Part 2 — CHAPTER I. (continued 2)

“You may well care for him!” said I.

“Indeed I may. He kept my mother’s memory God.”

“Were there only you and he in the hooker?”

“That’s all. It was altogether sheer madness, for the old boat was barely fit for a day’s fishing in fine weather, and though Barney nearly killed himself overhauling her, and patching her sails, I doubt if he knew very well what he was after. I’ve been thinking, Jack, that his mind was not what it was. He was always a bit obstinate, if he got a notion into his head, but of late the squire himself couldn’t turn him. When he wanted to do a thing about the place that Barney didn’t approve, if he didn’t give in (as he was apt to do, being easy-tempered) I can tell ye he had to do it on the sly. That was how he ordered the new ploughs that nearly broke Barney’s heart, both because of being new-fangled machines, and ready money having to be paid for them. ‘I’ll see the ould place ruined before ye come to your own, Master Dennis,’ he told me. And—Jack! that’s another thing makes me think what I tell ye.

“Wigs on the green over cold potatoes?” I repeated, in bewilderment.

“Tst! tst! little Saxon! I mean we’d have had a row over the provisions. It wasn’t too hours’ run round to Tim Brady’s, and I found the old man stowing away half-a-peck of cold boiled potatoes, and big bottles of tea, and goodness knows what. ‘Is it for ballast ye’re using the potatoes, Barney?’ says I. ‘Mind your own business, Master Dennis’—(and I could see he was cross as two sticks),—‘and leave the provisioning to them that understands it,’ says he. ‘How many meals d’ye reckon to eat between this and Tim Brady’s?’ I went on, just poking my fun at him, when—would ye believe it?—the old fellow fired up like a sky-rocket, and asked me if I grudged him the bit of food he ate, and Heaven knows what besides. ‘Is it Dennis O’Moore you’re speaking to?’ says I, God forgive me! We were mighty near to a quarrel, Jack, I can tell ye, but some shadow of a notion flitting across my brain that the dear soul was not responsible entirely, stopped my tongue, and something else stopped his which I didn’t know till we got to Tim Brady’s, and found that all we wanted with him was to borrow his boat, and that the sea-weed business was no better than a blind; for Barney had planned it all out that we were to go down to Galway and fetch the new ploughs home in the hooker, to save the cost of the land-carriage. ‘Sure it’s bad enough for the squire to be soiling his hands with trumpery made by them English thieves, that’s no more conscience over bothering a gentleman for money nor if he was one of themselves,’ said Barney; ‘sorra a halfpenny shall the railway rogues rob him of.’ Ah, little stowaway, ye may guess my delight! And hadn’t we glorious weather at first, and wasn’t the dear old man happy and proud! I can tell ye I yelled, and I sang, and I laughed, when I felt the old hooker begin to bound on the swell when we got into the open, but not a look would Barney turn on me for minding the boat; but I could hear him chuckling to himself and muttering about the railway rogues. It wasn’t much time we either of us had for talking, by and by. I steered and saw to the main sheet, and Barney did look-out and minded the

I suppose it was because I was crying as well as Dennis that I did not see Mr. Johnson till he was standing by the Irish boy’s hammock. I know I got a sound scolding for the state of his pulse (which the third mate seemed to understand, as he understood most things), and was dismissed with some pithy hints

Alister was not quite so sympathetic as I had expected. He was so much shocked about the crucifix and about Dennis praying for Barney’s soul, that he could think of nothing else. He didn’t seem to think that he would have fever, but he said he feared we had small reason to reckon on the prayers of the idolatrous ascending to the throne of grace. He told me a long story about the Protestant martyrs who were shut up in a dungeon under the sea, on the coast of Aberdeenshire, and it would have been very interesting if I hadn’t been thinking of Dennis.

We had turned in for some sleep, and I was rolling myself in my blanket, when Alister called me—

“Jack! did ye ever read Fox’s Book of Martyrs?”

“No.”

“It’s a gran’ work, and it has some awful tales in it. When we’ve a bit of holiday leesure I’ll tell ye some.”

“Thank you, Alister.”

“A very wise man believed that, if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.”—Fletcher of Saltoun in a letter to the Marquis of Montrose.

The weather was fair enough, and we went along very steadily and pleasantly that afternoon. I was undoubtedly getting my sea-legs, which was well for me, as they were put to the test unexpectedly. I happened to be standing near Alister (we were tarring ropes), when some orders rang out in Mr. Waters’ voice, which I found had reference to something to be done to some of the sails. At last came the words “Away aloft!” which were responded to by a rush of several sailors, who ran and leaped and caught ropes and began climbing the rigging with a nimbleness and dexterity which my own small powers in that line enabled me to appreciate, as I gazed upwards after them. The next order bore unexpected and far from flattering references to me.

“Hi, there. Francis!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Take that gaping booby up with you. I hear he’s ‘good at athletics.’”

The sailors who were rope-tarring sniggered audibly, and Alister lifted his face with a look of anxiety, that did as much as the sniggering to stimulate me not to disgrace myself.

“Kick off your shoes, and come along,” said Francis. “Jump on the bulwarks and then follow me. Look aloft—that’s up, ye know—never mind your feet, but keep tight hold of the ratlins—so, with your hands, and when you are up aloft, don’t let one hand go till you’re sure of your hold with the other.”

Up we went, gripping the swaying ropes with toes and fingers, till we reached the main-top, where I was allowed to creep through the “Lubber’s Hole,” and Francis swung himself neatly over the outside edge of the top, and there he and I stood for a few minutes to rest.

I cannot say I derived much comfort from his favourable comments on my first attempt. I was painfully absorbed by realizing that to climb what is steady, and to climb what is swaying with every wave, are quite different things. Then, in spite of warnings, I was fascinated by the desire to look down; and when I looked I felt more uncomfortable than ever; the ship’s deck was like a dancing tea-tray far below;

“Come along—and if the other chaps put any larks on you, keep your eyes open, and never lose a grip by one hand somewhere. So long as you hold on to some of the ship’s ropes you’re bound to find your way back somehow.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

Then through the confusion in my head I heard a screaming whistle, and a voice from beneath, and Francis pricked his ears, and then suddenly swung himself back on to the ladder of ropes by which we had climbed.

“Lucky for you, young shaver,” said he. “Come along!”

I desired no more definite explanation. Francis was going down, and I willingly did the same, but when my foot touched the deck I staggered and fell. It was Mr. Johnson who picked me up by the neck of my slops, saying, as he did so, “Boatswain! The captain will give an extra lot of grog to drink Mr. O’Moore’s good health.”

This announcement was received with a cheer, and I heard the boatswain calling to “stow your cleaning-tackle, my lads, and for’ards to the break of

“Long life to ye, bo’sun; it’s a neat hand at a speech ye are, upon my conscience!” cried Dennis, over my shoulder, and then his arm was around it, shaking with laughter, as we were hurried along by the eager crowd.

“He’s a wag, that old fellow, too. Come along, little Jack! You’re mighty shaky on your feet, considering the festivities that we’re bound for. Step it out, my boy, or I’ll have to carry ye.”

“Are ye coming to the fo’c’sle?” said I, being well aware that this was equivalent to a drawing-room visitor taking tea in the kitchen. “You know it’s where the common sailors, and Alister and I have our meals?” I added, for his private ear.

“Thank ye for the hint. I know it’s where I hope to meet the men that offered their lives for mine.”

“That’s true, Dennis, I know; but don’t be cross. They’ll be awfully pleased to see you.”

“And not without reason, I can tell ye! Didn’t I beard the lion in his den, the captain in his cabin,

“Yes.”

“They’re bad to blarney, and I did my best, I can tell you, for my own sake as well as for the men. I’m as shy with strangers as an owl by daylight, and I’ll never get a thank ye out of my throat, unless we’ve the chance of a bit of sociability. However, at last he called to that nice fellow—third mate, isn’t he?—and gave orders for the rum. ‘Two-water grog, Mr. Johnson,’ says he. ‘Ah, captain,’ I said, ‘don’t be throwing cold water on the entertainment; they got their share of that last night. It’s only the rum that’s required to complete us now.’ But he’s as deaf to fun as he is to blarney. Is he good to you, little stowaway?”

“Oh, very,” said I. “And you should hear what the men tell about other captains. They all like this one.”

“He has an air of uprightness about him; and so has that brother-in-adversity of yours, more polish to him! He must be a noble fellow, though. I can’t get over his volunteering, without the most distant obligation to risk his life for me—not even a sailor. And yet he won’t be friendly, do what I will. As formal as you please—that’s pride, I suppose—he’s

“He’s washing them with a lump of grease,” said I. “I saw Francis give it him. It’s to get the tar off.”

“That indeed? Alister! Alister! Have ye no eyes in the back of ye? Here’s Jack and myself.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Alister, stiffly.

“Oh, confound your sir-liness!” muttered Dennis, and added aloud, “Is that pomatum for your hair?”

Alister laughed in spite of himself.

“More like hair-dye, sir,” said he, and rubbing desperately at his fingers, he added, “I can’t get them decent.”

“Ah, let them rest!” said Dennis. “It’s painting the lily to adorn them. On ye go; and mind ye keep near to us, and we’ll make a landlubber’s parliament in a corner to ourselves.”

My first friend had thawed, and went cheerfully ahead of us, as I was very glad to see. Dennis saw it too, but only to relapse into mischief. He held me

But his peroration was suddenly cut short by a rush from behind, one man tumbling over another on the road to the forecastle. Dennis himself was thrown against Alister, and his hand came heavily down on the stubborn lock of hair.

“It’s these fellows, bad manners to them,” he explained; but I think Alister suspected a joke at his expense, and putting his arms suddenly behind him, he seized Dennis by the legs and hoisted him on to his back as if he had been a child. In this fashion the hero of the occasion was carried to a place of honour, and deposited (not too gently) on the top of an inverted deck-tub, amid the cheers and laughter of all concerned.

Round another tub—a shallow oak one, tidily hooped with cooper—which served as spittoon, a

The smokers were not more silent than we, as the third mate slowly measured the rum—half a gill a head—into the grog-tub. But when this solemnity was over and he began to add the water, a very spirited dialogue ensued; Mr. Johnson (so far as I could understand it) maintaining that “two-water grog” was the rule of the ships on their line, and the boatswain pleading that this being a “special issue” was apart from general rules, and that it would be more complimentary to the “young gentleman” to have the grog a little stronger. How it ended I do not know; I know I thought my “tot” very nasty, and not improved by the reek of strong tobacco in the midst of which we drank it, to Dennis O’Moore’s very good health.

When the boatswain and I got back to the forecastle, carrying the grog-tub, we found the company as we had left it, except that there was a peculiarly

“Your cook’s a vocal genius, anyhow, bo’sun,” said he. “But don’t ye think we’d do more justice to our accomplishments, and keep in tune, if we’d an accompaniment? Have ye such a thing as a fiddle about ye?”

The boatswain was delighted. Of course there was a fiddle, and I was despatched for it. I should find it hanging on a hook at the end of the plate-rack, and if the bow was not beside it it would be upon the shelf, and there used to be a lump of resin and a spare string or two in an empty division of the spice-box. The whole kit had belonged to a former cook, a very musical nigger, who had died at sea, and bequeathed his violin to his ship. Sambo had been

It took me some little time to find everything, and when I got back to Dennis another song had begun. A young sailor I did not know was singing it, and the less said about it the better, except that it very nearly led to a row. It was by way of being a comic song, but except for one line which was rather witty as well as very nasty, there was nothing humorous about it, unless that it was funny that any one could have been indecent enough to write it, and any one else unblushing enough to sing it. I am ashamed to say I had heard some compositions of a similar type at Snuffy’s, and it filled me with no particular amazement to hear a good deal of sniggering in the circle round the spittoon, though I felt miserably uncomfortable, and wondered what Mr. O’Moore would think. I had forgotten Alister.

I was not likely soon to forget his face as I saw it, the blood swelling his forehead, and the white wrath round his lips, when he gripped me by the shoulder, saying, in broader Scotch than usual, “Come awa’ wi’ ye, laddie! I’ll no let ye stay. Come awa’ oot of this accurst hole. I wonder he doesna think black burning shame of himsel’ to stand up before grey-heided men and fill a callant’s ears with filth like yon.”

“The fiddle’s an old friend, so the bo’sun tells me,” he said, nodding towards the faces that turned to him.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Why, I’m blessed if it isn’t Sambo’s old thing.”

“It’s your honour knows how to bring the heart out of it, anyhow.”

“My eyes, Pat! You should ha’ heerd it at the dignity ball we went ashore for at Barbadoes. Did you ever foot the floor with a black washerwoman of eighteen stun, dressed out in muslin the colour of orange marmalade, and white kid shoes?”

“I did not, the darlin’!”

As the circle gossiped, Dennis tuned the fiddle, talking vehemently to the boatswain between whiles.

“Bo’sun! ye’re not to say a word to the boy. (Sit down, Alister, I tell ye!) I ask it as a favour. He didn’t mince matters, I’ll allow, but it was God’S

The diversion was successful. The boatswain, with a few indignant mutterings, devoted himself to doling out the tots of grog, and then proposed Dennis O’Moore’s health in a speech full of his own style of humour, which raised loud applause; Dennis commenting freely on the text, and filling up awkward pauses with flourishes on Sambo’s fiddle. The boatswain’s final suggestion that the ship’s guest should return thanks by a song, instead of a sentiment, was received with acclamations, during which he sat down, after casting a mischievous glance at Dennis, who was once more blushing and fidgeting with shyness.

“Ye’ve taken your revenge, bo’sun,” said he.

“Them that blames should do better, sir,” replied the boatswain, folding his arms.

“A song! a song! Mr. O’Moore!” shouted the men.

“I only know a few old Irish songs,” pleaded Dennis.

“Ould Ireland for ever!” cried Pat Shaughnessy.

“Hear! hear! Encore, Pat!” roared the men. They were still laughing. Then one or two of those nearest to us put up their hands to get silence. Sambo’s fiddle was singing (as only voices and fiddles can sing) a melody to which the heads and toes of the company soon began to nod and beat:

“La, lĕ lā la la, la la la, lā lĕ la, lâ Lā, le lā la la, la la la, lâ—lĕ la lâ,”

hummed the boatswain. “Lor’ bless me, Mr. O’Moore, I heard that afore you were born, though I’m blessed if I know where. But it’s a genteel pretty thing!”

“It’s all about roses and nightingales!” shouted Dennis, with comical grimaces.

“Hear! hear!” answered the oldest and hairiest-looking of the sailors, and the echoes of his approbation only died away to let the song begin. Then the notes of Sambo’s fiddle also dropped off, and I heard Dennis O’Moore’s beautiful voice for the first time as he gave his head one desperate toss and began:

“There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the night long. In the time of my childhood ‘twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.”

One by one the pipes were rested on the smokers’ knees; they wanted their mouths to hear with. I don’t think the assembled company can have looked

“That bower and its music I never forget; But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?”

I and the oldest and hairiest sailor were sighing like furnaces as the melody recommenced with the second verse:

“No, the roses soon withered that hung o’er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone, And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.”

If making pot-pourri after my mother’s old family recipe had been the chief duty of able-bodied seamen, this could not have elicited more nods of approbation. But we listened spell-bound and immovable to the passion and pathos with which the singer poured forth the conclusion of his song:

“Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul—as ‘twas then to my eyes— Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.”

And then (as somebody said) the noise we made was enough to scare the sea-gulls off the tops of the waves.

“You scored that time, Mr. O’Moore,” said the

“Thank ye, bo’sun. Glad I didn’t give ye your revenge, anyhow.”

But the boatswain meant to strike nearer home. A ship’s favourite might have hesitated to sing after Dennis, so Alister’s feelings may be guessed on hearing the following speech:

“Mr. O’Moore, and comrades all. I believe I speak for all hands on this vessel, when I say that we ain’t likely to forget sech an agreeable addition to a ship’s company as the gentleman who has just given us a taste of the nightingale’s quality” (loud cheers). “But we’ve been out-o’-way favoured as I may say, this voyage. We mustn’t forget that there’s two other little strangers aboard” (roars of laughter). “They ’olds their ’eads rather ’igh p’raps, for stowaways” (“Hear! hear!”), “but no doubt their talents bears ’em out” (“Hear, hear!” from Dennis, which found a few friendly echoes). “Anyway, as they’ve paid us a visit, without waiting to ask if we was at ’ome to callers, we may look to ’em to contribute to the general entertainment. Alister Auchterlay will now favour the company with a song.”

The boatswain stood back and folded his arms, and fixed his eyes on the sea-line, from which attitude no appeals could move him. I was very sorry for

“Sing ‘God save the Queen,’ and I’ll keep well after ye with the fiddle,” he suggested. But Alister shook his head. “I know one or two Scotch tunes,” Dennis added, and he began to sketch out an air or two with his fingers on the strings.

Presently Alister stopped him. “Yon’s the ‘Land o’ the Leal’?”

“It is,” said Dennis.

“Play it a bit quicker, man, and I’ll try ‘Scots wha hae.’”

Dennis quickened at once, and Alister stood forward. He neither fidgeted nor complained of feeling shy, but as my eyes (I was squatted cross-legged on the deck) were at the level of his knees, I could see them shaking, and pitied him none the less, that I was doubtful as to what might not be before me. Dennis had to make two or three false starts before poor Alister could get a note out of his throat, but when he had fairly broken the ice with the word “Scots!” he faltered no more.

The boatswain was cheated a second time of his malice. Alister could not sing in the least like Dennis, but he had a strong manly voice, and it had a ring that stirred one’s blood, as he clenched his hands, and rolled his Rs to the rugged appeal:

“Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory!”

Applause didn’t seem to steady his legs in the least, and he never moved his eyes from the sea, and his face only grew whiter by the time he drove all the blood to my heart with

“Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!”

“God forbid!” cried Dennis impetuously. “Sing that verse again, me boy, and give us a chance to sing with ye!” which we did accordingly; but as Alister and Dennis were rolling Rs like the rattle of musketry on the word turn, Alister did turn, and stopped suddenly short. The captain had come up unobserved.

“Go on!” said he, waving us back to our places.

By this time the solo had become a chorus. Beautifully unconscious, for the most part, that the song was by way of stirring Scot against Saxon, its deeper patriotism had seized upon us all. Englishmen, Scotchmen, and sons of Erin, we all shouted at the top of our voices, Sambo’s fiddle not being

“Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’, Let him on wi’ me!”

“’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange— Stranger than fiction.”—Byron. “Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows.”—Gray.

The least agreeable part of our voyage came near the end. It was when we were in the fogs off the coast of Newfoundland. The work that tired one to death was not sufficient to keep one warm; the cold mist seemed to soak through one’s flesh as well as one’s slops, and to cling to one’s bones as it clung to the ship’s gear. The deck was slippery and cold, everything, except the funnel, was sticky and cold, and the fog-horn made day and night hideous with noises like some unmusical giant trying in vain to hit the note Fa. The density of the fog varied. Sometimes we could not see each other a few feet off, at others we could see pretty well what we were about on the vessel, but could see nothing beyond.

We went very slowly, and the fog lasted unusually long. It included a Sunday, which is a blessed day

Not that the tales that were told on this occasion were of an encouraging nature, for they were all about fogs and ice; but they were very interesting. One man had made this very voyage in a ship that got out of her course as it might be where we were then. She was too far to the north’ard when a fog came on, as it might be the very fog we were in at that moment, and it lasted, lifting a bit and falling again worse than ever, just the very same as it was a-doing now. Cold? He believed you this fog was cold, and you might believe him that fog was cold, but the cold of both together would not be a patch upon what it was when your bones chattered in your skin and you heard the ship’s keel grinding, and said “Ice!” “He’d seen some queer faces—dead and living—in his time, but when that fog lifted and the

At this point the narrator was called away, and somebody asked,

“Has any one heard him tell how it ended?”

“I did,” said Pat Shaughnessy, “and it spoilt me dinner that time.”

“Go on, Pat! What happened to them?”

“The lowest depths of misfortune. Sorra a soul but himself and a boy escaped by climbing to a ledge on the topmost peak of one of the icebergs just in the nick of time to see the ship cracked like a walnut between your fingers. And the worst was to come, bad luck!”

“What? Go on, Paddy! What did he and the boy do?”

“They just eat each other,” faltered Pat. “But, Heaven be praised! a whaler fetched off the survivor. It was then that he got the bad fever though, so maybe he dreamt the worst.”

I felt great sympathy with Pat’s evident disrelish for this tale, but the oldest and hairiest sailor seemed hardly to regard it as worth calling an adventure. If you wanted to see ice that was ice, you should try the coast of Greenland, he said. “Hartic Hexploration for choice, but seals or blubber took you pretty them two.” (And cocking one leg over the other, he drew a worsted sock from his foot, and displayed the fact that his great toe and the one next to it were gone.) “They lost more than toes that time too. You might believe it gave you a lonelyish kind of feel when there was no more to be done for the ship but get as much firewood out of her timber as you could, and all you had in the way of a home was huts on an ice-floe, and a white fox, with a black tip to its tail, for a pet. It wouldn’t have lasted long, except for discipline,” we young ’uns might take notice. “Pleasure’s all very well ashore, where a man may go his own way a long time, and show his nasty temper at home, and there’s other folks about him doing double duty to make up for it and keep things together; but when you come to a handful of men cast adrift to make a world for themselves, as one may say, Lord bless you! there’s nothing’s any good then but making every man do as he’s bid and be content with what he gets—and clearing him out if he won’t. It was a hard winter at that. But regularity pulled us through. Reg’lar work, reg’lar ways, reg’lar rations and reg’lar lime-juice, as long as it lasted. And not half a bad Christmas we didn’t have neither, and poor Sal’s Christmas-tree was the best part of it. ‘What sort of a Christmas-tree, and why Sal’s?’ Well, the God A’mighty, as made ’em, alone knows the depths of ’em; but as our doctor used to say (and he was always fetching things out and putting ‘em into bottles), it’s the rough weather brings the best of it up.”

This was not a cheerful story, but it was soon driven out of our heads by others. Fog was the prevailing topic; yarns of the fogs of the northern seas

It was towards dark, when we had been fourteen days at sea, that our own fog suddenly lifted, and the good news flew from mouth to mouth that we might

I was leaning against the bulwarks at eight o’clock the next morning. White mist was all around us, a sea with no horizon. Suddenly, like the curtain of a theatre, the mist rose. Gradually the horizon-line appeared, then a line of low coast, which, muddy-looking as it was, made one’s heart beat thick and fast. Then lines of dark wood; then the shore was dotted with grey huts; then the sun came out, the breeze was soft and mild, and the air became strangely scented, and redolent of pine forests. Nearer the coast took more shape, though it was still low, rather bare and dotted with brushwood and grey stones low down, and always crowned with pines. Then habitations began to sparkle along the shore. Red roofs, cardboard-looking churches, little white wooden houses, and stiffish trees mixed everywhere. And the pine odour on the breeze was sweeter and sweeter with every breath one drew.

Suddenly I found Alister’s arm round my shoulder.

“Isn’t it glorious?” I exclaimed.

“Aye, aye,” he said, and then, as if afraid he had not said enough, he added with an effort: “The

“What a fellow you are!” I groaned: “Alister, aren’t you glad we’re safe here? Are you ever pleased about anything?”

He didn’t speak, and I turned in his arm to look up at his face. His eyes, which always remind me of the sea, were looking away over it, but he brought them back to meet mine, and pressed my shoulder.

“It is bonnie,” he said, “verra bonnie. But eh, man! if strange land shines like yon, hoo’ll oor ain shores look whenever we win Home?”

“One, two, three, and away!”

We three were fast friends when our voyage ended, and in planning our future we planned to stick together, “Like the three leaves of the shamrock,” as Dennis O’Moore said.

The captain would have kept Alister as one of his crew, but the Scotch lad had definite plans for looking up a cousin on this side of the Atlantic, and pushing his fortunes by the help of his relative, so he did not care to make the return voyage. The captain did not offer the berth to me, but he was very kind, and returned my money, and gave us a written paper testifying to our good conduct and capabilities. He also gave Alister his address, and he and the other officers collected a small sum of money for him as a parting gift.

That afternoon we three crossed the harbour, and went for a walk in the pine-woods. How I longed for Charlie! I would have given anything if he could

Of course we had no notion of going home awhile. Alister and I had come away on purpose; and for his own part it had always been the longing of his soul to see the world. Times out of mind when he and Barney were on board one of these emigrant ships, that had put into the bay, God-speeding an old tenant

It is needless to say that I was willing to fall in with Dennis O’Moore’s plans, being only too thankful for such companions in my wanderings. I said so, and added that what little money I had was to be regarded as a common purse so long as it lasted.

When Alister was appealed to, he cast in his lot with no less willingness, but it seemed that he must first look up a relation of his mother’s, who lived in Halifax, and to whom his mother had given him a letter of introduction. Alister had never told us his

However that might be, Alister held with his mother, of course, and he said little enough about his paternal relations, except one, whom he described as “a guid man, and verra canny, but hard on the failings of the young.” What youthful failings in our comrade had helped to snap the ties of home we did not know, but we knew enough of Alister by this time to feel sure they could not have been very unpardonable.

It was not difficult to see that it was under the sting of this man’s reproaches that the lad had taken his fate into his own hands.

“I’m not blaming him,” said Alister in impartial tones; and then he added, with a flash of his eyes, “but I’ll no be indebted to him!”

We had returned to the town, and were strolling up the shady side of one of the clean wooden streets, when a strange figure came down it with a swinging squaw!

Probably Dennis had come to the same conclusion, when, waving the tabby-coloured arums he said, “I’ll ask her what these are,” and gaily advanced to carry out his purpose.

“Ye’re daft,” said Alister, getting red.

“It’s a North American Indian!” said I.

“It’s a woman, anyhow!” retorted Dennis over his shoulder, with a twinkle of his eyelashes that drew from Alister in his broadest accent, “The lad’s a pairrfect libberrteen!” an expression which he afterwards retracted and apologized for at considerable length.

arums as they parted. Then he lifted the broad hat once more and stood bareheaded, as the squaw came slowly down the wooden causeway, not without one glance at us as she passed. But at the bottom of the street she turned round to look at Dennis. His hat was still in his hand, and he swung it round his head, crying, “A Dieu, Madame!”

“A Dieu!” said the squaw, and she held up the tabby-striped arums. Very mingled feelings seemed to have been working in Alister’s mind, but his respect

“French,” said Dennis. “There seems to be a French mission somewhere near here. She’s a good Catholic too, but she has a mighty queer accent, and awful feet!”

“It’s a grand thing to speak with other tongues!” said Alister.

“If ye want to learn French, I’ll teach ye all I can,” said Dennis. “Sh—sh! No kindness whatever. I wish we mayn’t have idle time for any amount of philology!”

At the top of the hill we parted for a time, and went our ways. Alister to look up his relation, I to buy stationery and stamps for our letters home, and Dennis to convert his gold ring into the currency of the colony. We would not let him pawn his watch, which he was most anxious to do, though Alister and I pointed out how invaluable it might prove to us (it was a good hunting-watch, and had been little damaged by the sea), because, as he said, “he would feel as if he was doing something, anyhow.”

Alister and I were the last to part, and as we did so, having been talking about Dennis O’Moore, I said, “I knew it was French when I got nearer, but

“With perseverance,” replied Alister, simply.

“What good will French be to you?” I asked.

“Knowledge is a light burden, and it may carry ye yet,” was Alister’s reply.

When we met again, Dennis was jingling some money in his pocket, which was added to the common fund of which the miser’s legacy had formed the base. I had got paper and stamps, and information as to mails, and some more information which was postponed till we found out what was amiss with the Scotch leaf of our shamrock. For there were deep furrows on Alister’s brow, but far deeper was the despondency of his soul. He was in the lowest possible spirits, and with a Scotchman that is low indeed. He had made out his way to his cousin’s place of business, and had heard a very satisfactory report of the commercial success, but—the cousin had gone “to the States.”

Alister felt himself very much ill-used by fate, and I believe Dennis felt himself very much ill-used by Alister, that evening, but I maintain that I alone was the person really to be pitied, because I had to keep matters smooth between the two. The gloom into which Alister relapsed, his prophecies, prognostica

For it was no light matter to have lost our one hope of a friend in this strange land; and yet this was practically what it meant, when we knew that Alister Auchterlay’s cousin had gone to the States. But the idea of kinship at last suggested, something more sensible than jokes to Dennis O’Moore.

“Why, I’ve a cousin of my own in Demerara,

“You haven’t a cousin in New York, have you?” I asked, and I proceeded to explain, that having done my business, I had been drawn back to the harbour by all the attractions shipping has for me, and had there been accosted by the mate of a coasting-vessel bound for New York with salt fish, who was in want of hands both to load and man her. The Water-Lily had been pointed out to me from a distance, and we might go and see her to-morrow morning if we liked. With the prospect of living for at least a month on our slender stocking, the idea of immediate employment was very welcome, to say nothing of the attraction of further adventures. Alister began to cheer up, and Dennis to sober down. We wrote home, and posted our letters, after which we secured a decent sleeping-room and a good meal of broiled salmon, saffron-coloured cakes, and hot coffee, for a very reasonable sum; but, moderate as it was, it confirmed us in the conviction that we could not afford to eat the bread of idleness.

Next day we were early at the wharf. The Water-Lily was by no means so white as she was named, and the smell of the salt fish was abominable. But we knew we could not pick and choose when

Water-Lily was loaded, and we sailed in her, and we got to New York. But of all the ill-found tubs that ever put to sea, I should think she might have taken the first prize. We were overhauling her rotten rigging, taking off, putting on, and mending chafing gear every bit of our time, Sunday included. The carpenter used horrible language, but for his vexation I could have forgiven him if he had expressed it more decently, for he never had a moment’s rest by day; and though a ship’s carpenter is exempt from watches and allowed to sleep at night as a rule, I doubt if he had two nights’ rest between Halifax and New York.

As Dennis put it, there was “any amount of chicanery about the whole affair.” Some of our pay was “set against” supplying “duds” for Dennis to do dirty work in; Alister was employed as sail-maker, and then, like the carpenter, was cheated of his rest. As to food, we were nearly starved, and should have fared even worse than we did, but that the black cook was friendly towards us.

“Dis Water-Lily ob ours a leetle ober-blown, Dennis, I’m tinking,” said Alfonso, showing all his white teeth. “Hope she not fall to pieces dis voyage.”

“Hope not, Alfonso. She hasn’t lost her scent,

For our favour with the cook (and it means hot coffee, dry socks, and other little comforts being in favour with the cook) we had chiefly to thank Dennis. Our coal-black comrade loved jokes much, but his own dignity just a little more; and the instinctive courtesy which was as natural to Dennis as the flow of his fun, made him particularly acceptable to Alfonso.

And for the rest, we came to feel that if we could keep the Water-Lily afloat to the end of her voyage, most other considerations were minor ones.

“May it please God not to make our friends so happy as to forget us!”—Old Proverb.

The Water-Lily was re-christened by Dennis, with many flourishes of speech and a deck tub of salt water long before we reached our journey’s end. The Slut, as we now privately called her, defied all our efforts to make her look creditable for New York harbour, but we were glad enough to get her there at all.

We made the lights of Barnegat at about six o’clock one fine morning, took a pilot on board at Sandy Hook, and the Slut being by this time as ship-shape as we could get her, we cleaned ourselves to somewhat better purpose, put on our shore-togs, and were at leisure to enjoy one of the most charming sensations in the world, that of making one’s way into a beautiful harbour on a beautiful morning. The fresh breeze that favoured us, the sunshine that—helped by the enchantment

“Poor ole Water-Lily!” sighed Alfonso, under the influence of this feeling, “you and me’s called her a heap o’ bad names, Dennis; I ’spects we has to have our grumbles, Dennis. Dat’s ’bout whar ‘tis.”

“She’s weathered the storm and got into port, anyhow,” said Dennis, “and I suppose you think the best can do no more. Eh?”

“Jes’ so, Dennis.”

Alfonso was not far wrong on the subject of grumbling. It is one of a sailor’s few luxuries and privileges, and acts as safety-valve for heats of just and unjust indignation, which might otherwise come to dangerous explosion. We three had really learned no mean amount of rough-and-ready seamanship by Slut was the worst we had ever known, our limited experience had made us safe in declaring, and we had also been voluble about the undue length of time during which we had been “humbugging about” between Halifax and New York. But these by-gones we now willingly allowed to be by-gones, especially as we had had duff-pudding the day before, though it was not Sunday—(Oh, Crayshaw’s! that I should have lived to find duff-pudding a treat—but it is a pleasant change from salt meat),—and as the captain had promised some repairs to the ship before we returned to Halifax.

We were not long in discovering that the promise was a safe one, for he did not mean to return to Halifax at all. Gradually it leaked out, that when the salt fish was disposed of we were not going to take in ballast and go back, as we had thought, but to stow away a “general cargo” of cheap manufactured articles (chiefly hardware, toys, trumpery pictures, and looking-glasses) and proceed with them on a trading voyage “down south.”—“West Indies,” said the carpenter. “Bermuda for certain,” was another opinion; but Alfonso smiled and said, “Demerara.”

“Cap’n berry poor sailor, but berry good trader,”

Alfonso had made the voyage before on these principles, and was all the more willing to believe that this was to be the programme, because he was—at such uncertain intervals as his fate ordained—courting a young lady of colour in Georgetown, Demerara. I don’t think Dennis O’Moore could help sympathizing with people, and as a result of this good-natured weakness, he heard a great deal about that young lady of colour, and her genteel clothes, and how she played the piano, and belonged to the Baptist congregation.

“I’ve a cousin myself in Demerara, Alfonso,” said Dennis.

“Hope she’m kind to you, Dennis. Hope you can trust her, ’specially if the members walks home with her after meeting.” And Alfonso sighed.

But jokes were far too precious on board the Slut for Dennis to spoil this one by explaining that his cousin was a middle-aged gentleman in partnership with the owner of a sugar estate.

As we had sailed on the understanding that the Water-Lily was bound to New York and back again Water-Lily.

An odd incident occurred during our brief stay in New York. It was after the interview in which we came to terms with the captain, and he had given us leave for three hours ashore. You can’t see very much of a city when you have no money to spend in it; but we had walked about till we were very hungry, and yet more thirsty, for it was hot, when we all three caught sight of a small shop (or store, as Americans would call it), and we all spoke at once.

“Cooling drinks!” exclaimed Dennis.

“There’s cakes yonder,” said Alister.

“Michael Macartney,” muttered I, for that was the name over the door.

“Have you a mother in Liverpool?” I asked, before he had time to ask me which “pop” I wanted.

As I have said, his mouth was big, but I was

“Yes; I know her.”

“And why would ye be standing there with the cold pop, when there’s something better within? Come in, me boy. So you’re acquainted with my mother? And how was she?”

“No, thank you, I don’t drink spirits. Yes; your mother was well when I saw her.”

“God be praised! It’s a mighty long time since I seen the ould craythur.”

“Fifteen years,” said I.

I looked at Mr. Macartney as I said it, but he had evasive eyes, and they wandered to the doorway. No customers appeared, however, and he looked back to Dennis and Alister, but they had both folded their arms, and were watching us in silence.

“Murther and ages!” he repeated, “it doesn’t feel the half of it.”

“I fancy it seems longer, if anything, to her. But she has been on the look-out for you every day, you see. You’ve a good business, Mr. Macartney, so I dare say you’re a ready reckoner. Fifteen times three hundred and sixty-five? Five thousand four hundred and seventy-five, isn’t it?”

“It’s a fine scholar for a sailor-boy that ye are!”

“And you think I might mind my business and leave you to yours, Mr. Macartney?” I said. “But you see your mother was very kind to me, very kind indeed; and when I left Liverpool I promised her if ever I came across you, you should hear of her, and she should hear of you.”

“And why not?” he answered in mollified tones. “It’s mighty good-natured in ye too. But come in, all the three of ye, and have somethin’ to eat and drink for the sake of the old country.”

We followed him into a back parlour, where there were several wooden rocking-chairs, and a strong smell of stale tobacco. Here he busied himself in producing cold meat, a squash pie, and a bottle of whisky, and was as voluble as civil about every subject except the one I wished to talk of. But the memory of his mother was strong upon me, and I had no intention of letting it slide.

“I’m so glad to have found you,” I said. “I am

“Arrah! And why should she bother herself over me?” he answered impatiently. “Sure I never was anything but a trouble to her, worse luck!” And before I could speak again, he went on. “But make your mind aisy, I’ll be writing to her. Many’s the time that I’ve all but indited the letter, but I’ll do it now. Upon me conscience, ye may dipind upon me.”

Could I depend upon his shambling conscience? Every instinct of an honest man about me answered, No. As he had done for fifteen years past, so he would do for fifteen years to come. As long as he was comfortable himself, his mother would never get a line out of him. Perhaps his voice recalled hers, but I almost fancied I could hear her as I sat there.—“I ax your pardon, darlin’. It was my own Micky that was on my mind.”

“Look here, Mr. Macartney,” said I; “I want you to do me a favour. I owe your mother a good turn, and it’ll ease my mind to repay it. Sit down whilst we’re enjoying your hospitality, and just write her a line, and let me have the pleasure of finding a stamp and putting it in the post with my own hands.”

We argued the point for some time, but Micky found the writing materials at last, and sat down to

“Murther and ages! But it’s mighty pleased that she’ll be,” said Mr. Macartney when he had finished. He looked mighty pleased with himself, and he held the letter out to me.

“Do you mean me to read it?” I asked.

“I did. And ye can let your friends hear too.”

I read it aloud, wondering as I read. If pen and ink spoke the truth, Biddy’s own Micky’s heart was broke entirely with the parting from his mother. Sorra a bit of taste had there been in his food, or a drop of natural rest had he enjoyed for the last fifteen years. “Five thousand four hundred and seventy-five days—no less.” (When I reached this skilful adoption of my calculations, I involuntarily looked up. There sat Mr. Macartney in his rocking-chair. He was just lighting a short pipe, but he paused in the operation to acknowledge what he evidently believed to be my look of admiration with a nod and a wink. God he’d been spared the worst pangs of starvation (I glanced round the pop-shop, but, as Micky himself would have said, No matther!); and didn’t it lighten his heart to hear of his dear mother sitting content and comfortable at her own coffee-stall. It was murderously hot in these parts, and New York—bad luck to it—was a mighty different place from the dear old Ballywhack where he was born. Would they ever see old Ireland again? (Here a big blot betrayed how much Mr. Macartney had been moved by his own eloquence.) The rest of the letter was rich with phrases both of piety and affection. How much of the whole composition was conscious humbug, and whether any of it was genuine feeling, I have as little idea now as I had then. The shallows of the human heart are at least as difficult to sound as its depths, and Micky Macartney’s was quite beyond me. One thing about the letter was true enough. As he said, it would “plaze the ould craythur intirely.”

By the time I had addressed it, “Mrs. Biddy Macartney, coffee-seller,” to the care of, the Dockgate-keeper, we had not much spare time left in which to stamp and post it, so we took leave of the owner of the pop-shop. He was now very unwilling to let us go. He did not ask another question about his

“Wouldn’t she be the proud woman now, av she could see me!” he cried.

“Why don’t you get her out to live with you?” I asked.

He shook his head, “I’m a married man, Mr. —— bad luck to me, I’ve forgotten your name now!”

“I didn’t trouble you with it. Well, I hope you’ll go and see her before she dies.”

But when I came to think of it, I did not feel sure if that was what I wished. Not being a woman, how could I balance the choice of pain? How could I tell if it were better for her to be disappointed with every ship and every tide, still having faith in her own Micky, and hope of his coming, or for the tide and the ship to bring him with all his meanness upon the head she loved, a huge disappointment, once for all!

“Roose the fair day at e’en.” Scotch Proverb.

After leaving New York, we no longer hugged the coast. We stood right off, and to my great delight, I found we were going to put in at Bermuda for repairs. I never knew, but I always fancy that these were done cheaper there than at New York. Or it may merely have been because when we had been at sea two days the wretched Slut leaked so that, though we were pumping day and night, till we were nearly worn out, we couldn’t keep the wet from the gimcrack cargo.

Fortunately for us the weather was absolutely lovely, and though it was hot by day, we wore uncommonly little clothing, and “carried our change of air with us,” as Dennis said.

As to the nights, I never can forget the ideal beauty of the last three before we reached Bermuda. I had had no conception of what starlight can be and what stars can look like. These hanging lamps of the

Of living things (and, for that matter, of ships) we saw far less than I expected, though it was more than a fortnight from the time of our leaving Sandy Hook to the night we lay off to the east of the Bermudas—the warm lights from human habitations twinkling among the islands, and the cold light of the moon making the surf and coral reefs doubly clear against the dark waters—waiting, but scarcely wishing, for the day.

The pilot’s costume bore even more reference to his dignity than to the weather. He wore a pea-coat, a tall and very shiny black hat, white trousers, and neither shoes nor socks. His feet were like flat-irons turned the wrong way, and his legs seemed to be slipped into the middle of them, like the handles of two queer-shaped hoes. His intense, magnificent importance, and the bombastic way he swaggered about the deck, were so perfectly absurd, that we three youngsters should probably have never had any feeling towards him but that of contempt, if it had not been that we were now quite enough of seamen to appreciate the skill with which he took us safely on our dangerous

We went very slowly that day, as became the atmosphere and the scene, the dangers of our way, and the dignity of our guide.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” said Dennis, as we hung over the side. “If it’s for repairs we’ve put into Paradise, long life to the old tub and her rotten timbers! I wouldn’t have missed this for a lady’s berth in the West Indian Mail, and my passage paid!”

“Nor I.”

“Nor I.”

This was indeed worth having gone through a good deal to see. The channel through which we picked our way was marked out by little buoys, half white and half black, and on either side the coral was just awash. Close at hand the water was emerald green or rosy purple, according to its depth and the growths below; half-a-mile away it was deep blue against lines of dazzling surf and coral sand; and the reefs and rocks amongst whose deadly edges our hideous pilot steered for our lives, were like beds of flowers bloom

We anchored that evening, and the pilot went ashore. Lovely as the day had been, we were (for some mysterious reason) more tired at the end of it than on days when we had been working three times as hard. This, with Dennis, invariably led to mischief, and with Alister to intolerance. The phase was quite familiar to me now, and I knew it was coming on when they would talk about the pilot. That the pilot was admirably skilful in his trade, and that he was a most comical-looking specimen of humanity, were obvious facts. I quite agreed with both Alister and Dennis, but that, unfortunately, did not make them agree with each other. Not that Dennis contradicted Alister (he pretended to be afraid to do so), but he made comments that were highly aggravating. He did not attempt to deny that it was “a gran’ sight to see ony man do his wark weel,” or that the African negro shared with us “our common humanity and our immortal hopes,” but he

I was feeling all-overish and rather cross myself towards evening, and found Alister’s cantankerousness and Dennis O’Moore’s chaff almost equally tiresome. To make matters worse, I perceived that Dennis was now so on edge, that to catch sight of the black pilot made him really hysterical, and the distracting thing was, that either because I was done up, or because such folly is far more contagious than any amount of wisdom, I began to get quite as bad, and Alister’s disgust only made me worse. I unfeignedly dreaded the approach of that black hat and those triangular feet, for they made me giggle in spite of myself, and I knew a ship’s rules far too well not to know how fearful would be the result of any public exhibition of disrespect.

“What’s the boat for?” asked Alister, who had been below.

“And who would it be for,” replied Dennis, “but the gentleman in the black hat? Alister, dear! what’s the reason I can’t tread on a nigger’s heels without treading on your toes?”

“Hush!” cried I, in torment, “he’s coming.”

We stood at attention, but never can I forget the agony of the next few minutes. That hat, that face, those flat black feet, that strut, that smile. I felt a sob of laughter beginning somewhere about my waist-belt, and yet my heart ached with fear for Dennis. Oh, if only His Magnificence would move a little quicker, and let us have it over!

There’s a fish at Bermuda that is known as the toad-fish (so Alfonso told me), and when you tickle it it blows itself out after the manner of the frog who tried to be as big as an ox. It becomes as round as a football, and if you throw it on the water it floats. If you touch it it sounds (according to Alfonso) “all same as a banjo.” It will live some time out of water; and if it shows any signs of subsiding, another tickle will blow it out again. “Too muchee tickle

I fear it was this that pleased him, and made him stop; and we couldn’t help looking at him. His hat was a little set back for the heat, his black triangular feet were in the third position of dancing. He smiled.

There was an explosive sound to my right. I knew what it meant. Dennis had “burst.”

And then I never felt less like laughing in my life. Visions of insubordination, disrespect, mutiny, flogging, and black-hole, rushed through my head, and I had serious thoughts of falling on my knees

“Me one coloured gentleman. You one dam mean white trash ob common sailor. YAH!”

And with unimpaired dignity he descended the ladder and was rowed away over the prismatic waters. And Alister and I turned round to look for Dennis, and found him sitting in the scuppers, wiping the laughter-tears out of his thick eyelashes.

There was something fateful about that evening, which was perhaps what made the air so heavy. If I had been keeping the log, I should have made the following entry: “Captain got drunk. A ring round the moon. Alister and Dennis quarrelsome.”

I saw the ring round the moon when I was rowing the captain and the mate back from one of the islands, where they had been ashore. Alfonso afterwards pointed it out to me and said, “Tell you, Jack, I’m glad dis ole tub in harbour now!” from which I concluded that it was an omen of bad weather.

Alister and Dennis were still sparring. I began to think we’d better stretch a rope and let them have it out with their fists, but I could not make out that there was anything to fight about except that Alister had accused Dennis of playing the fool, and Dennis

Next day we were the best of friends, and we got leave to go ashore for a few hours. We were anchored in Grassy Bay, off Ireland Island—that is, off the island where the hulks are, and where the school-master spent those ten long years. Alister and Dennis wanted to take a boat and make for Harrington Sound, a very beautiful land-locked sheet of water, with one narrow entrance through which the tide rushes like a mill-race, but when they heard my reason for wanting to have a look at my friend’s old place of labour and imprisonment, they decided to stay with me, which, as it happened, was very lucky for us all.

We were all three so languid, that though there was much to see and little time in which to see it, when we found three firm and comfortable resting-places among the blocks of white stone in the dockyard, we sat down on them, and contented ourselves with enjoying the beautiful prospect before us. And it so happened that as Dennis said, “if we’d taken a box for the Opera” we could not have placed ourselves better for the marvellous spectacle that it was our good luck to witness. I must try and tell it in order.

“What, in the name of fortune ——” said Dennis.

But at this moment Alister cried, “Look behind ye, man!”

We turned round, and this was what we saw:—

The sky out to seaward was one great half-circle of blue-black, but in what sailors call the eye of the storm was another very regular patch, with true curved outlines of the arc and the horizon. Under this the sea was dazzlingly white, and then in front of that it was a curious green-black, and it was tossing and flopping about as if it did not know what to be at. The wind was scarcely to be felt as wind, but we

And as they fled, there arose from the empty sea and sky a strange hissing sound, which gradually grew so intense that it became almost a roar; and, as the noise increased, the white line on the horizon widened and widened.

Suddenly there came a lull. It quite startled us. But about half-a-mile away, I could see over Alister’s shoulders that the clouds were blacker, and the sea took up the colour and seemed to heave and rock more sulkily than before. There was no white water here, only a greenish ink. And at the same moment Dennis and Alister each laid a hand upon my arm, but none of us spoke. We lost ourselves in intense watching.

For by degrees the black water, leaving its natural motion, seemed to pile up under the black cloud, and then, very suddenly, before one could see how it happened, either the cloud stretched out a trunk to the sea, or the sea to the cloud, and two funnel-shaped masses were joined together by a long, twisting, whirling column of water that neither sea nor sky seemed able to break away from. It was a weird sight to see

We relaxed our grip of each other, and drew breath, and Alister, stretching his arms seawards after a fashion peculiar to him in moments of extreme excitement, gave vent to his feelings in the following words—

“Sirs! yon’s a water-spout.”

But before we had time to reply, a convict warder, whom we had not noticed, called sharply to us, “Lie down, or you’ll be blown down!” and the gale was upon us. We had quite enough to do to hold on to the ground, and keep the stone-dust out of our eyes by shutting them. Further observations were impossible, though it felt as if everything in the world was breaking up, and tumbling about one’s ears.

Luckily nothing did strike us, though not more than a hundred yards away a row of fine trees went down like a pack of cards, each one parallel with its neighbour. House-tiles flew in every direction, shutters were whipped off and whirled away; palm-trees débris.

But when we looked seaward we saw the black arch going as fast as it came. All sense of fever and lassitude had left us. The air was fresh, and calm, and bright, and within half-an-hour the tern and sea-gulls were fishing over the reef and skimming and swooping above the prismatic waters as before.

“Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; . . . . so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example, and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.” King John, V. i.

“Creaky doors” are said to “hang long,” and leaky ships may enjoy a similar longevity. It certainly was a curious fact that the Water-Lily hardly suffered in that storm, though the damage done to shipping was very great. Big and little, men-of-war and merchantmen, very few escaped scot-free, and some dragged their anchors and were either on the reef in the harbour, or ran foul of one another.

Repairs were the order of the day, but we managed to get ours done and to proceed on our voyage, with very little extra delay.

I cannot say it was a pleasant cruise, though it brought unexpected promotion to one of the Shamrock three. In this wise:

The captain, though a sneaking, unprincipled kind of man, was neither so brutal nor, unfortunately, so good a seaman as the mate; and the consequence of this was, that the mate was practically the master, and indulged his Snuffy-like passion for cruelty with impunity, and with a double edge. For, as he was well aware, in ill-treating Pedro he made us suffer, and we were all helpless alike.

His hold over the captain was not from superior seamanship alone. The Water-Lily was nominally a “temperance” vessel, but in our case this only meant that no rum was issued to the crew. In the captain’s cabin there was plenty of “liquor,” and the captain occasionally got drunk, and each time that he Water-Lily were of one mind. From the oldest to the youngest we all detested the mate, and a natural manliness of feeling made us like the captain better than we ought otherwise have done, because (especially as regards the drinking) we considered his relations with the mate to be characterized by anything but “fair play.” No love was really lost between them, and if the captain came on deck and took the lead, they were almost certain to quarrel (and none the less so, that we rushed with alacrity to obey the captain’s orders, whereas with the mate’s it was all “dragging work,” as nearly as we dare show unwillingness).

What led to the extraordinary scene I am about to relate, I do not quite know. I suppose a mixture of things. Alister’s minute, unbroken study of what was now his profession, the “almost monotonous” (so Dennis said) perseverance with which he improved every opportunity, and absorbed all experience and information on the subject of seamanship, could hardly escape the notice of any intelligent captain. Our captain was not much of a seaman, but he was a cute trader, and knew “a good article” in any line. The Scotch boy was soon a better sailor than the mate, which will be the less surprising, when one remembers

The captain and the mate had a worse quarrel than usual, after which the mate rope’s-ended poor Pedro till the lad lost consciousness, and whilst I was comforting him below, the brute fumed up and down deck like a hyena (“sight o’ blood all same as drink to the likes of him,” said Alfonso, “make he drunk for more”)—and vented some of his rage in abuse of the captain, such as we had often heard, but which no one had ever ventured to report. On this occasion Alfonso did report it. As I have said, I only knew results.

At eight o’clock next morning all hands were called aft.

The captain was quite sober, and he made very short work of it. He told us briefly and plainly that the mate was mate no longer, and asked if we had any wish as to his successor, who would be chosen from the crew. We left the matter in his hands, as he probably expected, on which, beckoning to Alister, he said, “Then I select Alister Auchterlay. He has Mister Auchterlay.”

“Mr. Auchterlay” more than justified the captain’s choice. His elevation made no change in our friendship, though the etiquette of the vessel kept us a good deal apart, and Dennis and I were all the “thicker” in consequence. Alister was not only absolutely loyal to his trust, but his gratitude never wearied of displaying itself in zeal. I often wondered how much of this the captain had foreseen. As Alfonso said, he was “good trader.”

The latter part of the voyage was, in these altered circumstances, a holiday to what had gone before. The captain was never actually drunk again, and the Water-Lily got to look clean, thanks largely to the way Pedro slaved at scraping, sweeping, swabbing, rubbing, and polishing, to please his new master. She was really in something like respectable harbour trim when we approached the coast of British Guiana.

Georgetown, so Alfonso told me, looks very odd from the sea. The first thing that strikes you being the tops of the trees, which seem to be growing out of the water; but as you get nearer you discover that this effect is produced by the low level of the land, which is protected from the sea by a sea-wall and

It was one of those balmy, moonlit tropical nights of which I have spoken; but when we were within about an hour’s sail of the mouth of the Demerara river, the sky ahead of us began to redden, as if the evening had forgotten itself and was going back to sunset. We made numberless suggestions, including that of a display of fireworks in our honour; but as the crimson spread and palpitated like an Aurora Borealis, and then shot up higher and flooded a large area of sky, Alister sang out “Fire!” and we all crowded forward in anxious curiosity.

As might be expected, Alfonso and Pedro were in a state of the wildest excitement. Alfonso, of course, thought of his lady-love, and would probably have collapsed into complete despair, but for the necessity of keeping up his spirits sufficiently to snub every suggestion made by the cabin-boy, whose rival familiarity with the topography of Georgetown he could by no means tolerate; whilst Pedro, though docile as a spaniel to us, despised Alfonso as only a half-caste can despise a negro somewhat blacker than himself, and burned for safe opportunities of displaying his superiority. But when Pedro expressed a somewhat

“You no listen to dat trash ob cabin-boy,” said he. “Wait a bit, and I’se find him dirty work below dat’s fit for he. Keep him from troubling gentlemen like us wid him lies. Plantation? Yah! He make me sick. Tell you, me know Demerary well ’nuff. De town is in flames. Oh, my Georgiana!”

So much, indeed, was beyond doubt before long, and as the fire seemed perilously close to the wharves and shipping, the captain decided to lie off for the night. The thermometer in his cabin stood at ninety degrees, which perhaps accounted for his having no anxiety to go ashore; but, in spite of the heat, Dennis and I were wild to see what was going on, and when Alister called to us to help to lower the jolly-boat, and we found we were to accompany him, we were not dilatory with the necessary preparations, and were soon rapidly approaching the burning town.

It was a strange sight as we drew nearer and hearer. Before us, on the sea, there was a line where the cold silver of the moonshine met the lurid reflections of the fiery sky, and the same cool light and hot glow changed places over our cheeks as we turned

“I’ll tell ye what it is, Jack. These elemental giants, when they do break loose from our service, have one note of defiance amongst them; and it’s that awe-ful roar!”

When we stood in the street where the fire was, it was deafening, and it kept its own distinctness above all other noises; and with the fire-bells, the saving and losing of household goods, and the trampling and talking of the crowd, there were noises not a few. Dennis and I were together, for Alister had business to do, but he had given us leave to gratify our curiosity, adding a kindly warning to me to take care of myself, and keep “that feather-brained laddie,” Dennis, out of danger’s way. We had no difficulty in reaching the point of interest, for, ludicrous to say, the fire was in Water Street; that is, it was in the street running parallel with the river and the wharves, the main business street of Georgetown. We were soon in the thick of the crowd, protecting our eyes from the falling fragments of burning wood, and

It fell in accordingly; and, in the sudden blaze of its destruction, I saw a man come riding along, before whom the people made way, and then some one pulled me back and said,

“The governor.”

He stopped near us, and beckoned some one to his side.

“Is he coming?”

“He’s here, sir;” and then into the vivid glare stepped a tall, graceful, and rather fantastical-looking young gentleman in a white jacket, and with a long fair moustache, who raised his hand with a quick salute, and then stood at the governor’s stirrup.

“I know that fellow, I’m sure,” said Dennis.

“Royal Engineers officer,” said my neighbour. “Mark my words, that means gunpowder,” and the good man, who was stout and steaming with perspiration, seemed to feel like one who has asked for a remedy for toothache and been answered by the dentist—“Gunpowder is what it means! And if our he’d have said, ‘Nothing like leather,’ and mended the hose of the steam-pump. And that store of mine, sir, didn’t cost a cent less than ——”

But I was watching the engineer officer, and catching fragments of the rapid consultation.

“Quite inevitable, sir, in my opinion.”

“Very good. You have full powers—instruct—colonel—magazine—do your best.”

The engineer officer had very long white hands, which I noticed as one went rapidly to his forehead, whilst with the other he caressed the dark nose of the governor’s horse, which had been rubbing its head against his shoulder. And then the governor rode away and left him.

The word “gunpowder” seemed to have brought soldiers to the spot in a sort of natural sequence. There was more quick saluting and short orders, and then all disappeared but one bronzed-looking sergeant, who followed the engineer stripling up and down as he jerked his head, and pulled his moustache, and seemed to have some design upon the gutters of the house-eaves, which took a good deal of explaining and saluting. Then we heard wheels and running footsteps, and I became sensible of great relief from the pressure of the crowd. The soldiers had come back again, running a hand-cart with four barrels of

“Can’t we help, I wonder?” said I.

“That’s just what I’m thinking,” said Dennis, and he strode up to the officer. But he was busy with his subordinate.

“Well, sergeant?”

“Not a fuse in the place, sir.”

“Pretty state of things! Get a hatchet.”

“They sent one, sir.”

“All right. This is the house.”

“The roof ’as caught, you know, sir?”

“The less time to waste,” was the reply, and the young man took up a barrel in his hands and walked in with it, kicking the door open with his foot. The sergeant must almost have trodden on his officer’s heels, as he followed with the second, and before I could speak Dennis had shouldered the third.

“Here’s diversion!” said he, and away he went.

There was the fourth barrel and there was I. I confess that I felt a twinge, but I followed the rest, and my barrel behaved as well as if it had been a cask of molasses, though the burning wood fell

The sergeant saluted—“May I fire it, sir?”

“No, thank you, sergeant; clear everybody out.” The sergeant was evidently disappointed, and vented this on the civilian public.—“That” said he, turning a blackened thumb over his shoulder, “is a ’eap of gunpowder. It’s just a going to be hexploded.” They went. And we found ourselves alone with the soldiers, who were laughing, and saying that the crowd had taken a big cast-iron tank for the heap of gunpowder. We stood a little aside in obedience to a wave of the young officer’s arm. Then he crossed the street to pick up a long piece of burning wood, and came back, the moonlight and the firelight playing by turns upon him.

I honestly confess that, fierce as the heat was, I turned cold. The experiences of the next few minutes were as follows: I saw the young engineer fire the train, and I heard a puff, and then I saw him fall, face downwards, behind the tank. I gave a cry, and started forward, and was brought up short by a back-hander on my chest from the sergeant. Then came a scrambling, rushing sound, which widened into a deep roar, shaking the ground beneath our feet, and then the big building at which we were gaping seemed to breathe out a monstrous sigh, and then it fell in, and tumbled to pieces, quietly, swiftly, and utterly, like a house of cards.

And the fantastic-looking young officer got up and shook himself, and worried the bits of charred wood out of his long yellow moustaches.

“Die Welt kann dir nichts darbieten, was sie von dir nicht empfinge.”—Schiller, Der Menschenfeind.

After Alister had done the captain’s business, he made his way to the post-office and got our letters, thinking, as he cannily observed, that in widespread misfortunes the big are implicated with the little, that fire spares public buildings no more than private residences, and that if the post-office was overtaken by the flames, we might lose not only words of affection, but perhaps enclosures of value. In short, he had brought our letters, and dearly welcome they were.

I had three; one from my father, one from my mother (with a postscript by Jem), and a long one from Charlie. I read my father’s first; the others were sure to be tender and chatty, and I could enjoy them at leisure.

My father’s letter was, for him, a wonderful effort of composition, and it was far kinder than I God, they had had a very pleasant brotherly bit of chat over old times, and a glass of my grandfather’s 1815 port) every Briton had a natural tendency to rule the waves, and it was stronger in some lads than others, as Robinson Crusoe alone would prove, a book which my uncle remembered had nearly cost him his life on a badly-made raft on the mill-dam, when he was a lad, and which would be read by boys with the real stuff in them, when half these modern books the Woods littered the farm parlour with were lighting the fire. My Uncle Henry had come forward in a very gratifying way. He had mentioned that Benson, an exceedingly intelligent clerk of his, had spoken of me in the highest terms, and seemed to think that there was hardly anything in the way of distinction in an adventurous career which might not be open

For a few minutes the letter danced up and down as if writ in water; then I dried my eyes, and found that she bore up pretty well in hopes of my return, and that Uncle Henry was communicating by this mail with a man of business in Halifax, N.S., who was instructed to take a passage home for me in a good vessel, and to defray any expenses of a reasonable nature in connection with my affairs. When I was safe home, my father added, he would take the best advice as to sending me to sea in a proper and suitable way. Dr. Brown had some relatives who were large ship-owners, and he seemed to be much interested in my career, out of regard to the family. I was to let nothing hinder me from coming home at once, as I valued the love and blessing of my affectionate father.

My mother’s letter was infinitely tender, and it was curiously strong. Not a reproach of a lamentation, but some good counsel, shrewd as well as God bless you! my darling boy, and bring you safe home to your poor mother.

“P.S.—If you love me come as quick as you can. You shall go off again.”

This was Charlie’s letter:

“My dear Jack—I was so glad to get your letter. I knew you had gone off at last. It did not surprise me, for I was sure you would go some day. I believe I have a very mean spirit, for I felt rather hurt at first that you did not tell me; but Mr. Wood gave me a good scolding, and said I was not fit to have a friend if I could not trust him out of sight or out of hearing. And that’s quite true. Besides, I think I knew more about it after Jem had been down. He has been so jolly to me since you left. It must be a splendid life on board ship, and I am glad you have been in the rigging, and didn’t fall off. I wish you had seen an iceberg or a water-spout, but perhaps you mustn’t think so. They make burrows in the sand, and all day they are out on the wing, picking up what the storms was so funny. He said he’d seen the rabbits out on the spree many and many a moonlight night when sober folks were in bed; and then he smacked his knees and said, ‘But I’d give owt to see one on ’em just nip home and find a Pooffin upon t’ hearthstun.’ And, my dear Jack, who else has been to see me, do you think? Fancy! Lorraine! You remember our hearing the poor Colonel was dead, and had left Lorraine all that he had? Well, do you know it is a great deal more than we thought. I mean he’s got a regular estate and a big house with old pictures inside, and old trees outside. Quite a swell. Poor Lorraine! I don’t mean poor because of the estate, because he’s rich, of course; but do you know, I think he’s sadder

“Wednesday. I had to stop on Monday, my head and back were so bad, and all yesterday too. Dr. Brown came to see me, and talked a lot about you. I am better to-day. I think I had rather wound up my head with note-books. You know I do like having lists of everything, and my sisters have been very good. They got a lot of ruled paper very cheap, and have made me no end of books with brown-paper Adela. Oh, how I wish you were here to help! Jem’s going to. He’s awfully kind to me now you’re Adela if you are very long away (and some voyages last two or three years), I think I shall finish the garden, and the croft and the orchard, or at any rate one journey round them; and I think for another of your voyages I will do the log of the Adela on the canal, for with water-plants, and shells, and larvæ, and beasts that live in the banks, it would be splendid. Do you know, one might give a whole book up easily to a list of nothing but willows and osiers, and the different kinds of birds and insects that live in them. But the number of kinds there are of some things is quite wonderful. What do you think of more than a hundred species of iris, and I’ve only got five in the garden, but one of them is white. I don’t suppose you’ll have much time to collect things, but I keep hoping that some day, if I live, you’ll command a ship of your own, and take me with you, as they do take scientific men some voyages. I hope I shall live. I don’t think I get any worse. Cripples do sometimes live a long time. I asked Dr. Brown if he believed any cripple had ever lived to be a hundred, and he said he didn’t know of one, nor yet ninety, nor eighty, for I asked him. But he’s sure cripples have lived to be seventy. If I do, I’ve got fifty-four years yet. That sounds pretty well, but it soon goes, if one has a lot to do. Mr. Wood doesn’t think it likely you could command

“P.S.—Since I finished, a parcel came. What do you think Lorraine has done? He has paid for me to be a life member of a great London library, and sent me the catalogue. I can have out fifteen books at a time. There are hundreds of volumes. I can’t write any more, my back aches so with putting crosses

Having devoured my own letters, I looked up to see how my comrades were enjoying their share of the budget which the Halifax postmaster had faithfully forwarded.

The expression on Dennis O’Moore’s face was so mixed that it puzzled me, but he did not look satisfied with his letter, for he kept drawing it out again, and shaking it, and peeping into the envelope as if he had lost something. At last he put the whole thing into his pocket with a resigned air, and drove his hands through his black curls, saying,

“The squire all over, God help him!”

“What has he done now?” I asked.

“Sent me twenty pounds, and forgotten to enclose it!”

“Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis Danced his Beggar’s Dance to please them, And, returning, sat down laughing.”—Hiawatha. “God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures Boasts two soul-sides; one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.” Robert Browning.

The fact that when we got back to the Water-Lily, Alister found the captain dead drunk in his cabin, sealed our resolution to have nothing more to do with her when we were paid off, and our engagement ended (as had been agreed upon) in the Georgetown harbour. There was no fear that we should fail to get berths as common seamen now, if we wanted them; and there was not a thing to regret about the Slut, except perhaps Alfonso, of whom we were really fond. As it turned out, we had not even to mourn for him, for he cut cable from the Water-Lily too, having plans of his own, about which he made a great deal of mystery and displayed his wonted

Alister had something to lose. It was not a small consideration to give up his mate’s berth, but he said the whole conduct of the ship was “against his conscience,” and that settled the matter, to him.

When we were our own masters once more, we held another big council about our future. If I went home at once, I must, somehow or other, get back to Halifax before I could profit by Uncle Henry’s arrangement. If Dennis went home, he must equally depend on himself, for there was no saying when the Squire would, or would not, find out and rectify his omission. Alister’s mother had sent him some stamps for postage, and his paternal relative had sent him a message to the effect that having had neither word nor wittens of him for a considerable period, and having feared the worst, he was thankful to learn of his safe arrival in Halifax, Nova Scotia; and trusted that the step he had taken, if a thought presumptuous at his years, yet betokened a spirit of self-reliance, and might prove not otherwise than conducive to his welfare in the outcome.

Altogether, we were, practically, as much dependent on ourselves as when we sat under the pine-trees in Nova Scotia.

“We’ll look up my cousin, to begin with,” said Dennis.

“Are ye pairfectly convinced that he’s here?” asked Alister, warned by his own experience.

“Certainly,” said Dennis.

“Have ye corresponded with him of late?” pursued Alister.

“Not I, indeed. The O’Moores are by no means good letter-writers at the best of times, but he’d have let us know if he was dead, anyhow, and if he’s alive, we’ll be as welcome as the flowers.”

Before Alister could reply, he was interrupted by a message from our late captain. The Water-Lily was still in harbour, and the captain wanted the ex-mate to help him on some matters connected with the ship or her cargo. Alister would not refuse, and he was to be paid for the job, so we hastily arranged that he should go, and that Dennis and I should devote the evening to looking up the Irish cousin, and we appointed to meet on the “stelling” or wharf, alongside of which the Water-Lily lay, at eleven o’clock on the following morning.

“I was a fool not to speak to that engineer fellow the other night,” said Dennis, as we strolled on the shady side of a wide street, down the middle of which ran a wide water-dyke fringed with oleanders. “He would be certain to know where my cousin’s place is.”

“Do you know him?” I asked, with some eagerness, for the young officer was no small hero in my eyes.

“Oh, yes, quite well. He’s a lieutenant in the Engineers. He has often stayed at my father’s for shooting. But he has been abroad the last two or three years, and I suppose I’ve grown. He didn’t know ——”

“There he is!” said I.

He was coming out of a garden-gate on the other side of the street. But he crossed the road, saying, “Hi, my lads!” and putting his hand into his pocket as he came.

“Here’s diversion, Jack!” chuckled Dennis; “he’s going to tip us for our assistance in the gunpowder plot. Look at him now! Faith, he’s as short of change as myself. How that half-crown’s eluding him in the corner of his pocket! It’ll be no less, I assure ye. He’s a liberal soul. Now for it!”

And as the young lieutenant drew near, Dennis performed an elaborate salute. But his eyes were brimming with roguishness, and in another moment he burst out laughing, and after one rapid glance, and a twist of his moustache that I thought must have torn it up by the roots, the young officer exploded in the same fashion.

“Dennis!—What in the name of the mother of

“It means that I was a stowaway, and my friend here a castaway—I mean that I was a castaway, and Jack was a stowaway. Willie, do you remember Barton?”

“Old Barney? Of course I do. How did he come to let you out of his sight?”

Dennis did not speak. I saw that he could not, so I took upon me to explain.

“They were out in the hooker, off the Irish coast, and she went to pieces in a gale. Old Barney was lost, and we picked Dennis up.”

He nodded to me, and with his hand through Dennis O’Moore’s arm, said kindly, “We’ll go to my quarters, and talk it over. Where are you putting up?”

“We’re only just paid off,” said I.

“Then you’ll rough it with me, of course, both of you.”

I thanked him, and Dennis said, “Willie, the one thing I’ve been wanting to ask you is, if you know where that cousin of my father’s lives, who is in business out here. Do you know him?”

“Certainly. I’m going there to-night, for a dance, and you shall come with me, I can rig you out.”

They went ahead, arm-in-arm, and I followed at just sufficient distance behind to catch the backward looks of amazement which the young officer’s passing friends were too polite to indulge when exactly on a level with him. He capped first one and then another with an air of apparent unconsciousness, but the contrast between his smart appearance and spotless white uniform, and the patched remains of Dennis’s homespun suit (to say nothing of the big bundle in which he carried his “duds”), justified a good deal of staring, of which I experienced a humble share myself.

Very good and pleasant are the comforts of civilization, as we felt when we were fairly established in our new friend’s quarters. Not that the first object of life is to be comfortable, or that I was moved by a hair’s-breadth from my aims and ambitions, but I certainly enjoyed it; and, as Dennis said, “Oh, the luxury of a fresh-water wash!”—for salt water really will not clean one, and the only way to get a fresh-water wash at sea is to save out of one’s limited allowance. We had done this, to the extent of two-thirds of a pailful, as we approached Guiana, and had been glad enough all to soap in the same bucket (tossing for turns) and rinse off with clean sea-water, but real “tubs” were a treat indeed!

“Dennis! what’s your length, you lanky fellow?”

“Six foot two by the last notch on the front door. I stood in my socks, and the squire measured it with his tape.”

“Well, there’s half-an-inch between us if he’s right; but that tape’s been measuring the O’Moores from the days of St. Patrick, and I’ve a notion it has shrunk with age. I think my clothes will do for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, Willie! You’re very good.”

“O’Brien’s bringing you the things; can he go in? Be quick and finish off that fresh-water business, old fellow, and get into them. I promised not to be late.”

I tried to read a newspaper, but the cross-fire of talk forbade anything like attention.

“Was ye wanting me, sorr?”

“No, no. Never mind me, O’Brien. Attend to Mr. O’Moore. Can he manage with those things?”

“He can, sorr. He looks illigant,” replied O’Brien from the right-hand chamber. We all laughed, and Dennis began to sing:

“Oh, once we were illigant people, Though we now live in cabins of mud; And the land that ye see from the steeple, Belonged to us all from the flood. My father was then king of Connaught ——”

“And mislaid his crown, I’ll be bound!” shouted the lieutenant. “Look here, Dennis, you’ll get no good partners if we’re late, and if you don’t get a dance with your cousin’s daughter, you’ll miss a treat, I can tell you. But dancing out here isn’t trifled with as it is in temperate climates, and cards are made up early.”

By and by he shouted again,

“O’Brien!”

“Coming, your honour.”

“I don’t want you. But is Mr. O’Moore ready?”

“He is, sorr, barring the waistcoat. Take a fresh tie, Master Dennis. The master ’ll not be pleased to take ye out with one like that. Sure it’s haste that’s the ruin of the white ties all along. Did ye find the young gentleman a pair of shoes, sorr?”