A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE--ON THE ROCKS--MYSTERY--A HOME ON THE ROLLING
DEEP.
Has the reader ever been to sea? The first feeling that a landsman
objects to at sea is that of the heaving motion of the ship; to your
true sailor the cessation of that motion, or its absence under
circumstances, is disagreeable in the extreme. To me there is always a
certain air of romance about the old ocean, and about a ship at sea; but
what can be less romantic than lying in a harbour or dull wet dock, with
no more life nor motion in your craft than there is in the slopshop
round the corner? To lie thus and probably have to listen to the
grating voices and pointless jokes of semi-inebriated stevedores, as
they load or unload, soiling, as they do, your beautiful decks with
their dreadful boots, is very far from pleasant. In a case like this
how one wishes to be away out on the blue water once more, and to feel
life in the good ship once again--to feel, as it were, her very heart
throb beneath one's feet!
But disagreeable as the sensation is of lying lifeless in harbour or
dock, still more so is it to feel your vessel, that one moment before
was sailing peacefully over the sea, suddenly rasp on a rock beneath
you, then stop dead. Nothing in the world will wake a sailor sooner,
even should he be in the deepest of slumber, than this sudden cessation
of motion. I remember on one particular occasion being awakened thus.
No crew ever went to sleep with a greater feeling of security than we
had done, for the night was fine and the ship went well. But all at
once, about four bells in the middle watch,--
Kurr-r-r-r! that was the noise we heard proceeding from our keel, then
all was steady, all was still. And every man sprang from his hammock,
every officer from his cot.
We were in the middle of the Indian Ocean, or rather the Mozambique
Channel, with no land in sight, and we were hard and fast on the dreaded
Lyra reef. A beautiful night it was, just enough wind to make a ripple
on the water for the broad moon's beams to dance in, a cloudless sky,
and countless stars. We took all this in at the first glance. Safe
enough we were--for the time; _but_ if the wind rose there was the
certainty of our being broken up, even as the war-ship _Lyra_ was, that
gave its name to the reef.
At the first shout from the man on the outlook in the _Arrandoon_,
McBain rushed on deck. "Stand by both anchors. Ready about." But
these orders are, alas! too late. Kurr-r-r-r! The stately _Arrandoon_
is hard and fast on the rocky bottom.
The ship was under easy sail, for although there was hardly any wind,
what little there was gave evident signs of shifting. It might come on
to blow, and blow pretty hard, too, from the south-east or
east-south-east, and Mr Stevenson was hardly the man to be caught in a
trap, to find himself on a lee shore or a rock-bound coast, with a crowd
of canvas. Well for our people it was that there was but little sail on
her and little wind, or, speedily as everything was let go, the masts--
some of them at least--would have gone by the board.
Half an hour after she struck, the _Arrandoon_ was under bare poles and
steam was up.
The order had been given to get up steam with all speed. Both the
engineer and his two assistants were brawny Scots.
"Man!" said the former, "it'll take ye a whole hour to get up steam if
you bother wi' coals and cinders alone. But do your best wi' what ye
hae till I come back."
He wasn't gone long ere he came staggering down the ladder again,
carrying a sack.
"It's American hams," he said; "they're hardly fit for anything else but
fuel, so here goes."
And he popped a couple into the fire.
"That's the style," he said, as they began to frizzle and blaze. "Look,
lads, the kettle'll be boilin' in twa seconds."
"Thank you, Stuart," said McBain, when the engineer went on the bridge
to report everything ready; "you are a valuable servant; now stand by to
receive orders."
All hands had been called, and there was certainly plenty for them to
do.
It wanted several hours to high-water, and McBain determined to make the
best of his time.
"By the blessing of Providence on our own exertions, Stevenson," the
captain said, "we'll get her off all right. Had it been high-water,
though, when we ran on shore, eh!"
Stevenson laughed a grim laugh. "We'd leave her bones here," he said,
"that would be all."
The men were now getting their big guns over the side into the boats.
This would lighten her a little. But as the tide was flowing, anchors
were sent out astern, to prevent the ship from being carried still
farther on to the reef.
"Go astern at full speed."
The screws revolved and kept on revolving, the ship still stuck fast.
The night was very dark, so that everything had to be done by the weird
light of lanterns. Never mind, the work went cheerily on, and the men
sang as they laboured.
"High-water about half-past two, isn't it, Stevenson?" asked Captain
McBain.
"Yes, sir," the mate replied, "that's about the time, sir."
"Ah! well," the captain said, "she is sure to float then, and there are
no signs of your storm coming."
"There is hardly a breath of wind now, sir, but you never know in these
latitudes where it may come on to blow from next."
The cheerful way in which McBain talked reassured our heroes, and
towards eleven o'clock English Ralph spoke as follows,--
"Look here, boys--"
"There isn't a bit of good looking in the dark, is there?" said Allan.
"Well," continued Ralph, "figuratively speaking, look here; I don't see
the good of sticking up on deck in the cold. We're not doing an atom of
good; let us go below and finish our supper."
"Right," said Allan; "and mind you, that poor girl is below there all
this time. She may want some refreshment."
When they entered the saloon they found it empty, deserted as far as
human beings were concerned. Polly the cockatoo was there, no one else.
"Well?" said the bird, inquiringly, as she helped herself to an enormous
mouthful of hemp-seed. "Well?"
"What have you done with the young lady?" asked Allan.
"The proof o' the pudding--"
Polly was too busy eating to say more. Peter the steward entered just
then, overhearing the question as he came.
"That strange girl, sir," he replied, "went over the side and away in
her boat as soon as the ship struck."
"Well, I call that a pity," said Allan; "the poor girl comes here to
warn us of danger and never stops for thanks. It is wonderful."
"From this date," remarked Ralph, "I cease to wonder at anything.
Steward, you know we were only half done with supper, and we're all as
hungry as hunters, and--"
But Peter was off, and in a few minutes our boys were supping as quietly
and contentedly as if they had been in the Coffee-room of the Queen's
Hotel, Glasgow, instead of being on a lee shore, with the certainty that
if it came on to blow not a timber of the good ship _Arrandoon_ that
would not be smashed into matchwood.
But hark! the noise on deck recommences, the men are heaving on the
winch, the engines are once more at work, and the great screw is
revolving. Then there is a shout from the men forward.
"She moves!"
"Hurrah! then, boys, hurrah!" cried McBain; "heave, and she goes."
[The word "hurrah" in the parlance of North Sea sailors means "do your
utmost" or "make all speed."]
The men burst into song--tune a wild, uncouth sailor's melody, words
extempore, one man singing one line, another metreing it with a second,
with a chorus between each line, in which all joined, with all their
strength of voice to the tune, with all the power of their brawny
muscles to the winch. Mere doggerel, but it did the turn better,
perhaps, than more refined music would have done.
In San Domingo I was born,
_Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
Our bold McBain is a captain nice,
_Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
The main-brace he is _sure_ to splice.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
The Faroe Isles are not our goal,
Oh! no, lads, no!
We'll reach the North, and we'll _bag_ the Pole,
Heave, boys, and away we go,
Hurrah!
"We're off," cried Stevenson, excitedly. "Hurrah! men. Hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!"
The men needed but little encouragement now, though. Round went the
winch right merrily, and in a quarter of an hour the bows were abreast
of the anchors.
"Now, steward," said the captain, "splice the main-brace."
The ration was brought and served, Ted Wilson, who was a moving spirit
in the 'tween decks, giving a toast, which every man re-echoed ere he
raised the basin to his head,--
"Success to the saucy _Arrandoon_, and our bold skipper, Captain
McBain."
The vessel's head was now turned seawards, and presently the anchors
that had been taken in were let go again, and fires banked. The long
night wore away, and the dismal dawn came. McBain had lain down for a
short time, with orders to be roused on the first appearance of
daylight. Rory, anxious to see how the land looked, was on deck nearly
as soon as the captain.
A grey mist was lifting up from off the sea, and from off the shore,
revealing black, beetling crags, hundreds of feet high at the water's
edge, a sheer beetling cliff around which thousands of strange sea-birds
were wheeling and screaming, their white wings relieved against the
black of the rocks, on which rows on rows of solemn-looking guillemots
sat, and lines of those strange old-fashion-faced birds, the puffins.
The cliffs were snow-clad, the hills above were terraced with rocks
almost to their summits. Between the ship and this inhospitable shore
lay a long, dangerous-looking reef of rocks.
"Ah! Rory," said McBain, "there was a merciful Providence watching over
us last night. Yonder is where we lay; had it come on to blow, not one
of us would be alive this morning to see the sun rise."
Rory could hardly help, shuddering as he thought of the narrow escape
they had had from so terrible a fate.
When steam was got up they went round the island--it was one of the most
southerly of the Faroes; but except around one little bay, where boats
might land with difficulty, it seemed impossible that human beings could
exist in such a place. What, then, was the mystery of the previous
evening, of the fair-haired girl, of the lights inside the reef that
simulated those of a broad-beamed ship, of the lights like those of a
village that twinkled on shore? The whole affair seemed strange,
inexplicable. Now that it was broad daylight the events of the
preceding night, with its dangers and its darkness, had more the
similitude of some dreadful dream than a stern reality.
This same evening the anchor was let go in the Bay of Thorshaven, the
capital--city, shall I say?--of the Faroe Islands. I am writing a tale
of adventure, not a narrative of travel, else would I willingly devote a
whole chapter to a description of this quaint and primitive wee, wee
town. Our heroes saw it at its very worst, its very bleakest, for
winter still held it in thrall; the turf-clad roofs of its cottages,
that in summer are green with grass and redolent of wild thyme, were now
clad with snow; its streets, difficult to climb even in July, were now
stairs of glass; its fort looked frozen out; and its little chapel,
where Sunday after Sunday the hardy and brave inhabitants, who never
move abroad without their lives in their hands, worship God in all
humility--this little chapel stood up black and bold against its
background of snow.
Although the streamlets were all frozen, although ice was afloat in the
bay, and a grey and leaden sky overhead, our boys were not sorry to land
and have a look around. To say that they were hospitably received would
be hardly doing the Faroese justice, for hospitality really seems a part
and parcel of the people's religion. The viands they placed before them
were well cooked, but curious, to say the least of it. Steak of young
whale, stew of young seal's liver, roast guillemot and baked auk; these
may sound queer as dinner dishes, but as they were cooked by the ancient
Faroese gentleman who entertained our heroes at his house, each and all
of them were brave eating.
Couldn't they stop a month? this gentleman, who looked like a true
descendant of some ancient viking, asked McBain. Well then, a
fortnight? well, surely one short week?
But, "Nay, nay, nay," the captain answered, kindly and smilingly, to all
his entreaties; they must hurry on to the far north ere spring and
summer came.
The Faroese could give them no clue to the mystery that shrouded the
previous night. They had never heard of either wreckers or pirates in
these peaceful islands.
"But," said the old viking, "we are willing to turn out to a man; we are
one thousand inhabitants in all--including the women; but even they will
go; and we have ten brave, real soldiers in the fort, they too will go,
and we will make search, and if we find them we will hang them on--on--"
the old man hesitated.
"On the nearest tree," suggested Rory with a mischievous smile.
The viking laughed grimly at the joke.
"Well," he said, "we will hang them anyhow, trees or no trees."
But McBain could not be induced to deviate from his set purpose, and
bidding these simple folk a friendly farewell, they steamed once more
out of the bay, passed many a strange, fantastic island, passed rocks
pierced with caves, and bird-haunted, and so, with the vessel's prow
pointing to the northward and west, they left the Faroes far behind
them.
Tremendous seas rolled in from the broad Atlantic all that night and all
next day, little wind though, and no broken water. In the evening, in
the dog-watch, the waves seemed to increase in size; they were miles
long, mountains high; when down in the trough of the sea you had to look
up to their crests as you would to the summer's sun at noontide.
Indeed, those waves made the brave ship _Arrandoon_ look wondrous small.
McBain, somewhat to Stevenson's astonishment, made the man at the wheel
steer directly north.
"We're out of our course, sir," said the mate.
"Pardon me for a minute or two," replied the captain, half
apologetically, "we are now broadside on to these seas, I just want to
test her stability."
"Well, everything is pretty fast, sir," said the mate, quietly; "but if
the ship goes on her beam-ends don't blame me."
"Perhaps, Mr Stevenson, there wouldn't be much time to blame any one;
but I can trust my ship, I think. Wo! my beauty."
The beauty didn't seem a bit inclined to "wo!" however. She positively
rolled her ports under, and Rory confessed that the doldrums were
nothing to this.
Presently up comes Rory from below.
"Och! captain dear," he says, "my gun-case has burst my fiddle-case, and
I'm not sure that the fiddle herself is safe, the darling."
Next up comes Stevenson. "Please captain," he says, "the steward says
his crockery is all going to smithereens, and the cook can't keep the
fire in the galley range, and Freezing Powders has broken the tureen and
spilt the soup, and--"
"Enough, enough," cried McBain, laughing; "take charge, mate, and do as
you like with her, I'm satisfied."
So down below dived the captain, the ship's head was once more turned
north-west, and a bit of canvas clapped on to steady her.