Chapter IV (8)

In size, beauty, and importance, the “dolphin” easily claims the next place to the albacore. But an unaccountable confusion has gathered around this splendid fish on account of his popular name. The dolphin of mythological sculpture bears no resemblance either to the popularly named dolphin of the seaman and the poets, or the scientifically named dolphin of the natural histories, which is a mammal, and identical with the porpoise. One thing is certain, that no sailor will ever speak of the porpoise as a dolphin, or call _Coryphena hippuris_ anything else. Of this lovely denizen of the deep sea, it is difficult to speak soberly. Even the dullest of men wax enthusiastic over its glories, feeling sure that none of all beautiful created things can approach it for splendour of array. I have often tried to distinguish its different hues, watching it long and earnestly as it basked alongside in the limpid blue environment of its home. But my efforts have always been in vain, since every turn of its elegant form revealed some new combination of dazzling tints blending and brightening in such radiant loveliness that any classification of their shades was impossible. Then a swift wave of the wide forked tail-fin would send the lithe body all a-quiver in a new direction, where, catching a stray sunbeam it would blaze like burnished silver reflecting the golden gleam, and the overtaxed eye must needs turn away for relief. Then suddenly the marvellous creature would spring into activity, launching itself in long vibrant leaps through the air after its prey, a fleeting school of flying fish, that with all their winged speed could not escape the lethal jaws of their splendid pursuer. Having read of the wondrously changing colours of a dying dolphin I watched with great eagerness the first one that ever I saw caught. Great was my disappointment and resentment against those who had perpetrated and perpetuated such a fable. Compared with the glory of the living creature, the fading hues of its vesture when dying were as lead is to gold. Only by most careful watching was it possible to distinguish the changing colour schemes, faint and dim, as if with departing vitality they too were compelled to fade and die away into darkness. On the utilitarian side too the dolphin is beloved by the sailor, for its flesh is whiter and more sapid than that of any other deep-sea fish except the flying fish, which are too small and too infrequently got hold of on board ship to be taken much account of for food. Yet, in spite of its wondrous speed, the dolphin, when congregated in considerable numbers, often falls a prey to the giant albacore, which hurls itself into their midst, clashing its great jaws and destroying many more than it devours.

Commonest of all deep-water fish, but only found in the warm waters of the tropical seas or fairly close to their northern or southern limits is the bonito, another member of the mackerel family, but much inferior in size to the albacore. “Bonito” is a Spanish diminutive equivalent to beautiful, and beautiful the bonito certainly is, although compared with the dazzling glory of the dolphin it looks quite homely. It is a most sociable fish, keeping company with a slow-moving sailing ship for days together, and quite easily caught with a hook to which a morsel of white rag is fastened to simulate a flying fish. For its size--the largest I have ever seen being less than thirty pounds weight--its strength is incredible, as is also the quantity of warm blood it contains. On account of these two characteristics, it is usual when fishing for bonito off the end of the jibboom to take out a sack and secure it to the jib-guys with its mouth gaping wide so that the newly caught fish may be promptly dropped therein to kick and bleed in safety and cleanliness. My first bonito entailed upon me considerable discomfort. I was a lad of fourteen, and had stolen out unobserved to fish with the mate’s line, which he had left coiled on the boom. I hooked a large fish which, after a struggle, I succeeded in hauling up until I embraced him tightly with both arms. His vibrations actually shook the ship, and they continued until my whole body was quite benumbed, and I could not feel that a large patch of skin was chafed off my breast where I hugged my prize to me. And not only was I literally drenched with the fish’s blood, but the flying jib, which happened to be furled on the boom, was in a truly shocking condition likewise. Nevertheless I rejoice to think that I held on to my fish and successfully bore him inboard to the cook, although I shook so with excitement and fatigue that I could scarcely keep my feet. Nor was my triumph much discounted by the complete rope’s-ending I got the same evening, when upon hoisting the jib, its filthy condition was made manifest, and at once rightly attributed to me. The flesh of the bonito is coarse and dark, tough, and with little flavour. But still it comes as a welcome change to the worse than pauper dietary served out to crews of sailing ships generally, while the ease with which the fish may be caught, and the frequency of its companionship make it one of the most appreciated by seamen of all the denizens of the deep sea. One other virtue it possesses which makes it even more of a favourite than the dolphin, in spite of all the latter’s superior palatability--it is never poisonous, unless after exposure to the rays of the moon. Dolphin have often been known to inflict severe suffering upon those eating their flesh, and no one who has ever experienced the enormously swollen head and agonizing pain consequent upon a meal off a poisonous dolphin is ever likely to think even of such a meal again without a shudder.

Another exceedingly pretty fish found in all deep tropical waters is the skip-jack. Smaller than the average bonito, yet in the details of its form closely resembling the great albacore, this elegant fish is less sociable than any of those mentioned in the preceding lines. Therefore, it is seldom caught, although in calm weather in the doldrums thousands may often be seen making the short vertical leaps into the air from which peculiar evolution they derive their trivial name. Both the bonito and the skip-jack are subject to being devoured by the albacore, whose voracity, swiftness, and size make him the terror of all his smaller congeners.

Occasionally after a few days’ calm some delicate little fish, also belonging to the mackerel tribe--a species of caranx--will be seen huddling timorously around the rudder of a ship, as if in momentary dread of being devoured, a dread which is exceedingly well founded. The wonder is how any of them escape the ravenous jaws of the larger fish since they must find it well-nigh impossible to get away from such pursuers. They may be easily caught by a fine line and hook, and are very dainty eating. So, too, with the lovely little caranx familiar to all readers as the pilot fish. What peculiar instinct impels this beautiful tiny wanderer to attach himself to a shark is one of the mysteries of natural history, and the subject of much ignorant incredulity on the part of those who are often found ready to believe some of the most absurd travellers’ yarns. But the pilot fish and its habits deserves a whole paper to itself--it is far too interesting a subject to be dealt with in the brief space now remaining. This, too, must be said of the flying-fish, one of the most wonderful of all the inhabitants of the deep seas, yet not so important to the seaman from a utilitarian point of view, since the occasional stragglers that do fly on board ship in their blind haste to escape from their countless foes beneath, usually fall to the lot of the ship’s cat. Pussy is swift to learn that the sharp “smack” against the bulwarks at night, followed by a rapid rattling flutter means a most delicious meal for her, and smart indeed must be the sailor who finds the hapless fish before pussy has commenced her banquet.

One more important member of the true ocean fish must be mentioned, although it also frequents many shores, and is regularly caught for market on widely separated coasts. It is the barracouta or sea-pike, a large fish of delicious flavour, much resembling the hake of our own southern coasts. As I have caught this voracious fish all over the Indian Ocean, I have no hesitation at including it among deep-sea fish, although perhaps many well-informed seafarers would disagree with me. But if any seaman, still pursuing his vocation, doubts my statement, let him on his next East Indian voyage keep a line towing astern with a shred of crimson bunting hiding a stout hook at its end, as soon as the ship hauls to the nor’ard after rounding the Cape. And I can assure him that he will have several tasty messes of fish before she crosses the Line.

A MEDITERRANEAN MORNING

From my lofty roof-top here, in the highest part of Valetta, it is possible to take in at one sweeping glance a panorama that can hardly be surpassed for beauty and interest.

Intensely blue, the placid sea curdles around the rock bases of this wonderful little island as if it loved them. There are no rude breakers, no thundering, earth-shaking on-rushings of snowy-crested waves, leaping at the point of impact into filmy columns of spray.

Overhead the violet, star-sprinkled splendours of the night are just beginning to throb with returning light. One cannot say that the beams are definite, rather it is a palpitating glow that is just commencing to permeate the whole solemnity of the dome above, as does the first impulse of returning joy relax the lines of a saddened face. Far to the north may be seen a tiny cluster of fleecy cloudlets nestling together as if timid and lonely in that vast expanse of clear sky. But as the coming day touches them they put on garments of glory and beauty. Infinite gradations of colour, all tender, melt into one another upon their billowy surfaces until they spread and brighten, investing all their quadrant of the heavens with the likeness of the Gardens of Paradise.

At my feet lie the mighty edifices of stone that have, by the patient unending labour of this busy people, grown up through past ages, until now the mind reels in the attempt to sum up the account of that labour. A sea of white roofs, punctuated here and there with the dome and twin steeples of a church, the only breaks in the universal fashion of roof architecture. Away beneath, the white, clean streets--so strangely silent that the far-off tinkle of a goat-bell on the neck of some incoming band of milk-bearers strikes sharply athwart the pellucid atmosphere, like the fall of a piece of broken glass on to the pavement below. A few dim figures, recumbent upon the wide piazza of the Opera House, stir uneasily as the new light reaches them, and gape, and stretch, and fumble for cigarettes. A hurried, furtive-looking labourer glides past, his bare feet arousing no echo, but making him pass like a ghost. And then, from the direction of the Auberge de Castile, comes a solemn sound of music.

Its first faint strains rise upon the sweet morning calm like some lovely suggestion of prayer, but they are accompanied by an indefinite pulsation as of a beating at the walls of one’s heart. More and more distinct the strains arise until recognizable as Chopin’s “Marche Funèbre,” and suddenly in the distance may be discerned, turning into the Strada Mezzodi, row after row of khaki-clad figures moving, oh, so slowly. Deadened and dull the drum-beats fall, more and more insistent wails that heart-rending music, and close in its rear appears the only spot of colour in the sad ranks, the brilliant folds of the Union Jack, hiding that small oblong coffer which holds all that was mortal of Private No. ----. Perhaps in life he was rather an insignificant unit of his regiment, at times a troublesome one, familiar with “pack-drill,” “C.B.,” and “clink,” but now he has been brevetted, for a fleeting hour his fast-decaying remains are greeted with almost Royal honours.

Nearer and nearer creeps the solemn and stately procession, so slowly that the strain becomes intolerable. How do his comrades bear it? We who knew him not at all find ourselves choking, gasping in sympathy. While that silent escort is filing past we have traced his history, as it might be, his babyhood in some fair British village far away, his school-days, his pranks, his mother’s pride. Then his aspirations, what he would do when he was a man. Or perhaps he came from the slums of a great town, where, neglected, unwanted, he wallowed in the gutters, living like the sparrows, but less easily, and only surviving the rough treatment by dint of a harder grip of life than so many of his fellows. He knew no love, was coarse of speech, given to much drink and little repentance. But who thinks of that now? He is our dear brother departed, and his comrades follow him home, for the time at least solemnized at the presence among them of that awful power before whom all heads must bow.

Now, the so lately slumbering street has filled. Swarthy Maltese, Sicilians, Indians, men of all occupations, and of none, stand with bared heads and downcast faces as the King goes by. Oh that they would hasten on! But no. As if the procession would never end, it files through the Porta Reale, and at last is lost to view, although for long afterwards those muffled drums still beat upon the heart.

As if rejoicing at the passing of death, the street suddenly awakens. A very hubbub of conversation arises. Incoming crowds of workmen, striding along with that peculiarly easy gait common to the barefooted, jostle each other, and fling jest and repartee in guttural Maltese. Country vehicles, laden with all manner of queer produce, their bitless stallions swaying tinkling bells, encumber the way. Presently all make clear the crown of the road for the passage of a company of mounted infantry, which, in the almost blatant pride of fitness and workmanlike appearance, sallies forth into the country for exercise beyond the walls. But hark! martial strains are heard, a joyous blare of brass, a gleeful clatter of cymbal and drum. Hearts beat quicker, the foot taps, involuntarily acknowledging the power of music to elevate or depress the mind. Swinging into view strides a jaunty company, with heads erect and splendid swagger, and in their midst the plain imitation gun-carriage, which so short a time ago was burdened with the flag-enwrapped dead, is gaily trundled along. The moments of mourning are ended. We have hidden our dead out of our sight, and, with a spring of relief, are back again with the duties and pleasures of the living.

The great sun is soaring high, and already his beams are heating the stones so that we can hardly bear to touch them. The sea is rejoicing, for with the sun a little breeze has risen and covered that gorgeous expanse of sapphire with an infinity of wavelets, each crested with a spray of diamonds. A few barbaric-looking feluccas, their great pointed sails gleaming like snow against the blue sea, are creeping in from Gozo or Sicily, laden with fruit and fish for hungry Valetta. Far out, a long black stain against the clear sky betokens the presence of a huge steamship, homeward bound from the East, and avoiding these bright shores carefully because of stringent quarantine regulations. The very mention of the dread word “plague” is enough to cause a panic here, and if the most rigorous exclusion, at whatever cost, of vessels from infected ports, will keep us free, we will see to it that such exclusion is practised.

But what is this long, phantom-like vessel, her colour so blending with the blue of the sea, that she is difficult to distinguish? Occasionally from one of her three irregularly placed funnels there is a burst of black smoke, but otherwise she is as nearly invisible as careful painting can make her. Up there at the lofty look-out station the signalmen are discussing her with many epithets of dislike. They know her well, and all her kindred; know well, too, with what jealous, longing eyes those on board peer at the prosperous island, and with what accents of hatred they speak of the insolent, perfidious Briton, who dare to thus maintain a station of such strength, a naval base of such inestimable value, in the midst of what should be a Latin-governed sea.

But the treasure so coveted is not only guarded by all the deadly devices known to modern warfare, it is made doubly secure in that these swarthy speakers of a strange tongue know and love their rulers too well to exchange them, save at the cost of almost utter annihilation, for masters whom they equally well know and hate.

The morning freshness has gone. Valetta, never quite asleep at any time, only drowsing occasionally, is wide awake now. The bright waters of the harbour are alive with “disós,” gondola-like boats, and small steamers. The hurrying thousands have swarmed into their appointed places in the dockyard, the never-finished stone-hewing is going briskly forward, the market is a howling vortex of clamour and heat and excitement; and in its niche of living rock the tabernacle of him who yesterday was Private ----, of her Majesty’s army, lies quietly oblivious of it all.

ABNER’S TRAGEDY

Our quaint little Guamese was vociferously cheered at the close of his yarn, although in some parts it had been most difficult to follow, from the bewildering compound of dialects it was delivered in. Usually that does not trouble whalers’ crews, much accustomed as they are to the very strangest distortions of the adaptable English language. “The next gentleman to oblige” was, to my utter amazement, Abner Cushing, the child of calamity from Vermont, who had been hung up by the thumbs and flogged on the outward passage. Up till then we had all looked upon him as being at least “half a shingle short,” not to say downright loony, but that impression now received a severe shock. In a cultivated diction, totally unlike the half-intelligible drawl hitherto affected by him, he related the following story.

“Well, boys, I dare say you have often wondered what could have brought me here. Perhaps (which, come to think of it, is more likely) you haven’t troubled your heads about me at all, although even the meanest of us like to think that we fill some corner in our fellow’s mind. But if you have wondered, it could not be considered surprising. For I’m a landsman if ever there was one, a farmer, who, after even such a drilling as I’ve gone through this voyage, still feels, and doubtless looks, as awkward on board as any cow. My story is not a very long one, perhaps hardly worth the telling to anybody but myself, but it will be a change from whaling ‘shop’ anyhow, so here goes.

“My father owned a big farm in the old Green Mountain state, on which I grew up, an only son, but never unduly pampered or spoiled by the good old man. No; both he and mother, though fond of me as it was possible to be, strove to do me justice by training me up and not allowing me to sprout anyhow like a jimpson weed to do as I darn pleased with myself when and how I liked. They were careful to keep me out of temptation too, as far as they were able, which wasn’t so difficult, seeing our nearest neighbour was five miles away, and never a drop of liquor stronger than cider ever came within a day’s journey of home. So I suppose I passed as a pretty good boy; at least there were no complaints.

“One day, when I was about fifteen years old, father drove into the village some ten miles off on business, and when he came back he had a little golden-haired girl with him about twelve years old. A pale, old-fashioned little slip she was, as staid as a grandmother, and dressed in deep black. When I opened the gate for the waggon, father said, ‘This is your cousin Cicely, Abner, she’s an orphan, an’ I cal’late to raise her.’ That was all our introduction, and I, like the unlicked cub I must have been, only said, ‘that so, father,’ staring at the timid little creature so critically, that her pale face flushed rosy red under my raw gaze. I helped her out (light as a bird she was), and showed her into the house, where mother took her right to her heart on the spot. From that on she melted into the home life as if she had always been part of it, a quiet patient helper that made mother’s life a very easy one. God knows it had been hard enough. Many little attentions and comforts unknown before, grew to be a part of our daily routine, but if I noticed them at all (and I hardly think I did then), I took them as a matter of course, nor ever gave sign that I appreciated the thoughtful care that provided them. So the years slithered past uneventfully till I was twenty-one, when dad fell sick. Within a week he was dead. It was a terrible stroke to mother and Cicely, but neither of them were given to much show of feeling (I reckon there was scant encouragement), and things went on much as usual. I didn’t seem to feel it very much--didn’t seem to feel anything much in those days, except mad with my folks when everything wasn’t just as I wanted it. Dad’s affairs were all shipshape. He left mother fairly well off, and Cicely just enough to live on in case of necessity, while I came in for everything else, which meant an income of 1500 dollars a year if I chose to realize and not work any more. Being now, however, fairly wound up like any other machine, and warranted to go right on in the same jog, I had no thought of change. Don’t suppose I ever should have had; but--Excuse me, boys, I’m a bit husky, and there’s something in my eye. All right now.

“That summer we had boarders from Boston, well-to-do city folks pining for a change of air and scene, who offered a big price for such accommodation as we could give them for a couple of months.

“I drove down to the village to meet them with the best waggon, and found them waiting for me at Squire Pickering’s house--two elderly ladies and a young one. Boys, I can’t begin to describe that young lady to you; all I know is, that the first time our eyes met, I felt kinder as I guess Eve must have done when she eat the apple, only more so. All my old life that I had been well contented with came up before me and looked just unbearable. I felt awkward, and rough, and ugly; my new store clothes felt as if they’d been hewn out of deals, my head burned like a furnace, and my hands and feet were numb cold. When, in answer to some trifling question put to me by one of the old ladies, I said a few words, they sounded ’way off down a long tunnel, and as if I had nothing to do with them. Worst of all, I couldn’t keep my foolish eyes off that young lady, do what I would. How I drove the waggon home I don’t know. I suppose the machine was geared up so well, it ran of its own accord--didn’t want any thinking done. For I was thinking of anything in the wide world but my duty. I was a soldier, a statesman, a millionaire by turns, but only that I might win for my own that wonderful creature that had come like an unpredicted comet into my quiet sky.

“Now, don’t you think I’m going to trouble you with my love-making. I’d had no experience, so I dare say it was pretty original, but the only thing I can remember about it is that I had neither eyes nor ears for anything or anybody else but Agatha Deerham (that was her name), and that I neglected everything for her. She took my worship as a matter of course, calmly, royally, unconsciously; but if she smiled on me, I was crazy with gladness.

“Meanwhile my behaviour put mother and Cicely about no end. But for their industry and forethought, things would have been in a pretty muddle, for I was worse than useless to them; spent most of my time mooning about like the brainsick fool I was, building castles in Spain, or trying to invent something that would please the woman I worshipped. Oh, but I was blind; a poor blind fool. Looking back now, I know I must have been mad as well as blind. Agatha saw immediately upon coming into my home what I had never seen in all those long years--that Cicely--quiet, patient little Cicely--loved me with her whole heart, and would have died to serve me. So, with that refinement of cruelty that some women can show, she deliberately set herself, not to infatuate me more--that was impossible--but to show Cicely that she, the new-comer, while not valuing my love at a pin, could play with it, prove it, trifle with it as she listed.

“Sometimes her treatment nearly drove me frantic with rage, but a tender glance from her wonderful eyes brought me fawning to her feet again directly. Great heaven, how she made me suffer! I wonder I didn’t go really mad, I was in such a tumult of conflicting passions continually.

“The time drew near for them to return to their city home. Now, although Agatha had tacitly accepted all my attentions, nothing definite had yet passed between us, but the announcement of her imminent departure brought matters to a climax. Seizing the first opportunity of being alone with her, I declared my passion in a frenzy of wild words, offered her my hand, and swore that if she refused me I would do--I hardly remember what; but, among other things, certainly kill her, and then myself. She smiled pityingly upon me, and quietly said, ‘What about Cicely?’ Bewildered at her question, so little had any thought of Cicely in connection with love entered my head, I stared for a few moments blankly at the beautiful and maliciously smiling face before me, muttering at last, ‘Whatever do you mean?’

“With a ringing laugh, she said, ‘Can it be possible that you are unaware how your cousin worships you?’ Black shame upon me, I was not content with scornfully repudiating the possibility of such a thing, but poured all the bitter contempt I could give utterance to upon the poor girl, whose only fault was love of me. While thus basely engaged, I saw Agatha change colour, and turning, found Cicely behind me, trembling and livid as one who had received a mortal wound. Shame, anger, and passion for Agatha kept me speechless as she recovered herself and silently glided away.

“But I must hurry up if I’m not going to be tedious. Encouraged by Agatha, I sold the farm, sending mother and Cicely adrift to live upon their little means, and, gathering all together, took my departure for Boston. Arrangements for our marriage were hurried on at my request, not so swiftly, however, but that news reached me on my wedding morning of mother’s death. For a moment I was staggered, even the peculiar thing which served me for a heart felt a pang, but only in passing. What had become of Cicely I never troubled enough to think, much less to inquire.

“Some weeks of delirious gaiety followed, during which I drank to the full from the cup of my desires. Our lives were a whirl of what, for want of a better word, I suppose I must call enjoyment; at any rate, we did and had whatever we had a mind to, nor ever stopped to think of the sequel. We had no home, never waited to provide one, but lived at a smart hotel at a rate that would have killed my father to think of.

“One night at the theatre I slipped on the marble staircase, fell to the bottom a tangle of limbs, and was taken up with a broken leg, right arm, and collar bone. At some one’s suggestion I was removed to hospital. There, but for the ministrations of the nurses and surgeons, I was left alone, not a single one of my acquaintances coming near me. But what worried me was my wife’s neglect. What could have become of her? Where was she? These ceaselessly repeated and unanswered questions, coupled with my utter helplessness, drove me into a brain fever, in which I lost touch with the world for six weeks.

“I awoke one morning, a wan shade of my old self, but able to think again (would to God I never had). I was informed that no one had been to inquire after me during my long delirium, and this sombre fact stood up before me like a barrier never to be passed, reared between me and any hope in life. But, in spite of the drawbacks, I got better, got well, came out into the world again. I was homeless, friendless, penniless. The proprietor of the hotel where I had stayed with my wife informed me that she had left in company with a gentleman, with whom she seemed so intimate that he thought it must be some relative, but as he spoke, I read the truth in his eyes. He took pity on my forlorn condition and gave me a little money, enough to keep me alive for a week or two, but strongly advised me to go back to my native village and stay there. I was too broken to resent the idea, but in my own mind there was a formless plan of operations insisting upon being carried out.

“Husbanding my little stock of money with the utmost care, and barely spending sufficient to support life, I began a search for my wife. Little by little I learnt the ghastly sordid truth. Virtue, honour, or probity, had never been known to her, and my accident only gave her an opportunity that she had been longing for. Why she had married me was a mystery. Perhaps she sought a new sensation, and didn’t find it.

“Well, I tracked her and her various companions, until after about three months I lost all traces in New York. Do what I would, no more news of her could be obtained. But I had grown very patient in my search, though hardly knowing why I sought. My purpose was as hazy as my plan had been. So, from day to day I plodded through such small jobs as I could find, never losing sight for an hour of my one object in life.

“I must have been in New York quite six months, when I was one day trudging along Bleecker Street on an errand for somebody, and there met me face to face my cousin Cicely. I did not know her, but she recognized me instantly, and I saw in her sweet face such a look of sympathy and loving compassion that, broken-hearted, I covered my face and cried like a child. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘you will be molested,’ and, putting her arm through mine, she led me some distance to a dilapidated house, the door of which she opened with a key. Showing me into a tidy little room, she bade me sit down while she got me a cup of coffee, refusing to enter into conversation until I was a bit refreshed. Then, bit by bit, I learned that she had heard of my desertion by Agatha, and had formed a resolution to find her and bring her back to me if possible. She did find her, but was repulsed by her with a perfect fury of scorn, and told to go and find me and keep me, since such a worthless article as I was not likely to be useful to any other person on earth. Such a reception would have daunted most women; but I think Cicely was more than woman, or else how could she do as she did.

“Driven from my wife’s presence, she never lost sight of her, feeling sure that her opportunity would soon come. It came very suddenly. In the midst of her flaunting, vicious round of gaiety small-pox seized her, and as she had left me, so she was left, but not even in an hospital. Cicely found her alone, raving, tearing at her flesh in agony, with no one to help or pity. It was the opportunity she had sought, and hour by hour she wrestled with death and hell for that miserable woman. It was a long fight, but she was victorious, and although a sorrowful gap was made in her small stock of money, she was grateful and content.

“Agatha was a wreck. Utterly hideous to look upon, with memory like a tiger tearing at her heart, she yet had not the courage to die, or, doubtless, she would quickly have ended all her woes. Quietly, unobtrusively, constantly, Cicely waited on her, worked for her, and at last had succeeded in bringing us together. The knowledge that she whom I had sought so long was in the same house took away my breath. As soon as I recovered myself a bit, Cicely went to prepare her for meeting me. Unknown to Cicely, I followed, and almost immediately after she entered the room where my wife lay, I presented myself at the door. Looking past the woman who had preserved her miserable life, she saw my face. Then, with a horrible cry, unlike anything human, she sprang at my poor cousin like a jaguar, tearing, shrieking. If I dwell any longer on that nightmare I shall go mad myself. I did what I could, and bear the marks of that encounter for life, but I could not save Cicely’s life.

“The room filled with people, and the maniac was secured. After I had given my evidence on the inquiry, I slunk away, too mean to live, afraid to die. A recruiter secured me for this ship, and here I am, but I know that my useless life is nearly over. The world will be well rid of me.”

When he stopped talking, there was a dead silence for a few minutes. Such a yarn was unusual among whalemen, and they hardly knew how to take it. But the oldest veteran of the party dispelled the uneasy feeling by calling for a song, and volunteering one himself, just to keep things going. In the queerest nasal twang imaginable he thundered out some twenty verses of doggerel concerning the deeds of Admiral Semmes of the Alabama, with a different tune to each verse. It was uproariously received, but story-telling held the field, and another yarn was demanded.

LOST AND FOUND

A SEA AMENDMENT

He stood alone on the little pier, a pathetic figure in his loneliness--a boy without a home or a friend in the world. There was only one thought dominating his mind, the purely animal desire for sustenance, for his bodily needs lay heavily upon him. Yet it never occurred to him to ask for food--employment for which he should be paid such scanty wages as would supply his bare needs was all he thought of; for, in spite of years of semi-starvation, he had never yet eaten bread that he had not worked for--the thought of doing so had never shaped itself in his mind. But he was now very hungry, and as he watched the vigorous preparation for departure in full swing on board the smart rakish-looking fishing schooner near him, he felt an intense longing to be one of the toilers on her decks, with a right to obey the call presently to a well-earned meal. Whether by any strange thought-transference his craving became known to the bronzed skipper of the Rufus B. or not, who shall say? Sufficient to record that on a sudden that stalwart man lifted his head, and looking steadily at the lonely lad, he said, “Wantin’ a berth, sonny?” Although, if his thoughts could have been formulated, such a question was the one of all others he would have desired to hear, the lad was so taken aback by the realization of his most fervent hopes that for several seconds he could return no answer, but sat endeavouring to moisten his lips and vainly seeking in his bewildered mind for words with which to reply. Another sharp query, “Air ye deef?” brought his wits to a focus, and he replied humbly--

“Yes, sir!”

“Well, whar’s yer traps, then?” queried the skipper; “‘kaze we’re boun’ ter git away this tide, so it’s naow er never, ef you’re comin’.”

Before answering, the boy suddenly gathered himself up, and sprang in two bounds from his position on the quay to the side of the skipper. As soon as he reached him, he said, in rapid disjointed sentences--

“I’ve got no close. Ner no boardin’ house. Ner yet a cent in the world. But I ben to sea for nearly three year, an’ ther ain’t much to a ship thet I don’ know. I never ben in a schooner afore, but ef you’ll take me, Cap’n, I’ll show you I’m wuth a boy’s wages, anyhow.”

As he spoke the skipper looked down indulgently at him, chewing meditatively the while, but as soon as he had finished, the “old man” jerked out--

“All right. Hook on ter onct, then;” and almost in the same breath, but with an astonishing increase of sound, “Naow, then, caest off thet guess warp forrard there,’n run the jib up. Come, git a move on ye--anybody’d think you didn’t calk’late on leavin’ Gloster never no more.”

Cheery “Ay, ay, cap’s,” resounded from the willing crowd as they obeyed, and in ten minutes the Rufus B. was gliding away seawards to the musical rattle of the patent blocks and the harmonious cries of the men as they hoisted the sails to the small breeze that was stealing off the land.

The grey mist of early morning was slowly melting off the picturesque outline of the Massachusetts shore as they departed, and over the smooth sea before them fantastic wreaths and curls of fog hung about like the reek of some vast invisible fire far away. It was cold, too, with a clammy chill that struck through the threadbare suit of jeans worn by the new lad, and made him exert himself vigorously to keep his blood in circulation. So hearty were his efforts that the mixed company of men by whom he was surrounded noted them approvingly; and although to a novice their occasional remarks would have sounded harsh and brutal, he felt mightily cheered by them, for his experienced ear immediately recognized the welcome fact that his abilities were being appreciated at their full value. And when, in answer to the skipper’s order of “Loose thet gaff taupsle,” addressed to no one in particular, he sprang up the main rigging like a monkey and cast off the gaskets, sending down the tack on the right side, and shaking out the sail in a seamanlike fashion, he distinctly heard the skipper remark to the chap at the wheel, “Looks ’sif we’d struck a useful nipper at last, Jake,” the words were heady as a drink of whisky. Disdaining the ratlines, he slid down the weather backstays like a flash and dropped lightly on deck, his cheek flushed and his eye sparkling, all his woeful loneliness forgotten in his present joy of finding his services appreciated. But the grinning darky cook just then put his head outside his caboose door and shouted “Brekfuss.” With old habit strong upon him, the boy bounded forrard to fetch the food into the fo’c’sle, but to his bewilderment, and the darky’s boisterous delight, he found that in his new craft quite a different order of things prevailed. Here all hands messed like Christians at one common table in the cabin, waited upon by the cook, and eating the same food; and though they looked rough and piratical enough, all behaved themselves decently--in strong contrast to the foul behaviour our hero had so often witnessed in the grimy fo’c’sles of merchant ships. All this touched him, even though he was so ravenously hungry that his senses seemed merged in the purely physical satisfaction of getting filled with good food. At last, during a lull in the conversation, which, as might be expected, was mostly upon their prospects of striking a good run of cod at an early date, the skipper suddenly looked straight at the boy, and said--

“Wut djer say yer name wuz, young feller?”

“Tom Burt, sir,” he answered promptly, although he was tempted to say that he hadn’t yet been asked his name at all.

“Wall, then, Tom Burt,” replied the skipper, “yew shape ’s well ’s yew’ve begun, and I’m doggoned ef yew won’t have no eend of a blame good time. Th’ only kind er critter we kain’t find no sort er use fer in a Banker ’s a loafer. We do all our bummin’ w’en we git ashore, ’n in bad weather; other times everybody’s got ter git up an’ hustle fer all they’re wuth.”

Tom looked up with a pleasant smile, feeling quite at his ease among men who could talk to him as if he, too, were a human being and not a homeless cur. He didn’t make any resolves to do his level best--he would do that anyhow--but his heart beat high with satisfaction at his treatment, and he would have kept his end up with any man on board to the utmost ounce of his strength. But meanwhile they had drawn clear of the land, and behind them dropped a curtain of fog hiding it completely from view. To a fresh easterly breeze which had sprung up, the graceful vessel was heading north-east for the Grand Banks, gliding through the long, sullen swell like some great, lithe greyhound, and yet looking up almost in the wind’s eye. In spite of the breeze, the towering banks of fog gradually drew closer and closer around them until they were entirely enveloped therein, as if wrapped in an impenetrable veil which shut out all the world beside. The ancient tin horn emitted its harsh discords, which seemed to rebound from the white wall round about them, and in very deed could only have been heard a ship’s length or so away. And presently, out of the encircling mantle of vapour, there came a roar as of some unimaginable monster wrathfully seeking its prey, the strident sounds tearing their way through the dense whiteness with a truly terrific clamour. All hands stood peering anxiously out over the waste for the first sight of the oncoming terror, until, with a rush that made the schooner leap and stagger, a huge, indefinite blackness sped past, its grim mass towering high above the tiny craft. The danger over, muttered comments passed from mouth to mouth as to the careless, reckless fashion in which these leviathans were driven through the thick gloom of those crowded waters in utter disregard of the helpless toilers of the sea. Then, to the intense relief of all hands, the fog began to melt away, and by nightfall all trace of it was gone. In its stead the great blue dome of the heavens, besprinkled with a myriad glittering stars, shut them in; while the keen, eager breeze sent the dancing schooner northward at a great rate to her destined fishing-ground, the huge plateau in the Atlantic, off Newfoundland, that the codfish loves.

But it was written that they should never reach the Virgin. The bright, clear weather gave way to a greasy, filmy sky, accompanied by a mournful, sighing wail in the wind that sent a feeling of despondency through the least experienced of the fishermen, and told the more seasoned hands that a day of wrath was fast approaching, better than the most delicately adjusted barometer would have done. When about sixty miles from the Banks the gale burst upon the staunch little craft in all its fury, testing her powers to the utmost as, under a tiny square of canvas in the main rigging, she met and coquetted with the gathering immensities of the Atlantic waves. No doubt she would have easily weathered that gale, as she had done so many others, but that at midnight, during its fiercest fury, there came blundering along a huge four-masted sailing-ship running under topsails and foresail that, like some blind and drunken giant staggered out of the gloom and fell upon the gallant little schooner, crushing her into matchwood beneath that ruthless iron stem, and passing on unheeding the awful destruction she had dealt out to the brave little company of men. It was all so sudden that the agony of suspense was mercifully spared them, but out of the weltering vortex which swallowed up the Rufus B. only two persons emerged alive--Tom Burt and Jem the cook. By a miracle they both clung to the same piece of flotsam--one of the “dorys” or flat little boats used by the Bankers to lay out their long lines when on the Banks. Of course she was bottom up, and, but for the lifeline which the forethought of the poor skipper had caused to be secured to the gunwale of every one of his dorys, they could not have kept hold of her for an hour. As it was, before they were able to get her righted in that tumultuous sea, they were almost at their last gasp. But they did succeed in getting her right way up at last, and, crouching low in her flat bottom, they dumbly awaited whatever Fate had in store for them.

A mere fragment in the wide waste, they clung desperately to life through the slowly creeping hours while the storm passed away, the sky cleared, and the sea went down. The friendly sun came out in his strength and warmed their thin blood. But his beams did more: they revealed at no great distance the shape of a ship that to the benumbed fancies of the two waifs seemed to behave in most erratic fashion. For now she would head toward them, again she would slowly turn as if upon an axis until she presented her stern in their direction, but never for five minutes did she keep the same course. Dimly they wondered what manner of ship she might be, with a sort of impartial curiosity, since they were past the period of struggle. Well for them that it was so, for otherwise their agonies must have been trebled by the sight of rescue apparently so near and yet impossible of attainment. So they just sat listlessly in their empty shell gazing with incurious eyes upon the strange evolutions of the ship. Yet, by that peculiar affinity which freely floating bodies have at sea, the ship and boat were surely drawing nearer each other, until Tom suddenly awoke as if from a trance to find that they were so close to the ship that a strong swimmer might easily gain her side. The discovery gave him the needed shock to arouse his small store of vital energy, and, turning to his companion, he said--his voice sounding strange and far away--“Doc, rouse up! Here’s the ship! Right on top of us, man!” But for some minutes the negro seemed past all effort, beyond hearing, only known to be living by his position. Desperate now, Tom scrambled towards him, and in a sudden fever of excitement shook, beat, and pinched him. No response. Then, as if maddened by the failure of his efforts, the boy seized one of the big black hands that lay so nervelessly, and, snatching it to his mouth, bit a finger to the bone. A long dry groan came from the cook as he feebly pulled his hand away, and mechanically thrust the injured finger into his mouth. The trickling blood revived him, his dull eyes brightened, and looking up he saw the ship close alongside. Without a word he stooped and plunged his hands into the water on either side the dory, paddling fiercely in the direction of the ship, while Tom immediately followed his example. Soon they bumped her side, and as she rolled slowly towards them, Tom seized the chain-plates and clung limpet-like for an instant, then, with one supreme effort, hauled himself on board and fell, fainting but safe, on her deck.

When he returned to life again, his first thought was of his chum, and great was his peace to find that the cook had also gained safety. He lay near, stretched out listlessly upon the timber, with which the vessel’s deck was completely filled, rail-high, fore and aft. Feebly, like some decrepit old man, Tom rose to his knees and shuffled towards the cook, finding that he was indeed still alive, but sleeping so soundly that it seemed doubtful whether waking would be possible. Reassured by finding the cook living, the boy dragged himself aft, wondering feebly how it was that he saw no member of this large vessel’s crew. He gained the cabin and crawled below, finding everything in disorder, as if she had been boarded by pirates and ravaged for anything of value that might be concealed. She seemed a staunch, stout, frigate-built ship, of some eleven or twelve hundred tons register, English built, but Norwegian owned; and to a seaman’s eye there was absolutely no reason why she should thus be tumbling unguided about the Atlantic--there was no visible cause to account for her abandonment. Aloft she was in a parlous condition. The braces having been left unbelayed, her great yards had long been swinging to and fro with every thrust of the wind and roll of the ship, until it was a marvel how they still hung in their places at all. Most of the sails were in rags, the unceasing grind and wrench of the swinging masses of timber to which they were secured having been too much for their endurance, and their destruction once commenced, the wind had speedily completed it.

All this, requiring so long to tell, was taken in by the lad in a few seconds, but his first thought was for food and drink wherewith to revive his comrade. He was much disappointed, however, to find that not only was the supply of eatables very scanty, but the quality was vile beyond comment--worse than even that of some poverty-stricken old British tub provisioned at an auction sale of condemned naval stores. The best he could do for Jem was to soak some of the almost black biscuit in water until soft, and then, hastening to his side, he roused the almost moribund man, and gently coaxed him to eat, a morsel at a time, until, to his joy, he found the poor darky beginning to take a returning interest in life. Fortunately for them, the weather held fine all that day and night, relieving them from anxiety about handling the big vessel, and by morning they were both sufficiently themselves again to set about the task of getting her under control. A little at a time they reduced the chaotic web of gear aloft to something like its original systematic arrangement, and under such sail as was still capable of being set they began to steer to the south-westward. In this, as in everything else now, the boy took the lead, for Jem had never set foot upon a square-rigged ship before, and even his schooner experience had been confined to the galley. But Tom had spent his three years at sea entirely in large square-rigged ships, and, being a bright observant lad, already knew more about them and their manipulation than many sailormen learn all their lives. He it was who set the course, having carefully watched the direction steered from Gloster by the hapless Rufus B., and now he judged that a reversal of it would certainly bring them within hail of the American seaboard again, if they could hold on it long enough. So all day long the two toiled like beavers to make things aloft more shipshape, letting the vessel steer herself as much as possible, content if she would only keep within four points of her course. With all their labours they could not prevent her looking like some huge floating scarecrow that had somehow got adrift from its native garden and wandered out to sea. Her appearance simply clamoured for interference by any passing ship in trumpet tones had one entered the same horizon, but much to the youngster’s wonder, and presently to his secret delight, not a sail hove in sight day after day.