THE STORM--THE "CANNY SCOTIA" IN DISTRESS--RUM, MUTINY, ANARCHY, AND
DEATH--SAVED--ADVENTURE WITH A SHE-BEAR--CAPTURE OF THE YOUNG.
Has it not been said that the greatest pleasure on earth is felt on the
sudden surcease of severe pain? I am inclined, though, to doubt the
truth of this statement, and I think that nothing can equal the feeling
of quiet, calm joy that is instilled into the heart on the instant one
is plucked from the jaws of impending death. When the King of Terrors
comes speedily, while the blood is up and the heart beating high, as he
does to those who fall in the field of battle, his approach does not
seem anything like so terrible as when he lags in his march towards his
victim. One needs to have a hope that leads his thoughts beyond this
world, to be brave and calm at such a moment.
When the _Canny Scotia_ slipped her ice-anchors and was driven out to
sea, to encounter all the fury of the gale that had so suddenly sprung
up, she had not the advantages of the _Arrandoon_. She had no steam
power, nor was she so well manned. She could therefore only scud under
bare poles, or lie to with about as much canvas spread as would make a
mason's apron.
Silas didn't mean to be caught napping, however, and, as quickly as he
could, he got the tarpaulins down over the hatches, took in all spare
canvas, and did all he could for the best. Alas! the best was bad. The
_Scotia_ made fearful weather, and twenty-four hours after it had come
on to blow, she had not a topmast standing, two of her best boats had
been carried away, her bulwarks looked like a badly-built farmer's
paling, and, worse than all, she was stove amidships on the weather-side
and under the water-line. When this last disaster was reported to Silas
Grig, he called all hands to "make good repairs," and stem the flow of
the water, which was rushing inboard like a mill-stream through the ugly
hole in the vessel's side. Had it been calm weather, this might have
been done effectually enough, but, under the circumstances, it was
simply an impossibility. Everything was done, however, that could be
done, but still the seas poured in at every lurch to windward.
Then it was "All hands to the pumps." The men worked in relays, and
cheerily, too, and for a time the water was sent overboard faster than
it came in, albeit there were times when the green seas poured over the
ship like mountain cataracts. But after some hours, either through the
men flagging, or from the hole in the ship's side getting larger, the
water in the hold began to gain rapidly on them.
"Bring up black-jack!" cried the skipper to the steward, "and we'll
splice the main-brace."
"Now hurrah! lads!" he exclaimed, addressing the men after a liberal
allowance of rum had been handed round. "Hurrah! heave round again.
The storm has about spent itself and the sea is going down. We can keep
her afloat if we try. Hurrah then, hurrah!"
"Hurrah!" echoed the men in response, and, flushed with artificial
strength, they once more set themselves with redoubled energy to keep
the water under. There was no danger now from ice. The piece that had
wrought them so much mischief was about the last they had seen. So for
a time all went well, and if the water did not decrease it certainly did
not rise. An hour went by, then a deputation came aft to beg for more
rum, and the fate of this vessel, like that of many another lost at sea,
seemed sealed by the awful drink curse.
"It's hardly judicious," said Silas to his mate, "but I suppose they
must have it."
Ah! Silas Grig, it was not judicious to serve them with the first
allowance. When hard work is over and finished, and men are worn out
and tired, then is the time, if ever, to splice the main-brace; but when
work has to be done that needs clear heads, and when danger is all
around a ship, the farther away the rum is the better.
They had it, though, and presently they were singing as they pumped--
singing, but not working half so hard as before. Then even the singing
itself ceased; they were getting tired and drowsy, and yet another
allowance of rum was asked and granted.
The water rose higher in the hold.
When the men heard this report they would work no more. With one accord
they desisted from their labours, and a deputation of the boldest found
their way aft.
"It is no use, Captain Silas Grig," they said, addressing their skipper;
"the ship is going down, and we mean to die jolly. Bring up the rum."
"This is mutiny," cried the captain, pulling out a revolver. "I'll
shoot the first man dead that dares go down that cabin staircase."
"Captain," said one of the men, stepping forward, "will you let me speak
to you? I've nothing but friendly feelings towards you."
"Well," replied the skipper, "what have you to say?"
"This," said the man; "let us have no murder. Put up your
shooting-irons. It is all in vain. The men _will_ have rum. Hark!
d'ye hear that?"
"I heard a knocking below," said the skipper. "What does it mean?"
Before the man could reply there was a wild shout from the half-deck.
"It means," replied the man, "that the men have broken through the cabin
bulkheads and supplied themselves."
"Then Heaven help us!" said poor bewildered Silas.
He staggered to the seat beside the skylight and sat down, holding on by
the brass glass-guards.
A moment after the mate joined him.
"You haven't been drinking, matie," said Silas, glancing gloomily
upwards, "have you?"
"No, sir, nor the second mate, nor the steward, nor the spectioneer,"
was the mate's reply. "Give us your hand, sir. We've had words
together often; let us forgive each other now. God bless you, sir, and
if die together we must, we won't die like pigs, at all events."
There was anarchy forward, anarchy and wild revelry, and cruel brawls
and fighting, but the five men aft stuck together, and tried to comfort
each other, though there was hardly a hope in their hearts that their
vessel would be saved. A long evening wore away, a kind of
semi-darkness settled over the sea, but this short night soon gave place
once more to-day. Then down forward all was quiet; the revellers were
sleeping the stertorous sleep of the drunkard.
But the wind had fallen considerably, and the seas had gone down; the
broken waves no longer sung in the frosty air, but the ship rolled like
a half-dead thing in the trough of the sea. She was water-logged.
With infinite difficulty the mates, with the steward's assistance,
stretched more canvas, while the captain took the helm. She heeled over
to it, and looked as if she hardly cared to right again. But this
brought the hole in her side into view. Then they got heavy blankets
up, and, working as they had never worked before, they managed in an
hour and a half to staunch the leak from the outside.
Hope began to rise in their hearts, and, at the bidding of the skipper,
the steward went below and brought up a large tin of preserved soup.
"Ah! men," said poor Silas, "this is better than all the rum in the
world."
And it was, for it gave them strength and heart. They went away down
below next to the galley and half-deck, and tried to rouse some of the
men. They found five of them stark and stiff, and from the others came
nothing but groans and oaths.
So they went to the pumps themselves, and worked away for hours for dear
life itself.
Oh! what a joyful sight it was for them when, in answer to their signal
of distress, they saw the good ship _Arrandoon_ coming steaming down
towards them.
Then the grim raven Death, who had been hovering over the seemingly
doomed ship, flapped his ragged wings and flew slowly away.
They were saved!
Oil was pumped upon the water between the _Arrandoon_ and _Scotia_, to
round off the curling, comb-like peaks of the waves, and a boat was
lowered from the steamer and sent to the assistance of the distressed
vessel.
The ship was pumped out, and next day, the weather becoming once more
fine, she was towed towards the island of Jan Mayen, and made fast to a
floe. She was next heeled over and the repairs completed. The
_Arrandoon_ spared them a few spars, and plenty of willing hands to
hoist them, so that in a few days the Greenland sealer was as strong as
ever.
Silas Grig was a very happy man now. The unfortunate wretches who had
flown to meet their fate were sunk in the dark waters of the sea of ice,
but this rough but kindly-hearted skipper never let one upbraiding word
escape him towards his men, and the men knew they were forgiven, and
liked their skipper none the less for his extreme forbearance.
"Do you know what I have done?" said Silas to McBain.
"You have forgiven your men, haven't you?" replied McBain.
"Ay, that I have," said Silas, "but I have staved every cask of rum on
board, and black-jack is thrown overboard."
All along the west coast or shore of the island of Jan Mayen our heroes,
on their re-arrival there, found that the water was comparatively clear,
the bergs having been driven away out to sea on the wings of the wind,
so that by breaking the light bay ice the boats could approach quite
close to the snow-clad cliffs.
Our three boys--for boys we must continue to call them for the sake of
the days of "auld lang syne"--were glad to set foot on shore again, and
with them went old Seth and the doctor. Freezing Powders was also
invited, but his reply was, "No, sah! thank you all de same. But only
dis chile not want anoder bad winter wid a yellow bear!"
"`Adventure' you mean, don't you?" said Rory.
"Dat is him, sah!" replied the boy. "I not want no more dancin' for de
dear life."
"But the yellow bear was killed, Freezing Powders," persisted Allan.
"But him's moder not killed," said the lad, with round, open eyes. "You
seem to hab 'tirely forgotten dat, sah; and p'raps de moder is much
worse dan de son."
So they went without him. Well armed were they, and provisioned for a
day at all events.
Somewhat to their surprise, they found smoke issuing from the once
deserted huts, while a whole pack of dogs started up from where they had
been lying and attempted to bar their progress. But the same two hardy
chiefs of the Eskimos whom we last saw speeding along over the sea of
ice, with the snow-wind roaring around them, came forth, quieted the
dogs, and bade them kindly welcome.
In their broken English they told them the tale of their adventurous
journey across the pack from the far-off western land of Greenland, and
of the narrow escape they had had from the violence of the sudden storm.
Then they led the way, not into one of the small huts, but into the
large central one.
"We are making him fit and warm and good," they explained, "for our big
'Melican masta. He come directly. To-day we see his boat not far off--
a two-stick boat, with plenty mooch sail."
The "two-stick boat" which the chiefs referred to was a saucy little
Yankee yacht, that on this very morning was cruising off the island.
Our heroes spent several hours in the hut, seated by the blazing logs,
listening delightedly to a description of the strange country these
chiefs called their home--a country that few white men have ever yet
visited, and where certainly none have ever wintered.
But I cannot repeat all the strangers told them about the manners and
customs of their countrymen, the dress of the men and women, their
fishing and hunting exploits, their fierce though petty wars with other
tribes, and the wonderful life they lead throughout the summer and
during the long, drear, sunless season of winter.
"Ah!" said Rory, with a bit of a sigh, "I do like to hear these men talk
about their wild land in the Far West. We must come again and make them
tell us a deal more. I've half a mind to set out with them when they
return, and live among them for some months. I say, Ray, wouldn't it be
glorious to go surging over the ice-fields drawn by a hundred
fleet-footed hounds?"
"Drawn by a hundred hounds!" cried Allan, laughing. "Draw it mild,
Rory."
"Well," said Rory, "more or less, you know."
"Besides," Ralph put in, "these are not hounds, Rory; there is more of
the wolf about them than the hound."
"Och, botheration?" replied Rory; "you're too particular. But if I went
with these men, and dwelt among their tribes for a time, then I'd go to
press when I came back to old England."
"A book of adventure?" said Allan.
"Ah, yes!" said Rory; "a book, if you please, but not dry-as-dust prose,
my boys! I'd write an epic poem."
Talking thus, away they went on an exploring expedition, Rory riding the
high horse, building any number of castles in the air, and giving the
reins to his wonderful imagination.
"I reckon, Mr Rory," said Seth, "that you'd make the fortune of any
publisher that liked to take you up. You try New York, I guess that'd
suit you; and, if you like, you shall write the life of old trapper
Seth."
"Glorious!" cried Rory; "`A Life in the Forests of the Far West.'
Hurrah! I'll do it! You wait a bit. Look, look! What is that?"
"It's a white fox," said Seth, bowling the animal over before the others
had time to draw a bead on it.
But that white fox, with a few loons, and five guillemots--which, by the
way, when skinned, are excellent eating--were all they bagged that day.
McBain and Stevenson had better luck though, they had seen a gigantic
bear prowling around among the rough ice beneath the cliffs, and had
called away a boat and gone after it.
"O! sah!" cried Freezing Powders, running up to McBain as he was going
over the side. "Don't go, sah! I can see de yellow bear's moder and
two piccaninnies on de ice. She is one berry bad woman. She make you
dance to please de piccaninnies, den she gobble your head off. Don't
you go, sah! You not look nice widout a head. Dat am my impression,
sah."
There was nothing of the sensational about McBain's adventure with the
bear, but something of the sad. The captain of the _Arrandoon_ was not
the man to take the life of even a bear while in company of her young
ones, but he well knew how terrible and how bloodthirsty such an animal
is, and how cunning in her ferocity. He shuddered as he thought of
Allan or Rory heedlessly passing the cave or crevasse in the rocks where
she lay concealed, and being pounced upon and dragged in to be torn limb
from limb. So he determined she must die.
Once landed, they almost immediately sighted her, and gave chase. Alone
she might have escaped; but in dread terror the young ones leapt on her
back and thus hampered her movements. [She-bears with young ones are
easily got up to and killed on this account.] She then turned fiercely
at bay, coming swiftly on to the attack, bent upon a fearful vengeance
if she could only accomplish it.
"Stand by, Stevenson," cried McBain, dropping on one knee, "to fire if I
don't kill at once."
The monster held her head low as she advanced, and a less experienced
hunter would have made this the target. McBain knew better. He aimed
at the lower part of the neck, and the bear fell pierced through the
great artery of the heart. Yet so near had he allowed the animal to
come before firing, that Stevenson, trembling for his safety, had
brought his own rifle to the shoulder.
Then those two poor young bears stood up to fight for their dead dam,
giving vent to growls of grief and rage.
"We can take them alive, sir," said Stevenson. "Come along, lads."
This last sentence was addressed to the boat's crew. "Come along quick,
and bring the ropes."
Had old Seth been there, these young Bruins would soon have been
lassoed. But McBain's men were not over expert at such work. They did
manage to rope one in a few minutes, but the other gave them a deal of
trouble--sport one man erroneously called it. He invariably flew at the
man who tried to throw the rope, and the man invariably made his feet
his friends, thus giving another man a chance to try his skill. If he
failed he had to run next, and so on until at long last one more adroit
or more fortunate than his fellow succeeded in throwing the lasso over
the young bear's neck, and brought it half strangled to the ice.
"A present for you, Captain Grig," cried McBain, pulling alongside the
_Canny Scotia_ with his double capture.
Silas was delighted when he saw the two live bears. "Heaven bless you,
sir!" he exclaimed. "Why, sir, they'll fetch forty pounds each in the
London _too_. Forty pounds, sir! Think o' that. Eighty pounds for the
two o' them. Keep my little wife and all the family for a month o'
Sundays. Hurrah! matie, luck's turned."