"No, Mr Oldfield; but it's many years now since I was driven into it."
"Driven!" exclaimed Frank, laughing; "you do not look a likely subject
to be driven into anything."
"Ay, sir; but there are two sorts of driving--body-driving and heart-
driving. Mine was heart-driving."
"I should very much like to hear how it was that you were driven into
becoming an abstainer," said Hubert; "if it will not be asking too
much."
"Not at all, sir; and perhaps it may do you all good to hear it, though
it's a very sad story.--Steady, Jacob, steady; keep her full.--It may
help to keep you firm when you get to Australia. You'll find plenty of
drinking traps there."
"I'm not afraid," said Frank. "But by all means let us have your story.
We are all attention."
Hubert sighed; he wished that Frank were not so confident.
"Ay," said the captain, gazing dreamily across the water; "I think I see
her now--my poor dear mother. She was a good mother to me. That's one
of God's best gifts in this rough world of ours, Mr Oliphant. I've
known many a man--and I'm one of them--that's owed everything to a good
mother. Well, my poor mother was a sailor's wife; a better sailor, they
say, than my father never stepped a plank. He'd one fault, however,
when she married him, and only one; so folks like to put it. That fault
was, that he took too much grog aboard; but only now and then. So my
poor mother smiled when it was talked about in courting time, and they
were married. My father was the owner of a small coasting-vessel, and
of course was often away from home for weeks and sometimes for months
together. A sister and myself were the only children; she was two years
the oldest. My father used to be very fond of his children when he came
home, and would bring us some present or other in his pocket, and a new
gown, or cap, or bonnet for my mother. Yet somehow--I could hardly
understand it then--she was oftener in tears than in smiles when he
stayed ashore. I know how it was now: he'd learned to love the drink
more and more; and she, poor thing, had got her eyes opened to the sin
and misery it was bringing with it. He was often away at nights now.
We children saw but little of him; and yet, when he _was_ at home and
sober, a kinder father, a better husband, a nobler-looking man wasn't to
be seen anywhere. Well, you may be sure things didn't mend as time went
on. My mother had hard work to make the stores hold out, for her
allowance grew less as we children grew bigger. Only one good thing
came of all this: when all this trouble blew on my poor mother like a
hurricane, she shortened sail, and ran before the gale right into the
heavenly port; or, as you'll understand me better, she took her sins and
her cares to her Saviour, and found peace there. At last my sister grew
up into a fine young woman, and I into a stout, healthy lad.--Steady,
Jacob, steady; mind your helm.--My father didn't improve with age. He
was not sober as often as he used to be; indeed, when he was on shore he
was very rarely sober, and when he did stay an hour or two at home he
was cross and snappish. His fine temper and manly bearing were gone;
for the drink, you may be sure, leaves its mark upon its slaves. Just
as it is with a man who has often been put in irons for bad conduct;
you'd know him by his walk even when he's at liberty--he's not like a
man that has always been free. Ah, my poor mother! it was hard times
for her. She talked to my father, but he only swore at her. I shall
never forget his first oath to her; it seemed to crush the light out of
her heart. However bad he'd been before, he had always been gentle to
_her_. But he was getting past that. She tried again to reason with
him when he was sober. He was sulky at first; then he flew into a
passion. And once he struck her. Yes; and _I_ saw it, and I couldn't
bear it. I was flying at him like a tiger, when my dear mother flung
her arms round me, and chained me to the spot. My father never forgot
that. He seemed from that day to have lost all love for me; and I must
own that I had little left for him. My mother loved him still, and so
did my sister; but they left off talking to him about his drunkenness.
It was of no use; they prayed for him instead.--Steady, Jacob; luff a
bit, my lad; luff you can."
"And did this make you an abstainer?" asked Hubert.
"No, sir; so far from it, that I was just beginning to like my grog when
I could get it. I didn't see the evil of the drink then; I didn't see
how the habit keeps winding its little cords round and round a man, till
what begins as thin as a log-line, becomes in the end as thick as a
hawser. My mother trembled for me, I knew; I saw her look at me with
tears in her eyes many a time, when I came home talkative and excited,
though not exactly tipsy. I could see she was sick at heart. But I
hadn't learned my lesson yet; I was to have a terrible teacher.
"There was a young man who began to visit at our cottage when my sister
was just about twenty. They used to call him--well, that don't matter;
better his name should never be spoken by me. He was a fisherman, as
likely a lad as you'd see anywhere; and he'd one boast that few could
make, he had never been tipsy in his life; he was proud of it; he had
got his measure, he said, and he never went beyond it. He laughed at
teetotallers; they were such a sneaking, helpless lot, he said--why
couldn't they take what was good for them, and stop there when they'd
had enough; surely a man ought to be master of his own appetites--he
was, he said; he could stop when he pleased. However, to make a long
story short, he took a great fancy to my dear sister, and she soon
returned it. Our cottage was near the sea, but on a hill-side some
hundred feet or more above the beach. High ground rose behind it and
sheltered it from the north and east winds. It had a glorious view of
the ocean, and one of the loveliest little gardens that any cottage
could boast of. The young man I spoke of would often sit with my sister
in the little porch, when the roses and jessamine were in full flower
all over it; and I used to think, as I looked at them, that a handsomer
couple could never be made man and wife. Well, it was agreed that they
should wait a few months till he was fully prepared to give her a home.
My father just then was ashore, and took to the young man amazingly; he
must have him spend many an evening at our cottage, and you may be sure
that the grog didn't remain in the cupboard. My father had a great many
yarns to spin, and liked a good listener; and as listening and talking
are both dry work, one glass followed another till the young man's eyes
began to sparkle, and my poor sister's to fill with tears; still, he
always maintained, when she talked gently to him about it next day, that
he knew well what he was about, that he never overstepped his mark, and
that she might trust him. Ah, it was easy to talk; but it was very
plain that his mark began to be set glass after glass higher than it
used to be. At last, one night she couldn't hold any longer, and
implored him to stop as he was filling another tumbler. Upon this my
father burst out into a furious passion, and swore that, as he could
find no peace at home, he'd go where he _could_ find it,--that was to
the public-house, of course. Out they both of them went, and we saw no
more of them that night, you may be sure; and my mother and sister
almost cried their hearts out. It was some days after this before my
sister's lover ventured to show his face at our place, and then he
didn't dare to meet her eye. She said very little to him; it was plain
she was beginning to lose all hope; and she had reason too, for when the
demon of drink gets a firm hold, Mr Oldfield, he'll not let go, if he
can help it, till he's strangled every drop of good out of a man. But I
mustn't be too long; there isn't much left to tell, however.--Steady,
Jacob, my lad; keep her full.--You may suppose that we hadn't much more
of my father's company, or of the young man's either; they found the
public-house more to their mind; and so it went on night after night.
Little was said about the wedding, and my sister never alluded to it
even to us. At last October came. It was one lovely moonlight night,
just such a night as this, quiet and peaceful. My father was to set out
on one of his cruises next morning, and was expecting the mate to bring
round his little vessel, and anchor her in the roads off the shore, in
sight of our cottage. He had come home pretty sober to tea, bringing my
sister's lover with him. After tea there were several things he had to
settle with my mother; so, while they were making their arrangements, my
sister and the young man had an earnest talk together. I didn't mean to
listen, but I could overhear that he was urging her to fix an early day
for the wedding, with many promises of amendment and sobriety, which the
poor girl listened to with a half-unwilling ear, and yet her heart
couldn't say, `No.' At last my father cried, `Come, my lad, we'll just
go up to the top of the hill, and see if we can make out the _Peggy_.
She ought to be coming round by this time.'
"`Oh, father,' cried my sister, `don't go out again to-night.'
"`Nonsense!' he said, roughly; `do you think I'm a baby, that can't take
care of myself?'
"My mother said nothing; my sister looked at her lover with an imploring
glance. I shall never forget it; there was both entreaty and despair in
her eyes. He hesitated a moment, but my father was already out of the
door, and loudly calling on him to follow.
"`I'll be back again in a few minutes,' he said; `it won't do to cross
your father to-night.'
"Ah, those few minutes! She went to the door. It was a most lovely
night; there was a flood of moonlight poured out upon land and sea. All
that God had made was as beautiful as if sin had never spoiled it. Just
a little to the right of our cottage the ground rose up suddenly, and
sloped up about a quarter of a mile to the top of a high cliff, from the
edge of which was a sheer descent, almost unbroken, to the beach, of
several hundred feet. It was a favourite spot of observation, for
vessels could be seen miles off.
"My sister watched her father and lover in the clear moonlight to the
top. There they stood for about half an hour, and then they turned.
But which way? Home? It seemed so at first--the young man was plainly
hesitating. At last he yielded to my father's persuasion, and both
disappeared over the farther side of the high ground. My unhappy
sister, with a wild cry of distress, came back into the cottage, and
threw herself sobbing into a chair.
"`Oh, mother, mother!' she cried, `they're off again--they're gone to
the public-house; father'll be the death of _him_, body and soul.'
"My mother made no answer. She could not speak. She had no comfort to
offer. She knew that my wretched father was the tempter. She knew that
there was nothing but misery before her child.
"Oh, what a weary night that was! We sat for hours waiting, listening.
At last we heard the sound of voices--two voices were shouting out
snatches of sea-songs with drunken vehemence. We didn't need any one to
tell us whose voices they were. My sister started up and rushed out. I
followed her, and so did my mother. We could see now my father and the
young man, sharp and clear in the moonlight, arm in arm at the top of
the cliff. They were waving their arms about and shouting, as they
swayed and staggered to and fro. Then they went forward towards the
edge, and tried to steady themselves as they looked in the direction of
the sea.
"`They'll be over!' shrieked my sister; `oh, let us try and save them!'
"My mother sank senseless on the ground. For a moment my sister seemed
as if she would do the same. Then she and I rushed together towards the
cliff at the top of our speed. We could just see the two poor miserable
drunkards staggering about for a little while, but then a sinking in the
ground, as we hurried on, hid them from our sight. A few minutes more
and we were on the slope at the top, but where were _they_? They were
gone--where? I dared not let my sister go forward, but I could hardly
hold her, till at last she sank down in a swoon. And then I made my way
to the top of the cliff, and my blood seemed to freeze in my veins as I
looked over. There they were on the rocks below, some hundred and fifty
feet down. I shouted for help; some of the neighbours had seen us
running, and now came to my relief. I left a kind woman with my unhappy
sister, and hurried with some fishermen the nearest way to the beach.
It was sickening work climbing to the place on to which my miserable
father and his companion had pitched in their fall. Alas! they were
both dead when we reached them, and frightfully mangled. I can hardly
bear to go on," and the captain's voice faltered, "and yet I must
complete my story. We made a sort of large hammock, wrapped them in it,
and by the help of some poles carried them up to our cottage. It was
terrible work. My sister did not shed a tear for days, indeed I
scarcely ever saw her shed a tear at all; but she pined away, and a few
short months closed her sad life."
The captain paused, and it was long before any one broke the silence.
At last Hubert asked,--
"And your mother?"
"Ah, my mother--well, she did not die. She mourned over her daughter;
but I can't say that she seemed to feel my father's loss so much, and I
think I can tell you why," he added, looking very earnestly at the two
young men. "Mark this, young gentlemen, and you Jacob, too--there's
this curse about the drink, when it's got its footing in a home it eats
out all warm affections. I don't think my mother had much love left for
my father in her heart when he died. His drunkenness had nearly stamped
out the last spark."
"It's a sad story indeed," said Frank, thoughtfully.
"Ay; and only one among many such sad stories," said the captain.
"And so you were led after this to become a total abstainer?"
"Yes; it was on the day of my sister's funeral. I came back to the
cottage after the service was over with my heart full of sorrowful
thoughts. My mother sat in her chair by the fire; her Bible was open
before her, her head was bowed down, her hands clasped, and her lips
moving in prayer. I heard them utter my own name.
"`Mother,' I said, springing forward, and throwing my arms round her,
`please God, and with his help, I'll never touch another drop of the
drink from this day.'
"`God bless you, my son,' she said, with sobs. `I've prayed him scores
of times that my son might be preserved from living a drunkard's life,
and dying a drunkard's death. I believe he's heard me. I know he has,
and I'll trust him to make you truly his child, and then we shall meet
in glory.' From that day to this not a drop of intoxicating liquor has
ever passed my lips. But it's time to turn in; we shan't sleep the less
sound because we're not indebted to the grog for a nightcap."
For some days after the captain had told his story, Frank Oldfield's
manner was subdued and less buoyant than usual--something like a
misgiving about his own ability to resist temptation, mingled with sad
memories of the past. But his spirits soon recovered their usual
brightness.
It was on a cloudless day, when scarcely a breath of air puffed out the
sails, and the dog-vane drooped lazily, as if desponding at having
nothing to do, that Hubert was looking listlessly over the stern,
marking how the wide expanse of the sea was heaving and swelling like a
vast carpet of silk upraised and then drawn down again by some giant
hand. Suddenly he cried out,--
"What's that cutting its way behind us, just below the surface of the
water?"
"A shark, most likely," said the mate, coming up. "Ay, sure enough it
is," he added, looking over the stern. "Many a poor fellow has lost his
life or his limbs by their ugly teeth. We'll bait a hook for him."
This was soon done. A large piece of rusty pork was stuck upon a hook
attached to the end of a stout chain, the chain being fastened to a
strong rope. All was now excitement on board. The captain, Hubert,
Frank, and Jacob Poole looked over at the monster, whose dorsal fin just
appeared above the water. He did not, however, seem to be in any hurry
to take the bait, but kept swimming near it, and now and then knocked it
with his nose.
"Just look at the water," cried Frank; "why, it's all alive with little
fish. I never saw anything like it."
Indeed, it was an extraordinary sight. All round the vessel, and as
deep down in the water as the eye could penetrate, the ocean was
swarming with millions upon millions of little fishes, so that their
countless multitudes completely changed the colour of the sea. Jacob
Poole, who was standing close by the captain, now sprang into the boat
which hung over the stern to get a better look at the shark and his
minute companions.
"Have a care," shouted the captain, "or you'll be over, if you don't
mind."
It was too late; for just as Jacob was endeavouring to steady himself in
the boat, a sudden roll of the ship threw him completely off his
balance. He tried to save himself by catching at a rope near him, but
missed it, and fell right over the boat's side into the sea below.
All was instantly confusion and dismay, for every one on board knew that
Jacob was no swimmer. Happily the ship was moving very sluggishly
through the water, so one of the quarter-boats was instantly lowered
from the davits. But long before it could row to the rescue help had
come from another quarter. For one moment Hubert and his friend stood
looking on transfixed with dismay, then, without an instant's
hesitation, Frank sprang upon the taffrail, and plunged headlong into
the sea. He was a capital swimmer, and soon reached poor Jacob. But
now a cry of horror arose from those on board.
"The shark! the shark!"
The creature had disappeared at the moment of the cabin-boy's fall, the
sudden and violent splash having completely scared him away for the
instant; but scarcely had Frank reached the drowning lad, and raised him
in the water, than the huge monster began to make towards them. They
were so short a distance from the vessel that those on board could
plainly see the movements of the great fish as he glided up to them.
"Splash about with all your might, for Heaven's sake," roared out the
captain.
"All right," cried young Oldfield with perfect coolness, and at the same
time making a violent commotion in the water all round him, which had
the effect of daunting their enemy for the time. And now the quarter-
boat was lowered, and reached them in a few vigorous strokes.
"Pull for your lives, my lads," shouted the mate, who was steering.
"Here we are--steady--ship oars. Now then, Tom Davies, lay hold on
'em--in with 'em quick--there's the shark again. Jack, you slap away at
the water with your oar. Ay, my friend, we've puzzled you this time--a
near shave, though. Now then, all right. Give way, my lads. Jacob, my
boy, you've baulked Johnny shark of his dinner this once."
They were soon alongside, and on deck, and were greeted by a lusty
"Hurrah!" from captain and crew.
"Nobly done, nobly done, Mr Oldfield!" cried the captain, with tears in
his eyes, and shaking Frank warmly by the hand. Hubert was also earnest
in his thanks and congratulations. As for poor Jacob, when he had
somewhat recovered from the utter bewilderment into which his
unfortunate plunge had thrown him, he came up close to his rescuer and
said,--
"Mr Oldfield, I can't thank you as I should, but I shan't forget as
you've saved my life."
"All right, Jacob," said Frank, laughing; "you'll do the same for me
when I want it, I don't doubt. But you have to thank our kind friends,
the mate and his crew, as much as me, or we should have been pretty sure
to have been both of us food for the fishes by this time."
And so it was that the cabin-boy's attachment to Frank Oldfield became a
passion--a love which many waters could not quench--a love that was
wonderful, passing the love of women. Each day increased it. And now
his one earnest desire was to serve Frank on shore in some capacity,
that he might be always near him. Day by day, as the voyage drew to its
close, he was scheming in his head how to bring about what he so
ardently desired; and the way was opened for him.
It was in the middle of January, the height of the Australian summer,
that the _Sabrina_ came in sight of Kangaroo Island, and in a little
while was running along the coast, the range of hills which form a
background to the city of Adelaide being visible in the distance. And
now all heads, and tongues, and hands were busy, for in a few hours, if
the tide should serve for their passing the bar, they would be safe in
Port Adelaide.
"Well, Jacob; my lad," said Captain Merryweather to the cabin-boy, as he
stood looking rather sadly and dreamily at the land, "you don't look
very bright. I thought you'd be mad after a run ashore. Here comes the
pilot; he'll soon let us know whether we can get into port before next
tide."
When the pilot had taken charge of the ship, and it was found that there
was water enough for them to cross the bar at once, the captain again
called Jacob to him into the cuddy, where he was sitting with Hubert and
Frank.
"I see, Jacob, my boy," he said, "that there's something on your mind,
and I think I half know what it is. Now, I'm a plain straightforward
sailor, and don't care to go beating about the bush, so I'll speak out
plainly. You've been a good lad, and pleased me well, and if you've a
mind to go home with me, I've the mind, on my part, to take you. But
then I see Mr Oldfield here has taken a fancy to you, and thinks you
might be willing to take service with him. Ah, I see it in your eyes,
my lad--that settles it. I promised before we sailed that I'd find you
a good situation out here, and I believe I've done it. Mr Oldfield,
Jacob's your man."
Poor Jacob; the tears filled his eyes--his chest heaved--he crushed his
cap out of all shape between his fingers--then he spoke, at first with
difficulty, and then in a husky voice,--
"Oh, captain, I'm afraid you'll think I'm very ungrateful. I don't know
which way to turn. You've been very good to me, and I couldn't for
shame leave you. I'd be proud to serve you to the last day of my life.
But you seem to have fathomed my heart. I wish one half of me could go
back with you, and the other half stay with Mr Oldfield. But I'll just
leave it with yourselves to settle; only you mustn't think, captain, as
I've forgotten all your kindness. I'm not that sort of chap."
"Not a bit, my lad, not a bit," replied the captain, cheerily; "I
understand you perfectly. I want to do the best for you; and I don't
think I can do better than launch you straight off, and let Mr Oldfield
take you in tow; and if I'm spared to come another voyage here, and you
should be unsettled, or want to go home again, why, I shall be right
glad to have you, and to give you your wages too." And so it was
settled, much to the satisfaction of Frank and the happiness of Jacob.