhead Point, sailed with extraordinary fleetness into the Irish
Sea.