PROMOTION.
I may tell my would-be or will-be sailor-boys, that time flies fast
enough when one is serving in a pleasant and happy ship on a foreign
shore. Just a little weariness and longing there may be for the
first month or two, then one settles down.
You do not cease to think of home, however. As regards love of home,
absence really makes the heart grow fonder. You think of it often
and often when keeping your lonesome middle-watch, as you gaze
upwards at the star-studded sky, or outwards far across the darkling
sea, and you dream of it while rocked in your hammock or tiny
cabin-cot; and somehow these dreams are nearly always pleasant. Then
again, a dear delight it is to receive letters from home. The next
greatest pleasure is in writing them.
Writing letters home, as far as the Royal Navy is concerned, is an
occupation one should engage in at all odd moments. The letters
should be ready to go at any time, for you never know when a chance
may occur. A homeward-bound ship may be sighted and lie to, then aft
and forward rings the cry, "Letters for home!"
If the midshipman of the watch or a bo's'n draws aside the gun-room
curtain, and shouts "Any letters for England, gentlemen?" and you
have not got yours ready, owing to a spirit of procrastination that
lately dominated you,--well, you will be ready to bite the tip off
your tongue. You will feel just real mad with yourself.
But so many incidents and adventures, to say nothing of duty's strict
routine, go to make up a sailor's life, whether young or not, that it
is wonderful how speedily pass the months, ay, and the years too,
until the "Ordered home" arrives.
Then indeed is there excitement. But once the jib-boom is pointing
straight ahead towards our own beloved land, time no longer flies, it
abjures the swift, darting flight of the swallow and lags along at
the pace of a slug.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Well now, two whole years have passed away since Creggan and his
friend made that memorable though all too brief tour in Venezuela
with the kindly young landsman Miguel, and it would be difficult
indeed to cram the story of all their ups and downs into even a dozen
chapters. I have no such intention. In fact, though I tell this
story from the life, it is impossible for me to remember all they did
or didn't do in that time.
I will just inform you, that at the end of two years they were once
more back again at the mouth of the great white rolling Orinoco, and,
as history repeats itself, Miguel once more came on board, looking
not a bit changed, and once more Creggan and the Ugly Duckling went
with him up stream to his mother's beautiful mansion.
This time they intended going no farther, but they were accompanied
by dear, kind little Sidney Wickens, and also by their two staunch
friends, Hurricane Bob and Oscar.
Now, I must tell you something. Sidney was a genial but quiet young
fellow, whose very manner appeared to invite the confidence of his
fellows, and when, one evening, nobody but he and Duckie sat together
in their little mess-room--this was shortly after their first visit
to Venezuela,--the latter had suddenly begun to laugh.
"Oh," cried Sidney, "give us a chance to join you, old man. A good
laugh is invaluable, from a health point of view."
"Well, I'll tell you, though I wouldn't tell everybody."
"No? Well, let me hear."
"Then," said the Duckling, "you wouldn't think that anyone so awfully
ugly as I am would have a little sweetheart."
"My dear fellow," said Sidney soothingly, "I'll tell you the truth.
As to beauty you are not an Adonis, but your manner is so
good-natured and pleasant and humorsome and all that, one never
thinks about your features. Besides, as a rule girls hate pretty
faces on men; that is, sensible girls do."
"Well, but my sweetheart is only a child."
"Tell me."
The Ugly Duckling did, from the beginning of the story down to the
parting and the promised engagement-ring.
Sidney was much interested.
Then getting up he said quietly, "I'll be back in a minute."
He drew aside, the curtain and disappeared. Down to his big
sea-chest in the cockpit he dived, and soon returned singing low to
himself, with his jewel-case in one hand. He placed it on the table,
and opened his show of sparkling gems.
"Give me that bit of cardboard," he said, "with the size of Natina's
finger in it. Ah!" he cried jubilantly a moment after, "this one
will just fit. A trifle large, but her sweet wee finger will grow to
it. See how it sparkles! Isn't it just too awfully lovely for
anything?"
"But, dear Wickens, I--I--"
"Come now, none of that. If you won't have it, why, I'll keep it and
give it to the pretty Natina myself, and so cut you out."
"I shall have it," cried his companion laughing as he stretched out
his hand, "But, how can I thank you?"
"By not saying a word. If you thank me I'll shy a bit of biscuit at
you. So there!"
Well, on this second visit the Ugly Duckling would not go up stream
without Sidney, and they all spent a most happy week.
Of course Natina was greatly delighted with the ring, and just as
pretty and affectionate as ever, only she divided her affections most
impartially between the dogs and the Duckling.
Miguel gave a party and a dance or play every night. His guests
stopped at the mansion, and when good-byes were said at last they
were very sincere indeed, and, as far as innocent little Natty was
concerned, accompanied by tears.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The _Osprey_ had got her anchor up, and started now on a very long
cruise indeed--all the way to New Zealand and Australia.
I always think the study of a really good map of the world is quite a
delight. It gives one such a thorough insight as to the bearings of
his own little land, to the seas and vast continents in other parts
of the globe. Geography, I believe, should always be taught and
learned in the easiest and most pleasant way possible.
Now, I suppose that if I were to tell you that Cape Horn was the
southernmost point of land in South America, and that the ship was
now going to coast down and round this stormy cape, you would
naturally think her course would lie south all the way.
Not at all. Oblige me by looking at your map.
And now let us sail along in the jolly old frigate.
We leave, then, the mouth of the mighty Orinoco, and instead of
steering south it is pretty nearly all easting until we reach
Trinidad, the most southerly of all the West India islands, then our
course is about south-east and by east till we cross the burning
equator and round Cape St. Roque, then about south till we look in at
Rio Janeiro.
Rio Janeiro stands next to Edinburgh as the most romantic in
situation and surroundings in the world. The city itself perhaps
looks best at a distance--well, Scot though I be, I must confess that
there are some parts of Old Edinburgh itself that at best will hardly
bear close inspection. Rio simply means a river, and Rio Janeiro is
the city of romance.
We take a course now with a bit of westerly in it, and in time reach
another Rio--the Rio de la Plata. Yonder on our starboard beam lies
the great and painfully-neglected Argentine Republic.
Coasting still to the south we skirt the shores of Patagonia.
Somehow we associate everything big and large with this long stretch
of wild country. Land of giants, land of the llama and
swiftly-bounding guanaco. Land of the lasso, too, and stalwart men
on fleet horses that can use it. Not a bad lot of fellows at all, if
you take them the right way.
But here we are at the entrance to the Straits of Magellan. No, we
are not going through this voyage. We pass between the coast and the
lonely Falkland Islands. These islands of the far south are somewhat
akin in climate to our Orkneys, healthy and bracing, though the
country is subject to terrible storms. It has hills and dells and
glens, with many a dark tarn and rippling stream, crowded with fish
that are by no means shy. The islands number about eighty in all.
The summer is very pleasant. If you and I go there to spend a few
months, reader, we'll have excellent sport, and no letters or morning
papers to worry over. The Falklands are almost treeless, but that
does not signify much so long as one is happy and can eat a good
breakfast.
Well, here is Staten Island. Rather different is this Argentine isle
from the Staten of New York.
Ugh! how bitterly the north-western winds are howling around its
rocks. And see, yonder--summer though it be--its dark gloomy cliffs,
home of the penguin and many a strange bird besides, are capped with
snow; so, too, are its mountains.
Occasionally now a sea-elephant looks up to stare at us, and now and
then a shoal of the ubiquitous porpoises go dancing and cooing past,
or a solitary whale ploughs across our hawse but deigns not even to
look at us. He or she is intent only on her own business. Perhaps
she has a calf alongside her sucking like an overgrown puppy--great,
sweet innocent,--and she is taking it north to warmer water.
My conscience!--as they say in the north of bonnie Scotland,--how
ships that can only sail have to rough it while rounding the Cape!
Snow and fog, icebergs, and sometimes howling winds from the
west-north-west!
"And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald."
Yes, green enough as to its sides sometimes, but all clad in deep,
deep snow above.
And we now walk the icy decks carefully, blowing occasionally on our
half-frozen though mitted fingers. The ear-lappets of our
sou'-westers are pulled down, our faces being either blue or white
according to the strength of the circulation.
Small pieces of ice rattle along our quarters and bump us, but we
care not for that; we do but pray that in the darkness of night we
may not foul the fore-foot of some fearful berg. Should we do so,
backward our barque would reel and stagger, to sink all too soon in
the deepest, blackest sea, that rolls anywhere around this
terrestrial ball.
To our starboard, though we cannot see it, lies the terrible island
of Tierra del Fuego, literally the Land of Fire. Land of the canoe
islanders, the most implacable savages to be met with anywhere. Who
is going to take his life in his hand and spend a year in exploring
this wild country? Will you come with me, boy-readers? Why, we
should make a name to ourselves, if not fortunes. We should come
back, if the savages didn't roast and eat us, with a book. We should
add much to the geography and the anthropology of the world, and
discover--coals.
But our ship is clear away from the black stormy sea at last, and
clear of the ice.
So we sail merrily on across a wide and trackless ocean on a beam
wind for weeks and weeks, till, hurrah! we are past Bounty Island and
reach bonnie Dunedin itself. And here let me tell you, that if there
be a single drop of Scottish blood in your veins, you are sure of a
Highland welcome.
The cruise described in this chapter is just as near to the life as I
can make it, and pretty much what our bold crew of the _Osprey_ found
it. And the paddle-frigate soon after this came across the new
flag-ship for the Australian station. Captain Leeward himself
boarded her, accompanied by a lieutenant, leaving the other officers
to wait impatiently for his return.
"I wonder," said the Ugly Duckling to Dr. Grant, "if we shall be
ordered home."
"Not the ghost of a chance of that, mother's brave and beautiful
boy," replied Grant; "but we'll have letters, and lots of further
despatches sending us off wild-goose chasing all over the world."
"Well, I like it," said Creggan.
"So do I," said Sidney Wickens.
Creggan was twenty-one now, and a handsome sailor he looked in his
jacket of blue, with his budding moustache of darkest down, his
bright face, and happy smile that nothing could banish.
When Captain Leeward returned, they soon found that Grant was right
in his surmise. There was no "Ordered home", but plenty of
despatches for many parts of the world.
There were letters from home. It is needless to say that these were
hailed with delight.
But there was something else as well, namely, an order addressed to
sub-lieutenants Creggan Ogg M'Vayne and Sidney Wickens to repair
forthwith on board the flag-ship and pay their respects to the
admiral.
"Something good, I'll be bound!" said Grant. "Ah, you're lucky lads!
The Lords Commissioners seldom think of us poor slaving surgeons.
Heigho!"
The admiral received them on his quarter-deck with great affability.
Then he asked them in to his own quarters and bade them be seated.
"I have good news for you both," he said, "and, not to go about the
bush, you are both promoted to be lieutenants.
"And," he added, "you can go home in the _D----_, which will sail
from Port Phillip a month hence, and take up your commissions."
Both the young fellows smiled joyously and thanked him.
"Well, sir," said Creggan, "is it absolutely necessary that I should
go home? Could you not grant me leave to remain in the dear old
_Osprey_, mess in the gun-room, and see all that is to be seen until
the paddler is ordered home?"
The admiral laughed right heartily.
"Well," he said, "it is the drollest application ever I heard. What
about you, Mr. Wickens?"
"Oh please, admiral, I'll go home."
"Then I grant you leave to stay, Mr. M'Vayne. But I have still
better news to give you.
"Commander Flint," he added with that pleasant smile of his, "under
whom you served, and whose life you saved in a particularly gallant
way, has been moving heaven and earth, and Whitehall as well, to
obtain for you the Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery in presence
of the foe. And I think I can assure you he will be successful, so
you may look forward, Mr. M'Vayne, to having that grand decoration
conferred on you by the hands of our dear Queen herself."
Creggan felt himself growing red and white by turns. He could only
blurt out a few words which I dare say were very stupid. But the
admiral laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
"Go on board your own ship now, Lieutenant M'Vayne, and say no more.
But you must both come and dine with me to-night. Till then, adieu."
Every man-Jack felt sad when Sidney Wickens sailed for home. He had
endeared himself to all. And his mess-mates never saw him more. He
was buried, I think, at sea, in the bosom of the blue Levant.