They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind grew high,
And gurly grew the sea.
_Sir Patrick Spens_.
"Hilloa!" exclaimed the skipper with a sudden start, next morning, as he
saw Eric's recumbent figure on the ratlin stuff, "who be this young
varmint?"
"Oh, I brought him aboord last night," said Davey; "he wanted to be
cabin-boy."
"Precious like un _he_ looks. Never mind, we've got him and we'll use
him."
The vessel was under way when Eric woke and collected his scattered
thoughts to a remembrance of his new position. At first, as the _Stormy
Petrel_ dashed its way gallantly through the blue sea, he felt one
absorbing sense of joy to have escaped from Roslyn. But before he had
been three hours on board, his eyes were opened to the trying nature of
his circumstances, which were, indeed, _so_ trying that _anything_ in
the world seemed preferable to enduring them. He had escaped from
Roslyn, but, alas he had not escaped from himself. He had hardly been
three hours on board when he would have given everything in his power to
be back again; but such regrets were useless, for the vessel was now
fairly on her way for Corunna, where she was to take in a cargo of
cattle.
There were eight men belonging to the crew; and as the ship was only a
little trading schooner, these were sailors of the lowest and coarsest
grade. They all seemed to take their cue from the captain, who was a
drunken, blaspheming, and cruel vagabond.
This man from the first took a savage hatred to Eric, partly because he
was annoyed with Davey for bringing him on board. The first words he
addressed to him were--
"I say, you young lubber, you must pay your footing."
"I've got nothing to pay with. I brought no money with me."
"Well, then, you shall give us your gran' clothes. Them things isn't
fit for a cabin-boy."
Eric saw no remedy, and making a virtue of necessity, exchanged his good
cloth suit for a rough sailor's shirt and trousers, not over clean,
which the captain gave him. His own clothes were at once appropriated
by that functionary, who carried them into his cabin. But it was lucky
for Eric that, seeing how matters were likely to go, he had succeeded in
secreting his watch.
The day grew misty and comfortless, and towards evening the wind rose to
a storm. Eric soon began to feel very sick, and, to make his case
worse, could not endure either the taste, smell, or sight of such coarse
food as was contemptuously flung to him.
"Where am I to sleep?" he asked, "I feel very sick."
"Babby," said one of the sailors, "what's your name?"
"Williams."
"Well, Bill, you'll have to get over yer sickness pretty soon, _I_ can
tell ye. Here," he added, relenting a little, "Davey's slung ye a
hammock in the forecastle."
He showed the way, but poor Eric in the dark, and amid the lurches of
the vessel, could hardly steady himself down the companion-ladder, much
less get into his hammock. The man saw his condition, and, sulkily
enough, hove him into his place.
And there, in that swinging bed, where sleep seemed impossible, and in
which he was unpleasantly shaken about, when the ship rolled and pitched
through the dark, heaving, discoloured waves, and with dirty men
sleeping round him at night, until the atmosphere of the forecastle
became like poison, hopelessly and helplessly sick, and half-starved,
the boy lay for two days. The crew neglected him shamefully. It was
nobody's business to wait on him, and he could procure neither
sufficient food nor any water; they only brought him some grog to drink,
which in his weakness and sickness was nauseous to him as medicine.
"I say, you young cub down there," shouted the skipper to him from the
hatchway, "come up and swab this deck."
He got up, and after bruising himself severely, as he stumbled about to
find the ladder, made an effort to obey the command. But he staggered
from feebleness when he reached the deck, and had to grasp for some
fresh support at every step.
"None of that 'ere slobbering and shamming, Bill. Why, damn you, what
d'ye think you're here for, eh? You swab this deck, and in five
minutes, or I'll teach you, and be damned."
Sick as death, Eric slowly obeyed, but did not get through his task
without many blows and curses. He felt very ill; he had no means of
washing or cleaning himself; no brush, or comb or soap, or clean linen;
and even his sleep seemed unrefreshful when the waking brought no change
in his condition. And then the whole life of the ship was odious to
him. His sense of refinement was exquisitely keen, and now to be called
Bill, and kicked and cuffed about by these gross-minded men, and to hear
their rough, coarse, drunken talk, and sometimes endure their still more
intolerable patronage, filled him with deeply-seated loathing. His
whole soul rebelled and revolted from them all, and, seeing his
fastidious pride, not one of them showed him the least glimpse of open
kindness, though he observed that one of them did seem to pity him in
heart.
Things grew worse and worse. The perils which he had to endure at
first, when ordered about the rigging, were what affected him least; he
longed for death, and often contemplated flinging himself into those
cold deep waves which he gazed on daily over the vessel's side. Hope
was the only thing which supported him. He had heard from one of the
crew that the vessel would be back in not more than six weeks, and he
made a deeply-seated resolve to escape the very first day that they
again anchored in an English harbour.
The homeward voyage was even more intolerable, for the cattle on board
greatly increased the amount of necessary menial and disgusting work
which fell to his share, as well as made the atmosphere of the close
little schooner twice as poisonous as before. And to add to his
miseries, his relations with the crew got more and more unfavourable,
and began to reach their climax.
One night the sailor who occupied the hammock next to his heard him
winding up his watch. This he always did in the dark, as secretly and
silently as he could, and never looked at it, except when no one could
observe him; while, during the day, he kept both watch and chain
concealed in his trousers.
Next morning the man made proposals to him to sell the watch, and tried
by every species of threat and promise to extort it from him. But the
watch had been his mother's gift, and he was resolute never to part with
it into such hands.
"Very well, you young shaver, I shall tell the skipper, and he'll soon
get it out of you as your footing, depend on it."
The fellow was as good as his word, and the skipper demanded the watch
as pay for Eric's feed, for he maintained that he'd done no work, and
was perfectly useless. Eric, grown desperate, still refused, and the
man struck him brutally on the face, and at the same time aimed a kick
at him, which he vainly tried to avoid. It caught him on the knee-cap,
and put it out, causing him the most excruciating agony.
He now could do no work whatever, not even swab the deck. It was only
with difficulty that he could limp along, and every move caused him
violent pain. He grew listless and dejected, and sat all day on the
vessel's side, eagerly straining his eyes to catch any sight of land, or
gazing vacantly into the weary sameness of sea and sky.
Once, when it was rather gusty weather, all hands were wanted, and the
skipper ordered him to furl a sail.
"I can't," said Eric, in an accent of despair, barely stirring, and not
lifting his eyes to the man's unfeeling face.
"Can't, damn you! Can't! We'll soon see whether you can or no. You do
it, or _I_ shall have to mend your leg for you;" and he showered down a
storm of oaths.
Eric rose, and resolutely tried to mount the rigging, determined at
least to give no ground he could help to their wilful cruelty. But the
effort was vain, and with a sharp cry of suffering he dropped once more
on deck.
"Cursed young brat! I suppose you think we're going to bother ourselves
with you, and yer impudence, and get victuals for nothing. It's all
sham. Here, Jim, tie him up."
A stout sailor seized the unresisting boy, tied his hands together, and
then drew them up above his head, and strung them to the rigging.
"Why didn't ye strip him first, damn you?" roared the skipper.
"He's only got that blue shirt on, and that's soon mended," said the
man, taking hold of the collar of the shirt on both sides, and tearing
it open with a great rip.
Eric's white back was bare, his hands tied up, his head hanging, and his
injured leg slightly lifted from the ground. "And now for some rope-pie
for the stubborn young lubber," said the skipper, lifting a bit of rope
as he spoke.
Eric, with a shudder, heard it whistle through the air, and the next
instant it had descended on his back with a dull thump, rasping away a
red line of flesh. Now Eric knew for the first time the awful reality
of intense pain; he had determined to utter no sound, to give no sign;
but when the horrible rope fell on him, griding across his back, and
making his body literally creak under the blow, he quivered like an
aspen-leaf in every limb, and could not suppress the harrowing murmur,
"O God, help me, help me."
Again the rope whistled in the air, again it grided across the boy's
naked back, and once more the crimson furrow bore witness to the violent
laceration. A sharp shriek of inexpressible agony rang from his lips,
so shrill, so heart-rending, that it sounded long in the memory of all
who heard it. But the brute who administered the torture was untouched.
Once more, and again, the rope rose and fell, and under its marks the
blood first dribbled, and then streamed from the white and tender skin.
But Eric felt no more; that scream had been the last effort of nature;
his head had dropped on his bosom, and though his limbs still seemed to
creep at the unnatural infliction, he had fainted away.
"Stop, master, stop, if you don't want to kill the boy outright," said
Roberts, one of the crew, stepping forward, while the hot flush of
indignation burned through his tanned and weather-beaten cheek. The
sailors called him "Softy Bob," from that half-gentleness of disposition
which had made him, alone of all the men, speak one kind or consoling
word for the proud and lonely cabin-boy.
"Undo him then, and be damned," growled the skipper, and rolled off to
drink himself drunk.
"I doubt he's well-nigh done for him already," said Roberts, quickly
untying Eric's hands, round which the cords had been pulled so tight as
to leave two blue rings round his wrists. "Poor fellow, poor fellow!
it's all over now," he murmured soothingly, as the boy's body fell
motionless into his arms, which he hastily stretched to prevent him from
tumbling on the deck.
But Eric heard not and the man, touched with the deepest pity, carried
him down tenderly into his hammock, and wrapped him up in a clean
blanket, and sat by him till the swoon should be over.
It lasted very long, and the sailor began to fear that his words had
been prophetic.
"How is the young varmint?" shouted the skipper, looking into the
forecastle.
"You've killed him, I think."
The only answer was a volley of oaths; but the fellow was sufficiently
frightened to order Roberts to do all he could for his patient.
At last Eric woke with a moan. To think was too painful, but the raw
state of his back, ulcerated with the cruelty he had undergone, reminded
him too bitterly of his situation. Roberts did for him all that could
be done, but for a week Eric lay in that dark and foetid place, in the
languishing of absolute despair. Often and often the unbidden tears
flowed from very weakness from his eyes, and in the sickness of his
heart, and the torment of his wounded body, he thought that he should
die.
But youth is very strong, and it wrestled with despair, and agony, and
death, and after a time, Eric could rise from his comfortless hammock.
The news that land was in sight first roused him, and with the help of
Roberts, he was carried on deck, thankful, with childlike gratitude,
that God suffered him to breathe once more the pure air of heaven, and
sit under the canopy of its gold-pervaded blue. The breeze and the
sunlight refreshed him, as they might a broken flower; and, with eyes
up-raised, he poured from his heart a prayer of deep unspeakable
thankfulness to a Father in heaven.
Yes! at last he had remembered his Father's home. There, in the dark
berth, where every move caused irritation, and the unclean atmosphere
brooded over his senses like lead, when his forehead burned, and his
heart melted within him, and he had felt almost inclined to curse his
life, or even to end it by crawling up and committing himself to the
deep cold water which he heard rippling on the vessel's side; then, even
then, in that valley of the shadow of death, a Voice had come to him--a
still small voice--at whose holy and healing utterance Eric had bowed
his head, and had listened to the messages of God, and learned His will;
and now, in humble resignation, in touching penitence, with solemn
self-devotion, he had cast himself at the feet of Jesus, and prayed to
be helped, and guided, and forgiven. One little star of hope rose in
the darkness of his solitude, and its rays grew brighter and brighter,
till they were glorious now. Yes, for Jesus' sake he was washed, he was
cleansed, he was sanctified, he was justified, he would fear no evil,
for God was with him, and underneath were the everlasting arms.
And while he sat there, undisturbed at last, and unmolested by harsh
word or savage blow, recovering health with every breath of the sea
wind, the skipper came up to him, and muttered something half like an
apology.
The sight of him, and the sound of his voice, made Eric shudder again,
but he listened meekly, and, with no flash of scorn or horror, put out
his hand to the man to shake. There was something touching and noble in
the gesture, and thoroughly ashamed of himself for once, the fellow
shook the proffered hand, and slunk away.
They entered the broad river at Southpool.
"I must leave the ship when we get to port, Roberts," said Eric.
"I doubt whether yon'll let you," answered Roberts, jerking his finger
towards the skipper's cabin.
"Why?"
"He'll be afeared you might take the law on him."
"He needn't fear."
Roberts only shook his head.
"Then I must run away somehow. Will you help me?"
"Yes, that I will."
That very evening Eric escaped from the _Stormy Petrel_ unknown to all
but Roberts. They were in the dock, and he dropped into the water in
the evening, and swam to the pier, which was only a yard or two distant;
but the effort almost exhausted his strength, for his knee was still
painful, and he was very weak.
Wet and penniless, he knew not where to go, but spent the sleepless
night under an arch. Early the next morning he went to a pawnbroker's,
and raised 2 pounds 10 shillings on his watch, with which money he
walked straight to the railway station.
It was July, and the Roslyn summer holidays had commenced. As Eric
dragged his slow way to the station, he suddenly saw Wildney on the
other side of the street. His first impulse was to spring to meet him,
as he would have done in old times. His whole heart yearned towards
him. It was six weeks now since Eric had seen one loving face, and
during all that time he had hardly heard one kindly word. And now he
saw before him the boy with whom he had spent so many happy hours of
schoolboy friendship, with whom he had gone through so many schoolboy
adventures, and who, he believed, was still his friend.
Forgetful for the moment of his condition, Eric moved across the street.
Wildney was walking with his cousin, a beautiful girl, some four years
older than himself, whom he was evidently patronising immensely. They
were talking very merrily, and Eric overheard the word Roslyn. Like a
lightning-flash the memory of the theft, the memory of his ruin, came
upon him; he looked down at his dress--it was a coarse blue shirt, which
Roberts had given him in place of his old one, and the back of it was
stained and saturated with blood from his unhealed wounds; his trousers
were dirty, tarred, and ragged, and his shoes, full of holes, barely
covered his feet. He remembered too that for weeks he had not been able
to wash, and that very morning, as he saw himself in a looking-glass at
a shop window, he had been deeply shocked at his own appearance. His
face was white as a sheet, the fair hair matted and tangled, the eyes
sunken and surrounded with a dark colour, and dead and lustreless. No!
he could not meet Wildney as a sick and ragged sailor boy; perhaps even
he might not be recognised if he did. He drew back, and hid himself
till the merry-hearted pair had passed, and it was almost with a pang of
jealousy that he saw how happy Wildney could be while _he_ was thus; but
he cast aside the unworthy thought at once. "After all, how is poor
Charlie to know what has happened to me?"