C. B.’s Childhood
The story of a boy growing from his birth to manhood in our centres
of civilization cannot fail to be of interest if properly told,
principally because of the thousand and one dangers that beset him in
that perilous journey. This is the case, no matter how well or how ill
brought up he may be, peril encompasses him round about, visible as
well as invisible, peril from which no amount of care can adequately
protect him. Indeed the care that is often bestowed has the effect
of rendering the child’s life a burden to him, especially if he be
brought up at home. Moreover, if we are foolish enough to believe one
thousandth part of what we read about food and drink and the deadly
microbes and bacteria that lie in wait for us everywhere, we should
certainly perish of worry or become, as faddists always do become, a
misery to ourselves and a nuisance to all around us.
But here on Norfolk Island the child had every chance. And in telling
of C. B. I am only taking the ordinary type: he had no advantages over
his fellows. Fed by his mother alone, who had never known a day’s
illness in her life, never knowing the taste of drugs, living in the
open air without ever being pampered by tight clothing of any kind,
never too hot, never too cold; how could he help growing up to the
age when he could run about, without an ache or a pain, a sturdy,
perfectly developed, perfectly healthy child? Of course he could swim
as soon as he could walk, that to any one who knows the island goes
without saying, and as soon as he could toddle down to the shore with
the other children, spent, as they did, quite half of his time in the
sea. The food given him was of the simplest: fruit and vegetables, milk
and fish, very little meat, because it was extremely scarce for one
thing, and for another, these gentle people only hunt when necessity
drives, and never kill a domestic animal if it can be avoided.
So this child of love and prayer grew and waxed strong, a joy and
delight to his parents, and a pleasure to all the community, as all
the children were. In exuberant animal delight he and his companions
climbed the trees and the mountains, tumbled about in the surf like so
many dolphins, with never an anxious or fussy parent to say “don’t.”
Cuts, scratches, bruises they gained in plenty, all treated in the
simplest way and all getting cured in almost magically quick time, as
do the hurts of animals and savages. And it must never be forgotten
that these people led the perfectly natural lives of savages without
any of the savage vices, that they knew and practised the virtues
of civilization without its follies and crimes; what then could be
expected in the result but perfect health and happiness?
With all this boisterous enjoyment of childhood the simple education
that the venerable McCoy was able to impart was not neglected. Reading,
writing and the first four rules of arithmetic were soundly taught,
and by Grace the beautiful accomplishment of singing through the tonic
sol-fa method. They were altogether a singing people; it was ingrained,
so that this took no trouble to teach. Beyond this in the way of
education there was nothing except that the reading of the Bible was
encouraged, not as a means of storing up virtue by reading so many
verses or chapters, but for the pleasure and profit of seeing what God
had said to His people. And this, with the exception of a few well-worn
books, such as the standard poets, Dickens, Thackeray and Miss
Wetherell, comprised their reading. None of the children were compelled
to read as a task. When once they had learned to read they were allowed
to read or not just as it pleased them.
Under such pleasant auspices as this what wonder was it that our hero
at sixteen was as near being perfect in body and mind as the most
exacting parent could wish. True, he would have been plucked at an
examination for the fourth standard in any Board-school, but if he was
ignorant of much school learning as Board-school boys know at home, he
was also ignorant of a great number of other things, of practically all
the evil knowledge acquired by our children in great cities in spite
of all our efforts. And on the physical side, being a child of nature,
there could be no comparison between him and city children of whatever
class imaginable. His whole life, as was that of his companions, boys
and girls alike, was spent in training, unconsciously, and so he was
always fit for any of those manly exercises that the young human animal
rightly loves. He could not play cricket or football, but he could swim
and dive all day, could climb the tallest tree in the island like a
monkey, could run from the level to the top of a three-thousand-foot
hill without distress, and could not swear or lie, having never known
any occasion for either.
Of course, he had not grown up so far without having brothers and
sisters--two of each had been added on to the family circle, all of
them fine children capable of keeping up the credit of the island
people. But we have no concern with them further than to note their
arrival, and to record the fact that, as they grew old enough to
realize things, they all adored their eldest brother, who, for some
reason or another which they could not understand, was looked up to as
possessing some mysterious blessing from on high beyond that accorded
to any one else. They knew, however, that he was totally unconscious of
this. He went on his happy care-free way, full of gay life, full of fun
and harmless mischief, but also full of love for all around him.
It was now that he had his first real adventure. As I have said, he was
sixteen years of age, and, as was usual among the island people, he was
as big and strong as a full-grown man, though, of course, not with so
much stamina. He was a constant companion to his father, who was now
a mighty man indeed, at the meridian of a life that had been so well
spent and so peaceful that all his powers were in perfection. C. B. was
never tired of admiring his father’s huge proportions, as, with only
a pair of breeches on cut off at the mid-thigh, they swam or fished
together. To C. B. his father was indeed a king of men, strong, wise
and kind; and he was overjoyed to be near him, to feel his superiority,
and to hope some day, if God willed, to be like him. They were
companions in everything now that C. B.’s studies had finished, and the
elder man felt his youth renewed as he watched his son springing to
whatever work was in hand, felt indeed that he was signally blessed and
was very happy.
So it came to pass that one morning, as soon as the first gorgeous
heralding of the dawn had overspread the sky, Philip and C. B. arose
from their several mats (bedsteads, bedding and all the paraphernalia
of our bedrooms being unknown and therefore unwanted), and after a
loving kiss and a blessing from mother Grace, who was still beautiful
and always abundantly happy, they strode down to the shore for the
commencement of a day’s fishing. It was the season when a special kind
of fish greatly liked by the islanders came inshore near enough to be
caught in large numbers with hook and line. It was always an occasion
of great activity among the men, not that they depended upon the
fishing, but because it afforded a large quantity of pleasant food, and
they always attacked the opportunity eagerly.
So when Philip and his son reached the boat-house all hands requisite
for manning the boats were there, and after the usual hearty greetings
and the indispensable word of prayer, without which no enterprise was
ever undertaken, were over, all sprang to the work, fairly hurling the
vessels into the foaming surf, and in a few minutes the two vessels,
doubly manned, were in the smooth water beyond the rollers, and to
the accompaniment of happy song were making their way seaward to the
fishing grounds.
The beauty of the day was not more marked than usual in such a lovely
climate, but to any one who was accustomed to the grey cold mornings of
our northern home it would have called forth ecstasies of admiration.
For as the golden sun rose majestically from the horizon all nature
was flooded with glory, an added wealth of beauty that made even those
most accustomed to it catch their breath. The sea was like a sheet
of shot-silk whereof every movement exhibited a wonderful play of
different colours and shades in endless variety, while the diversity
of hill, dale and beach ashore, unable to compete with all this glowing
series of tints, yet showed a splendour of illuminated contour flecked
with passing cloud shadows that held the eye enchanted with its beauty.
Every member of the boats’ crews noted this loveliness, revelled in it,
and since there was no need for silence as in the chase of the whale,
discussed it in such terms of affection as their limited vocabulary
could command. Said John Young--
“Seems to me that the gold and jewellery of the New Jerusalem John
writes about wouldn’t please me like this. If God’s going to make a new
heaven and a new earth, I’d like to live on the new earth if it’s going
to be like this. But I can’t imagine Him making it any better.”
“Ah,” responded Walter McCoy, “that’s because you’ve never been away
from here, one of the most favoured spots on His footstool. Now I’ve
been down south of New Zealand in the winter, an’ when the great gales
blow, a sea gets up that’s like a ravening host of wild beasts. Snow
and sleet strike you like whips, and the cold searches the very marrow
of your bones. Then I thought of our dear island home, and prayed God
to take me back there quick or let me die.”
Philip chimed in, with one of his beautiful smiles mantling his strong
face, “Walter, my boy, that was because you let your body dictate to
your soul. I know, and when I was up the Behring Sea I hid away one
night when the call came to work. I had all the man frozen out of me.
And as I laid in the stinking corner I felt the bitterest pang of shame
I have ever known. Something said to me, ‘You’re a fine-weather man,
and your trust in God only works when you are comfortable.’ I tell
you, boys, that hit me worse than ever the mate’s boot would have done
if he had caught me. But I thank God that He gave me courage to rush
out of my hole as if I had been flung out, and do the work that fell to
my share. And the lesson has lasted all my life.”
At that moment the leader in the other boat cried loudly, “Here we are,
boys; ship oars and out lines. There’s a splendid lot of fish, thank
God.”
All hands obeyed on the instant, and presently the boy was delighted
beyond measure to see the fine big fish come tumbling inboard one after
the other in quick succession. It was indeed a stirring scene, although
from a sporting point of view it savoured too much of business,
perhaps. These were not sportsmen though; they only fished to satisfy
their bodily needs, having no idea of making game of taking life, their
savage instincts having been entirely modified by their practical
working belief in the loving Father.
They were in the height of their fishing, the boats being half full
of spoil, when Philip, who had a very large fish on his line, turned
to see how his son was faring with another big fellow, and as he did
so, his foot slipped upon some slime in the sternsheets and he fell
backwards, striking his side upon the boat’s gunwale and falling
overboard. A great shout of laughter went up from all the boat’s crew
except C. B., for with these amphibious islanders to fall overboard was
just a bit of good fun. But C. B., craning over the side, saw that his
father, instead of coming to the surface again like a cork, was still
far below, and at the same instant he noticed an awful black shadow
gliding swiftly in the direction of the still sinking man. Without a
moment’s hesitation he dived, feeling at the same moment for the knife
in his belt, a long keen-bladed weapon which all carried while fishing.
Downward he sped through the clear water, arriving by the side of his
father’s quietly undulating body just as a great glare of white showed
the belly of a sixteen-foot shark as he turned to bite at this big
piece of food. In a moment the boy had snatched his knife from his
belt, and with one tremendous spring sideways had plunged it deep into
the belly of the monster, and then with a strength that amazed himself
sawed it lengthways along the great body. The water grew thick with
blood, he groped blindly for the body of his father, felt nothing, swam
gropingly about until almost bursting from lack of air, and then with a
feeling of utter despair shot upwards to the surface.
One deep painful breath and, clearing his eyes, C. B. stared wildly
about him. Then he gave one despairing cry of “Father!” It was answered
by a dozen different voices cheerfully crying, “All right, all right,”
and in a moment or two he found two stalwart swimmers by his side ready
to aid him if he needed help, and keeping up an incessant splashing in
the water for the purpose of scaring the sharks. Guided by them he swam
to the boat, and just as he snatched at the gunwale to climb inboard
two huge sharks rushed towards the little group of three from opposite
directions, meeting head on in full career with such a tremendous shock
that they both sank quietly down apparently stunned, while the three
friends climbed safely into the boat.
And there lay his father, still and pale as his bronzed face would
show, but, God be praised, yet alive. C. B.’s first impulse was to
fling himself down by his father’s side and burst into an agony of
weeping, for he thought that the dear one was dead; but, without
a restraining hand being laid upon him, he conquered himself and,
trembling violently, said, “Is father much hurt?”
“We don’t know yet,” replied Walter McCoy, “but, thank God, he’s still
alive, and I can’t imagine such a man as he is being killed by what
he’s just gone through. But we’re getting ashore with all speed, and
if you will take an oar it’ll help you a lot: you’ll know you’re doing
something for him that must be done and that with all your might: Give
way, boys; we want to get home quick.”
C. B. instantly seized an oar and laid to it with a will, as did all
the rest, full of anxiety as they were to get their much-loved comrade
home. So in a very brief space they made a landing, and were met on the
beach by Grace, who with love’s intuition, had felt that something had
happened which needed her presence. When she saw the still limp form
of her love, she only turned a shade paler and felt her knees tremble.
Then quietly, as if inviting a few of them up to supper, said, “Please,
friends, bring him gently along to the house where I can attend to him
properly.”
Then turning to her boy she kissed him, having noted his working face,
saying, “Don’t worry, dear; he’s in our Father’s hands and all will be
right.”
But C. B., boy-like, could no longer restrain himself, and bursting
into a very tempest of tears, sobbed out, “I tried to save him, mother,
indeed I did.”
“Ay, that he did; no man could have done more than this boy, Grace,”
said the nearest men in unison. And as they followed the bearers of
Philip across the fragrant fields to the house, Grace heard with a
swelling heart of the noble deed whereby her first-born had proved his
manhood, and managed to find room in her stricken heart for pride that
she had been permitted to rear such a noble son. Then dismissing the
whole heroic deed from her mind for the time she hastened her steps,
intent upon preparing a comfortable bed for her suffering husband. It
was an ordeal through which she had never before passed, but she rose
to the occasion, and when the bearers arrived she faced them calmly,
and directed them where to lay him.
The ablest of the islanders in the matter of simple surgery soon
arrived, and after keen examination of the insensible man declared
that he was suffering from three broken ribs, a mere trifle in these
stalwart men’s eyes. What else there might be internally he could
not tell, but he did what he could in bandaging the massive body
tightly, and then suggested that they should all kneel and pray for
the success of the means used. Which was done in simplest fashion, and
as the prayer ended, all were startled to hear a sonorous amen from
the hitherto unconscious man. It needed no ordinary restraint to keep
them from bursting into cries of joy, but they did refrain, and with
murmured thanksgivings all went away except the impromptu surgeon,
Grace and her son, the younger children having been taken away by
helpful neighbours.
The scene that ensued was a delightful one, Grace and her boy welcoming
back the friend and father, who, except for an occasional spasm of
pain flitting across his bronzed features, seemed to have entirely
recovered from his recent terrible experience, and inclined to blame
himself severely for letting “such a trifle upset him,” as he put it.
Indeed, except for the pain of his grating ribs, which at each movement
reminded him of the mischief done, he was quite impatient of lying
there, wanted to be up and doing, although there was nothing to be
done.
Suddenly his roving glance fell upon C. B., who, having finished some
small task he had been engaged upon for his mother, was standing near
gazing upon his father with eyes humid with love. Philip half raised
himself, suppressing a groan of pain, and beckoning to his boy said,
“Grace, this son of ours is a man. He has done a deed to-day of which
any man might be proud and few men would even attempt. More than that
he has saved me for you.”
Grace replied, with one of her beautiful smiles shining on her still
comely cheeks: “For that, if he had been a bad boy all his life instead
of a very crown of rejoicing, he should possess the very core of my
heart. But being what he is and has always been, I can only, as I have
continually done since he was born, bless God for him humbly as I do
for you.”
Then Philip, putting his arm round the boy’s neck, said slowly: “From
this out my son, you are my partner as well. I look upon you no longer
as a boy but a man, not merely as a son but as a brother, equal in
all things. Grace, you must say good-bye to your little boy, who has
attained unto the full stature of a man.” At which his brothers and
sisters, who had now returned, burst into loud lamentations, not
realizing the importance of the occasion, only feeling that they had
lost their playmate.
But C. B. drew himself up with an air of native dignity and replied, “I
felt like a man, dad, when I dived after you, but now I know I am one,
and I hope, like you, I shall never do what a man ought to be ashamed
to do.”
There was another cheerful gathering at Philip’s home that evening, and
the usual round of prayer and praise which was the keynote of all their
festivities, praise especially, floods of melody rising and falling
across those peaceful savannahs and making them echo again. In all
the pleasant exercises C. B. took his part, being now recognized as
no longer a child, but he listened with greater interest than ever to
the thousand-times repeated tale of the Lord’s wondrous dealing with
this little band of people descended from murderers and savages, yet by
the special grace of Providence developing into the most consistently
Christian people upon earth. And so, with a final triumphant outburst
of the Old Hundredth, the happy meeting terminated, and the revellers
dispersed across the scented meadows to their several homes.
One of the most remarkable things about primitive peoples is the way
they recover from hurts; wounds, bruises, fractures that would mean
long and severe illness to civilized folk being treated by them as of
little or no account. This is, of course, to be noted among animals,
who recover with surprising rapidity and ease from the most shocking
wounds, and with only the most rough and careless methods of surgery if
they receive any attention at all. I have a big Labrador dog which was
recently kicked in the face by a skittish horse. Owing to my absence
from home nothing was done to the poor beast, whose jaw was exposed
to a cut three inches long for four days. And the ghastly wound could
not heal, because when it irritated him the dog would rub his face
against a quickset hedge and tear the wound open again. I took him to a
veterinary surgeon, who put three stitches in the gaping gash, drawing
the ragged edges as closely together as possible, and confining the
poor animal for three days with a shield over his head. The result is
that now, two months after the accident, it is impossible to see where
the injury was.
And in just the same marvellous way will the human animal recover from
the most ghastly wounds, although many savage customs militate directly
against health. But when perfectly natural living is allied to purity
of mind and body and an absence of every kind of stimulant whatever, we
have a condition of things making for perfect health, such health as
may only be seen among the people of whom I am writing.
As usual then Philip made so rapid a recovery that within a week he was
going about his daily duties as if nothing had happened, and had quite
forgotten the episode as far as his injuries were concerned. But his
son was now his inseparable companion; they became as it were partners
in every enterprise, and the proud father noted with complacent pride
the development of his son’s body and mind as being on the way to
surpass his own. As far as ordinary school education went they were
about equal, as indeed were all the islanders, for the subjects they
learned were strictly limited, and they had no craving for higher
education, not knowing or feeling any need of it.
But all unconsciously, during their long hours together, Philip was
filling the boy with strong desire to see the great world without.
Philip’s adventures on his two voyages had been fairly exciting,
but hitherto he had said little about them to his fellows, because
there were many things connected with them that he did not care to
recall. They had filled him with more ardent love than ever for his
quiet island home, and he had used such influence as he possessed to
dissuade any of his friends from wandering.
Now, however, in reply to constant questioning, he told his son more
than ever he had done before, recalling scenes long forgotten, while
the boy listened with intensest interest and admiration for the grand
father whom he almost worshipped. And so C. B. grew steadily towards
manhood in all the best traditions of the community, until at eighteen
years of age he had risen to the full stature of a man in all that
makes for true manliness, innocent without being ignorant of all that
was worth his knowing, brave, modest and strong, and withal, in spite
of the uncouth garb in which he was clothed in common with all his
fellows, handsome as the statue of a Greek god. And here endeth the
sketch of Christmas Bounty’s boyhood.