MICHAEL SCOTT

Tom Cringle's Log

Michael Scott was a merchant who turned an unquestioned literary faculty to excellent account. Born at Cowlairs, near Glasgow, Scotland, Oct. 30, 1789, at the age of seventeen Scott was sent to Jamaica to manage a small estate of his father's, and a few years later entered business at Kingstown. Both of these occupations necessitated frequent journeys, by land and by sea, and the experiences gained thereby form the basis of "Tom Cringle's Log." The story appeared anonymously at intermittent intervals in "Blackwood's Magazine" (1829-33), being published in book form in 1834. Its authorship was attributed, among others, to Captain Marryatt, and so successfully did Scott himself conceal his identity with it that the secret was not known until after his death, which occurred at Glasgow on November 7, 1835. Of its kind, "Tom Cringle's Log" is a veritable masterpiece. Humour and pathos and gorgeous descriptions are woven into a thrilling narrative. Scott wrote many other things beside "Tom Cringle," but only one story, "The Cruise of the Midge" (1836), is in any way comparable with his first and most famous romance.

I.--The Quenching of the Torch

The evening was closing in dark and rainy, with every appearance of a gale from the westward, and the red and level rays of the setting sun flashed on the black hull and tall spars of his Britannic Majesty's sloop Torch. At the distance of a mile or more lay a long, warlike-looking craft, rolling heavily and silently in the trough of the sea.

A flash was seen; the shot fell short, but close to us, evidently thrown from a heavy cannon.

Mr. Splinter, the first lieutenant, jumped from the gun he stood on, and dived into the cabin to make his report.

Captain Deadeye was a staid, wall-eyed veteran, with his coat of a regular Rodney cut, broad skirts, long waist, and stand-up collar, over which dangled either a queue, or marlinspike with a tuft of oakum at the end of it--it would have puzzled old Nick to say which. His lower spars were cased in tight unmentionables of what had once been white kerseymere, and long boots, the coal-scuttle tops of which served as scuppers to carry off the drainings from his coat-flaps in bad weather; he was, in fact, the "last of the sea-monsters," but, like all his tribe, as brave as steel, and, when put to it, as alert as a cat.

He no sooner heard Splinter's report, than he sprang up the ladder.

"Clear away the larboard guns!" I absolutely jumped off the deck with astonishment--who could have spoken it? The enemy was a heavy American frigate, and it appeared such downright madness to show fight under the very muzzles of her guns, half a broadside from which was sufficient to sink us. It was the captain, however, and there was nothing for it but to obey.

"Now, men, mind your aim; our only chance is to wing him." The men--with cutlasses buckled round their waists, and many with nothing but their trousers on--instinctively cheered. Blaze went our cannonades and long gun in succession, and down came the fore-topsail; the head of the topmast had been shot away. "That will do; now knock off, my boys, and let us run for it. Make all sail."

Jonathan was for an instant paralysed by our impudence; but he yawed and let drive his whole broadside; and fearfully did it transmogrify us. Half an hour before we were as gay a little sloop as ever floated, with a crew of 120 as fine fellows as ever manned a British man-of-war. The iron-shower sped--ten of the 120 never saw the sun rise again; 17 more were wounded, three mortally; our hull and rigging were regularly cut to pieces.

But we had the start, crippled and be-devilled though we were; and as the night fell, we contrived to lose sight of our large friend, and pursue our voyage to Jamaica.

A week later, and the hurricane fell upon us. Our chainplates, strong fastenings, and clenched bolts, drew like pliant wires, shrouds and stays were torn away, and our masts and spars were blown clean out of the ship into the sea. Had we shown a shred of the strongest sail in the vessel, it would have been blown out of the bolt-rope in an instant. With four men at the wheel, one watch at the pumps, and the other clearing the wreck, we had to get her before the wind.

Our spirits were soon dashed, when the old carpenter, one of the coolest and bravest men in the ship, rose through the forehatch pale as a ghost, with his white hairs streaming out in the wind. He did not speak to any of us, but clambered aft, towards the capstan, to which the captain had lashed himself.

"The water is rushing in forward like a mill-stream, sir; she is fast settling down by the head."

The brig, was, indeed, rapidly losing her buoyancy.

"Stand by, to heave the guns overboard."

Too late, too late! Oh, God, that cry! I was stunned and drowning, a chaos of wreck was beneath me and around me and above me, and blue, agonised, gasping faces and struggling arms, and colourless clutching hands, and despairing yells for help, where help was impossible; when I felt a sharp bite on the neck, and breathed again. My Newfoundland dog, Sneezer, had snatched at me, and dragged me out of the eddy of the sinking vessel.

For life, dear life, nearly suffocated, amidst the hissing spray, we reached the cutter, the dog and his helpless master.

For three miserable days I had been exposed, half naked and bareheaded, in an open boat, without water, or food, or shade. The third fierce West Indian noon was long passed, and once more the dry, burning sun sank in the west, like a red hot shield of iron. I glared on the noble dog as he lay at the bottom of the boat, and would have torn at his throat with my teeth, not for food, but that I might drink his hot blood; but as he turned his dull, gray, glazing eye on me, the pulses of my heart stopped, and I fell senseless.

When my recollection returned, I was stretched on some fresh plantain leaves, in a low, smoky hut, with my faithful dog lying beside me, whining and licking my hands and face. Underneath the joists, that bound the rafters of the roof together, lay a corpse, wrapped in a boatsail, on which was clumsily written with charcoal, "The body of John Deadeye, Esq., late commander of his Britannic Majesty's sloop Torch."

There was a fire on the floor, at which Lieutenant Splinter, in his shirt and trousers, drenched, unshorn, and death-like, was roasting a joint of meat, whilst a dwarfish Indian sat opposite to him fanning the flame with a palm-leaf. I had been nourished during my delirium; for the fierceness of my sufferings were assuaged, and I was comparatively strong. I anxiously inquired of the lieutenant the fate of our shipmates.

"All gone down in the old Torch; and had it not been for the launch and our four-footed friend there, I should not have been here to have told it. All that the sharks have left of the captain and five seamen came ashore last night. I have buried the poor fellows on the beach where they lay, as well as I could, with an oar-blade for a shovel, and the bronze ornament there," pointing to the Indian, "for an assistant."

II.--Perils on Land

I was awakened by the low growling and short bark of the dog. The night was far spent, and the amber rays of the yet unrisen sun were shooting up in the east.

"That's a musket shot," said the lieutenant. The Indian crept to the door, and placed his open palms behind his ears. The distant wail of a bugle was heard, then three or four dropping shots again, in rapid succession. Mr. Splinter stooped to go forth, but the Indian caught him by the leg, uttering the single word "Espanoles" (Spaniards).

On the instant a young Indian woman, with a shrieking infant in her arms, rushed to the door. There was a blue gunshot wound in her neck, and her features were sharpened as if in the agony of death. Another shot, and the child's small, shrill cry blended with the mother's death shriek; falling backwards the two rolled over the brow of the hill out of sight. The ball had pierced the heart of the parent through the body of her offspring. By this time a party of Spanish soldiers had surrounded the hut, one of whom, kneeling before the low door, pointed his musket into it. The Indian, who had seen his wife and child shot down before his face, fired his rifle and the man fell dead.

Half a dozen musket balls were now fired at random through the wattles of the hut, while the lieutenant, who spoke Spanish well, sung out lustily that we were English officers who had been shipwrecked.

"Pirates!" growled the officer of the party. "Pirates leagued with Indian bravos; fire the hut, soldiers, and burn the scoundrels!"

There was no time to be lost; Mr. Splinter made a vigorous attempt to get out, in which I seconded him with all the strength that remained to me, but they beat us back again with the butts of their muskets.

"Where are your commissions, your uniforms, if you be British officers?" We had neither, and our fate appeared inevitable.

The doorway was filled with brushwood, fire was set to the hut, and we heard the crackling of the palm thatch, while thick, stifling white smoke burst in upon us through the roof.

"Lend a hand, Tom, now or never." We laid our shoulders to the end wall, and heaved at it with all our might; when we were nearly at our last gasp it gave way, and we rushed headlong into the middle of the party, followed by Sneezer, with his shaggy coat, full of clots of tar, blazing like a torch. He unceremoniously seized, par le queue, the soldier who had throttled me, setting fire to the skirts of his coat, and blowing up his cartridge-box. I believe, under Providence, that the ludicrousness of this attack saved us from being bayoneted on the spot. It gave time for Mr. Splinter to recover his breath, when, being a powerful man, he shook off the two soldiers who had seized him, and dashed into the burning hut again. I thought he was mad, especially when I saw him return with his clothes and hair on fire, dragging out the body of the captain. He unfolded the sail it was wrapped up in, and pointing to the remains of the naval uniform in which the mutilated corpse was dressed, he said sternly to the officer, "We are in your power, and you may murder us if you will; but that was my captain four days ago, and you see at least he was a British officer--satisfy yourself."

The person he addressed, a handsome young Spaniard, shuddered at the horrible spectacle.

When he saw the crown and anchor, and his Majesty's cipher on the appointments of the dead officer, he became convinced of our quality, and changed his tone.

"'Tis true, he is an Englishman. But, gentlemen, were there not three persons in the hut?"

There were, indeed, and the Indian perished in the flames, making no attempt to escape.

The officer, who belonged to the army investing Carthagena, now treated us with great civility; he heard our story, and desired his men to assist us in burying the remains of our late commander.

We stayed that night with the captain of the outpost, who received us very civilly at a temporary guard-house, and apologised for the discomfort under which we must pass the night. He gave us the best he had, and that was bad enough, both of food and wine, before showing us into the hut, where we found a rough deal coffin, lying on the very bench that was to be our bed. This he ordered away with all the coolness in the world, saying, "It was only one of his people who had died that morning of yellow fever."

"Comfortable country this," quoth Splinter, "and a pleasant morning we have had of it, Tom!"

III.--The Piccaroon

From the Spanish headquarters at Torrecilla we were allowed to go to the village of Turbaco, a few miles distant from the city for change of air.

"Why, Peter," said Mr. Splinter, addressing a negro who sat mending his jacket in one of the enclosures near the water gate of the arsenal, "don't you know me?"

"Cannot say dat I do," rejoined the negro, very gravely. "Have not de honour of your acquaintance, sir."

"Confound you, sir! But I know you well enough, my man; and you can scarcely have forgotten Lieutenant Splinter of the Torch, one would think?"

The name so startled the poor fellow, that in his hurry to unlace his legs, as he sat tailor-fashion, he fairly capsized and toppled down on his nose.

"Eh!--no--yes, him sure enough! And who is de piccaniny hofficer? Oh! I see, Massa Tom Cringle! Where have you dropped from, gentlemen? Where is de old Torch? Many a time hab I, Peter Mangrove, pilot to him Britannic Majesty's squadron, taken de old brig in and through amongst de keys at Port Royal."

"She will never give you that trouble again, my boy--foundered--all hands lost, Peter, but the two you see before you."

"Werry sorry, Massa 'Plinter, werry sorry. What? de black cook's-mate and all? But misfortune can't be help. Stop till I put up my needle, and I will take a turn wid you. Proper dat British hofficers in distress should assist one anoder--we shall consult togeder. How can I serve you?"

"Why, Peter, if you could help us to a passage to Port Royal, it would be serving us most essentially. Here we have been for more than a month, without a single vessel belonging to the station having looked in; our money is running short, and in another six weeks we shall not have a shot left in the locker."

The negro looked steadfastly at us, and then carefully around before he answered.

"You see, Massa 'Plinter, I am desirable to serve you; it is good for me at present to make some friend wid the hofficer of de squadron, being as how dat I am absent widout leave. If you will promise dat you will stand my friends, I will put you in de way of getting a shove across to de east end of Jamaica; and I will go wid you, too, for company. But you must promise dat you will not seek to know more of de vessel, nor of her crew, than dey are willing to tell you, provided you are landed safe."

Mr. Splinter agreed and presently Peter Mangrove went off in a canoe to a large, shallow vessel, to reappear with another blackamoor, of as ungainly an exterior as could well be imagined.

"Pray, sir, are you the master of that vessel?" said the lieutenant.

"No, sir, I am the mate; and I learn you are desirous of a passage to Jamaica." This was spoken with a broad Scotch accent.

"Yes, we do," said I, in very great astonishment; "but we will not sail with the devil; and who ever saw a negro Scotchman before?"

The fellow laughed. "I am black, as you see; so were my father and mother before me. But I was born in the good town of Glasgow, notwithstanding; and many a voyage I have made as cabin-boy and cook with worthy old Jock Hunter. But here comes our captain. Captain Vanderbosh, here are two shipwrecked British officers who wish to be put ashore in Jamaica; will you take them, and what will you charge for their passage?"

The man he spoke to was a sun-burnt, iron-visaged veteran.

"Vy for von hundred thaler I will land dem safe in de bay."

The bargain was ratified, and that same evening we set sail. When off the San Domingo Gate two boats full of men joined us, and our crew was strengthened by about forty as ugly Christians, of all ages and countries, as I ever set eyes on. From the moment they came on board Captain Vanderbosh sank into the petty officer, and the Scottish negro took the command, evincing great coolness, energy, and skill.

When night had fallen the captain made out a sail to windward. Immediately every inch of canvas was close furled, every light carefully extinguished, a hundred and twenty men with cutlasses at quarters, and the ship under bare poles. The strange sail could be seen through the night-glasses; she now burned a blue light--without doubt an old fellow-cruiser of ours, the Spark.

"She is from Santa Martha with a freight of specie, I know," said Williamson. "I will try a brush with her."

"I know the craft," Splinter struck in, "a heavy vessel of her class, and you may depend on hard knocks and small profit if you do take her; while, if she takes you----"

"I'll be hanged if she does," said Williamson, and he grinned at the conceit; "or, rather, I will blow the schooner up with my own hand before I strike; better that than have one's bones bleached in chains on a quay at Port Royal. But you cannot control us, gentlemen; so get down below, and take Peter Mangrove with you. I would not willingly see those come to harm who have trusted me."

However, there was no shot flying as yet, and we stayed on deck. All sail was once more made, and presently the cutter saw us, tacked, and stood towards us. Her commander hailed: "Ho, the brigantine, ahoy! What schooner is that?"

"Spanish schooner, Caridad," sung out Williamson.

"Heave-to, and send your boat on board."

"We have none that will swim, sir."

"Very well, bring to, and I will send mine."

We heard the splash of the jolly-boat touching the water; then the measured stroke of the oars, and a voice calling out, "Give way, my lads."

The character of the vessel we were on board of was now evident; and the bitter reflection that we were, as it were, chained to the stake on board of a pirate, on the eve of a fierce contest with one of our own cruisers, was aggravated by the consideration that a whole boat's crew would be sacrificed before a shot was fired.

The officer in the boat had no sooner sprung on board than he was caught by two strong hands, gagged, and thrown down the main hatchway.

"Heave," cried a voice, "and with a will!" and four cold 32-pound shot were hove at once into the boat alongside, which, crashing through her bottom, swamped her in a moment, precipitating the miserable crew into the boiling sea. Their shrieks rang in my ears as they clung to the oars and some loose planks of the boat.

"Bring up the officer, and take out the gag," said Williamson.

Poor Malcolm, who had been an old messmate of mine, was now dragged to the gangway, his face bleeding, and heavily ironed, when the blackamoor, clapping a pistol to his head, bade him, as he feared instant death, hail the cutter for another boat.

The young midshipman turned his pale mild countenance upwards as he said firmly, "Never!" The miscreant fired, and he fell dead.

"Fire!" The whole broadside was poured in, and we could hear the shot rattle and tear along the cutter's deck, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded.

We now ranged alongside, and close action commenced; never do I expect to see such an infernal scene again. Up to this moment all had been coolness and order on board the pirate; but when the yards locked, the crew broke loose from all control--they ceased to be men--they were demons, for they threw their own dead and wounded indiscriminately down the hatchways, to get clear of them. They had stripped themselves almost naked; and although they fought with the most desperate courage, yelling and cursing, each in his own tongue, yet their very numbers, pent up in a small vessel, were against them. Amidst the fire and smoke we could see that the deck had become a very shamble; and unless they soon carried the cutter by boarding, it was clear that the coolness and discipline of the service must prevail. The pirates seemed aware of this themselves, for they now made a desperate attempt at boarding, led on by the black captain. While the rush forward was being made, by a sudden impulse, Splinter and I, followed by Peter, scrambled from our shelter, and in our haste jumped down, knocking over the man at the wheel.

There was no time to be lost; if any of the crew came aft we were dead men; so we tumbled down through the cabin skylight, and stowed ourselves away in the side berths. The noise on deck soon ceased--the cannon were again plied--gradually the fire slackened, and we could hear that the pirate had scraped clear and escaped. Some time after this, the lieutenant commanding the cutter came down. We both knew him well, and he received us cordially.

In a week we were landed at Port Royal.

I was a midshipman when I began my log, but before I finally left the West Indies I was promoted to the rank of commander, and appointed to the Lotus Leaf, under orders for England.

Before I set sail, however, I was married to my cousin Mary in Jamaica; and when we got to Old England, where the Lotus Leaf was paid off, I settled for a time on shore, the happiest, etc., until some years afterwards, when the wee Cringles began to tumble home so fast that I had to cut and run, and once more betake myself to the salt sea.