Book II—Patagonia and the Land of Fire.

A Strange Introduction—Saint Helena and Fun on Shore—Cape Town.

The amount of good advice vouchsafed to us before sailing, by dear aunt, was only equalled by the sum total of our own good resolves. There was nothing in the world we were not going to do and be that was worth doing or being. And every night of our lives for weeks before sailing, we made some new good intention, and duly entered it in the log of our memories.

Alas! I fear that going to sea for the first time is very like entering upon a new year: there is the same firm determination to do good and to be good, and one invariably sticks to his intentions boldly—for a week or a fortnight.

Our life now, I remember, was to be all couleur de rose. There would not be a single hitch in it; it would spin over the wheels of time as softly as a well-coiled rope glides through a greased block. We were going to work like New Hollanders, and get up to the working of the ship in a month at the farthest, be able to reef, steer, and box the compass in another month; we would always be on deck three minutes before the watch was called; we would show the men a good example—we certainly had a good opinion of our little selves; we would be always cheerful and merry and willing; and last, but not least, we would keep such a log as would be worth handing over to the British Museum when done with.

However, there is no harm in trying to be perfect; on the contrary, it shows a boy is ambitious, and an ambitious boy is certain to do well and advance. He may not obtain to the height of his ambition, but if he aims high he’ll hit high, nevertheless, although he may neither send his arrow through the moon nor set the Thames on fire.

The Salamander was a sailing ship, but a crack little craft at that, well-handled, and well-manned. A barque she was as to rig, but almost clipper built, without extra narrowness of beam. She was a strong, sturdy-timbered, safe ship, and could do a bit of handsome sailing on a wind.

But being a sailing ship, she had to be towed by such a puffing little dirty noisy tug, all the way down the river. This is a sort of a beginning to a voyage that I never could endure. When I go to sea, I like best to get into blue water right away, just as I dearly love to take a header from the rocks into deep water when bathing—right splash down among the jelly fishes.

But we hoisted sail at last with a deal of “yee-hoing” and sing-songing, then the tug and we parted company with a ringing cheer, which Jill and I took an eminent part in. Indeed, when the order was given to hoist the jib, both of us attempted to take an eminent part in that also, and were thunderstruck at being advised to go aft if we didn’t want our toes tramped. Why, the scramble in setting sail, the hurrying here and scurrying there, the noise and shouting, would have left a Rugby football match far in the rear.

When sail was got up at last, and the water had entirely lost its pea-soup colour, the Salamander went bobbing and curtseying over the wee wavelets, swaying about like a pretty Spanish girl dancing a fandango, and with a motion altogether so pleasant, that I said to Jill I did not think there was any life in the world so pleasant as a life on the ocean wave.

Just as I was saying this I received a dig from a thumb in the ribs, accompanied by that clicking sound a Jehu makes with his mouth when he wants his horse to “gee up.” I think it is spelt thus: “tsck!” If not, I do not know how to spell it.

“Tsck! youngsters, how d’y’e like it? Eh! Tsck! Sorry to leave the shorie-worry. Eh? Tsck.”

He was a youth of about fifteen, in blue pilot jacket with brass buttons, and a cap on the after-part of his head. He had a short neck and handsome face, but square chin, which he stuck very much up in the air when he spoke. I did not like him, then.

I drew myself up to my full height—four feet six, I think—and asked him if he was aware he was taking an unwarrantable amount of familiarity with my ribs.

I was using my very best English on him—auntie’s English.

“What’s your name, chummy?”

“Captain Coates may be able to inform you.”

“Ha! ha! going to ride the high horse. Eh?”

“What’s your name, little un? Tsck!” This to Jill.

Jill bridled up now.

“When I’m as big as you, I’ll thrash you,” said my brother.

“But you’ll never be, ’cause I’ll keep growing. See?”

I looked at him disdainfully up and down.

“You don’t give promise at present,” I said, “of ever attaining heroic dimensions.”

“Eh?” he said, putting a finger behind his left ear, as deaf people do. “I didn’t catch on. What ship did you say?”

“Because,” I added, “you’re squat, and you’re not wholesome, nor handsome.”

This was hardly handsome of me.

He shook his head now as if in great grief.

“Oh! you ungrateful little griffin,” he gasped out. “Here is poor innocent me come to chummy with you, and there is you a-rebuffing of me like everything. I declare it’s enough to make the binnacle pipe its eye.”

Then he brightened up all at once.

“I say,” he said, “was that old duchess your aunt? Uncommon fine old girl. Give you any yellow boys, eh?”

I turned on my heel and walked away, arm-in-arm with Jill.

At the same moment Mrs Coates and her black maid came up, and I was surprised to observe the immediate change in this young officer’s demeanour. He lifted his hat to the lady, and advanced almost shyly, certainly deferentially.

“Now, boys,” said Mrs Coates, smiling, “let me make you acquainted with your brother officer, Mr Jeffries. Mr Jeffries—Master Reginald—and-all-the-rest-of-it Jones; Master Rupert, etc, Jones—twin brothers, as you may see.”

Mr Jeffries cordially shook hands with us.

“I really was trying to scrape acquaintance with them when you came on deck, Mrs Coates.”

“How did you proceed?” asked the lady.

“Well, I—I fear I dug them in the ribs rather, Mrs Coates, but I now most humbly apologise.”

“And I have to apologise,” I returned, “for calling you squat and ugly.” I lifted my hat.

“And I,” said Jill, lifting his hat, “have to apologise for saying I would thrash you—I won’t.”

“No,” said Mr Jeffries, “I dare say you won’t yet awhile. Well, let’s all be pleasant. We’re all in the same boat. But boys, I’m plain Peter. Don’t Mr me.”

“And I’m Jack.”

“And I’m Jill.”

“Oh,” laughed Mrs Coates, “then I must call my Jack—John.”

I could not help thinking this was a very strange introduction, but the ice was broken, and that was everything.

We had music after dinner, in our pretty little saloon, Mrs Coates and Peter playing duets together, he with the clarionet—on which charming instrument every boy should take lessons before going to sea—and she at the piano.

We youngsters went on deck before turning in. The stars were all out, and all sail was crowded; but though well into the Channel, we made but little way, the sea all round being as calm as an English lake.

We sat down together near the companion.

“You don’t think me a very nasty fellow now, do you?” said Peter.

“No, I begin to like you rather.”

“Am I very ugly?”

“No, not ugly, but you looked conceited.”

“Well, so I perhaps am. Now, I’m lots older than you, and we’ve known each other all the evening, so forgive me for trying plainly to put you up to ropes. You’re green, and you must get rid of your lime-juice. Now, never lose your temper.”

“Oh! Jill,” I cried, laughing, “Peter is right, and we’ve broken our good resolve.”

“Always take chaff in the spirit it is meant.”

“So we had intended,” I sighed, “hadn’t we, Jill?”

“Assuredly.”

“Well, that’s all to-night. We’re friends?”

“We are.”

“Then, good-night. I have got to keep the first morning watch.”

“Good-night, Peter.”

“Jill,” I said, “we’ve made fools of ourselves already. Let us go down below, and turn in.”

So we did, and cosy little cribs we had, and a little cabin all to ourselves—this is most exceptional, mind, but we were very young.

Just after we got up from our knees,—

“Give us the log-books,” I said, “Jill.”

“I say, Jack,” said Jill, sleepily, “maybe it would be as well to write every day’s doings complete every morning.”

“I dare say that would be best,” I said, “and I must say I’m feeling very tired.”

Next day it was blowing a bit, and we had something else to occupy our minds than writing logs. Indeed I never felt so thoroughly bad and unambitious in my life. I did try to eat some breakfast, but the fish got it after. Jill was the same, so ill, and the ship would keep capering about in a way that made me wish I’d been a soldier instead of a sailor.

“How’re you getting on?” Peter often asked kindly. “Oh, you are not nearly so bad as I was at first, and on the day the mate rope-ended me off to my watch.”

“Isn’t it blowing hard?” I ventured to ask.

“Blowing? dear life no, it’s a glorious breeze.”

The glorious breeze—how I hated such glory—kept at it for many days. The sea got rougher and the waves higher, and we got worse. I do not think anything would have induced me to go near a ship again, if a good angel had only put me down then at the door of Trafalgar Cottage.

But every one was kind to us.

Then one day the mate—he was rather a tartar—put us both in separate watches, and after this I think our sufferings began in earnest.

Not a word had yet been written in the log, so that was our third good intention thrown to the winds.

It really seemed to me that the mate was cruel; he did not kick us about, but he sent us flying, on very short notice too. And we dared not say a word. Then we had all kinds of little menial offices to perform, even for the captain’s cat and for two beautiful dogs that belonged to the mate. To be sure, there was a boy or two forward, but the mate told us—Jill and me—that he wanted to make men of us. He explained that no officer could ever know when a thing was well done unless he knew how to do it himself.

Going aloft was at first fearful work. I’ll never forget, though, lying out on a yard making a sham of reefing, and holding on like a fly on a roof, praying, and expecting every moment to be hurled into the sea. It came easier at last, and before we reached Saint Helena, where we lay in, I could do a deal both below and aloft, and had hands and feet as good as the captain’s cat.

Now if ever the lines of any two boys were cast in pleasant places on going first to sea, they were Jill’s and mine, and yet we were not happy. What would it have been had we been subjected to the thousand and one little tyrannies of ship life most apprentices have to endure? I’m not going to describe them, because I am telling a story, not giving a lecture; nor do I wish to say a word to prevent bold, hardy lads from adopting the sea as a profession; but let no one go to be a sailor lured by the romance and glamour thrown over it in too many sea novels.

Peter and we got on shore together at Saint Helena. This was a treat, because we were now quite friendly, and I had not forgotten the good advice he gave us the first evening we met.

Leila, Mrs Coates’ maid, also had a passage on shore in the same boat, and Peter, much to the amusement of the men—with whom, by the way, he was a great favourite—pretended to make love to her all the way. He told her, to begin with, that her name was sweetly poetic, and pretty. So far he was right. Then he said her teeth were like pearls. Leila grinned, simpered, and showed her teeth. And really Peter was not far wrong. Having adhered to the truth so far, I believe Leila was in a position to believe anything. So Peter praised her eyes next. He said they reminded him of koh-i-noors floating in a bucket of tar, and he referred to the coxswain to say whether he was not right. The coxswain confessed that diamonds were never so numerous where he had been, as to float them on tar, but that Leila was pretty enough to make a fellow pitch a ball of spun-yard at the captain’s head if she asked him to.

For this pretty compliment the coxswain received a dig in the ribs from Leila that well-nigh sent him overboard among the sharks and turtles, and certainly took his breath away.

“Oh!” cried the coxswain. “If that’s your way of showing your affection, my beauty, a little of it goes a long way.”

“What for you tease a poor girl, then?”

“Your hair, my Leila—” began Peter again.

“Cut it short, Mr Jeffries,” cried the coxswain, laughing; “why, sir, you can’t praise that!”

“Cut it short!” said Peter; “why it couldn’t be shorter. But look at those crisp wee ringlets, how they curl round one’s affections, how they entwine themselves with every poetic feeling—”

“Way enough—oars,” shouted the coxswain.

There was indeed way enough. The good fellow had not been keeping his weather eye lifting, and now the boat took the beach with such force that nearly all hands caught crabs, the bewitching Leila among the rest.

Peter made haste to help her up, and assisted her on shore. He even carried his politeness so far as to offer her his arm along the beach.

“You go ’long now,” she replied. “You nothing but one piccaninny. I not can gib dis heart ob mine to a child so small as you.”

Jill and I laughed, and Peter laughed good-naturedly, and fell back.

“Bother it all, boys, she’s got the best of me after all.”

Here, in James’s Town, as in other places, my brother and I attracted universal attention, among blacks and whites, by our wonderful resemblance to each other. And they did not hesitate to show it. For instance, I was some distance behind Jill and Peter, when I met a bluff old sailor.

“Hullo! matie,” he shouted, “blessed if I ain’t three sheets in the wind. I could have sworn I met you a minute ago, and there you are again. I’ll go back and have a sleep. Can’t go on board like this.”

But when he saw the two of us together, he concluded to go on board, after treating himself to another glass of beer, and drinking our healths. So we had to “shout” as Peter called it.

Before we entered the little inn, which was kept by a highly respectable man of colour, Peter pushed me unceremoniously into a little stable place, and told me to wait till come for.

I obeyed, feeling sure Peter was up to some lark. About five minutes after, the door was opened, not by Peter, but by a black man in a white jacket.

He sprang back in amazement when he saw me.

“You must be de debbil, sah,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied, “but you’re more of his colour.”

The explanation is this: after calling for beer and sherbet, Peter, who knew the landlord, having been here before, said—

“Now, Mr Brown, you see this young gentleman,” alluding to Jill.

“Yes, sah,” said Mr Brown, “pertiklerly handsom boy, sah.”

“True,” said Peter, “but his chief peculiarity is his ubiquitousness.”

“Yes, sah, sure ’nuff, sah; come to look again, he is rather obliquitous.”

“He can go through a key-hole.”

The man drew back.

“Now, come and I’ll show you.” And upstairs the three went; and after making sure the window was properly fastened, Jill was duly locked into the room, and the landlord put the key in his pocket. In a minute after they returned. The room was empty to all appearance—Jill, in fact, was behind a chair in a corner. The landlord peeped under the bed, then stared in blank amazement.

“Now come on,” cried Peter, “we’ll find him out of doors. Go and look in your little stable.”

And there, of course, Mr Brown found me. Meanwhile Jill had got downstairs, and had hidden himself in the parlour, so that Peter had an opportunity of ringing the changes on this trick in several ways.

Finally we both appeared at once.

“I’m going to pay for the sherbet,” said I and Jill both in a breath, and both extending our hands at once.

“No, sah,” said Mr Brown, “I not touch it. P’r’aps sah, the money is obliquitous too—ha! ha!”

We had a deal of fun that day one way or another, and very much enjoyed our visit to Napoleon’s tomb. I believe I should have waxed quite romantic about that, or about some of the splendid views we saw on every side of us, but who could be romantic with Peter alongside making us laugh every moment?

After returning, we went to climb ladder hill. Every one does so, therefore we must. The ladder leads up the face of a cliff about four hundred feet high.

“I think,” said Peter, “I see my way to a final joke before going off. Jill, old man, you hide down here till I shout from the cliff top, then come slowly up the ladder, rubbing yourself as if you had tumbled.”

Then up we went. We were in luck. An old gentleman at the top was watching our ascent from under his white umbrella. We said “good afternoon,” and passed along some little way, and at a sign from Peter I got into hiding.

Peter ran back. “Oh!” he cried, “I fear my young friend has fallen over the cliff.”

“Dear me, dear me,” said the old gentleman, looking bewilderedly round, “so he must have. How very, very terrible.”

“But it won’t hurt him, will it?”

“Hurt him? why he’ll be cat’s meat by this time.”

“Oh, you don’t know my friend,” said Peter. “He’s a perfect little gutta-percha ball, he is.”

Then he shouted, “Jill—Jill, are you hurt?”

And when Jill presently came puffing and blowing up the ladder, and making pretence to dust his jacket, that old gentleman’s face was such a picture of mingled amazement and terror that I felt sorry for him; so I suddenly appeared on the scene, and, according to Peter, thus spoiled the sport.

Jill and I had built all sorts of castles in the air anent our arrival at Cape Town, and the meeting with our darling mother and brave papa. We were not in the least little bit afraid of a scolding from either.

The Salamander was to lie here for a whole week, so we would be certain to enjoy ourselves if—ah! there always is an if. I do not believe there ever was a castle in the air yet that had not a big ugly ogre living in some corner of it. Supposing father were killed, or something happened to mamma.

But here was the Cape at last, and the bay, and the town, and the grand old hills above. It was early in the morning when we dropped anchor, but there was plenty of bustle and stir on the water nevertheless. The houses looked very white in the sun’s glare, which was so bright on the water that we could scarcely look on it. The hills were purple, grey, and green with patches of bright crimson here and there, for it was early summer in this latitude. Indeed, everywhere around us was ablaze with sunlight and beauty. But all this fell flat on Jill and me, and we did not feel any near approach to happiness till the boat was speeding swiftly towards the landing with us. For somewhere in shore yonder lived, we hoped, all we held truly dear.

Chapter Eleven.

Life at Sea—Poor Father’s Death—Mattie and I.

Where did Major Jones of the —th live?

Was the regiment in town?

These were only two out of a dozen questions we asked about two dozen people on the street. And greatly to our astonishment, no one could give us a definite answer. We thought all the world knew our papa.

At last we met a smart sergeant of marines, who told us afterwards he was just up from Symon’s Town on a few days’ outing. Our father’s regiment had gone to the front, away up country, but he would go with us to the barracks. He did so, and got an address—that of the house where the major used to live; and he walked with us that distance, then bade us good day.

The door was opened by a little yellow lady wearing a crimson silk bandana by way of cap. We had hardly spoken ere she guessed we were the “young massa boys that Ma’am Jones speak so much about.”

“And mother, is she with father?”

“She was wid Capitan Jones, but she come home to-day, sick.”

“She is here, then?”

“No, to-day she come home.”

“Is she very ill?”

“No, bless de lubly lad, no, no ill at all, only sick.”

Here was confusion and grief all mingled up together.

However, we waited. It was a beautiful room we were in, all jalousied and curtained, all thoroughly tropical in appearance, while every nick-nack around us was mother’s—her work-box, writing-desk, books, everything.

A light carriage stopped ere long, and at a glance we could see it was mother’s. We could not wait any longer, but ran right away down the garden to meet her.

Then the scene—which must be imagined.

Mamma was looking as well and beautiful as ever. She was on sick-leave; that was what the little yellow Malay lady wanted to convey.

What a happy, happy week that was. And every hour of it we spent with mother. The only drawback to our pleasure was that we could not see poor father. But when we came back—ah! then.

We had such good news at the end of the week, too—that is good news for Jill and me, not for the owners’ profit, however, including Auntie Serapheema. It was simply that, owing to delay in lading and unlading, the Salamander would not be ready for sea for another week. This was a respite we did not fail to take advantage of, and so we spent it in going everywhere and seeing everything, in company with mother, of course, and very often Peter.

I felt that I liked Peter now better than ever, because he was so deferential and polite to mamma. No Frenchman had more urbanity about him than Peter, when he concluded to show it.

How Jill and I wished that week had been a year. The Cape has always seemed to me a very delightful dreamy sort of a place. The scenery is so grand, there is health in every breeze, and the people do not hurry along in life as they do in the States of America, where one is surrounded by such a stream of fast-flowing life that he thinks he is behind the age if he does not sail with it. But at the Cape one can take time to vegetate and enjoy his existence.

Up anchor and away again. A few tears at parting, and hopes of a speedy reunion. It had felt funny, as Jill expressed it, to find mamma amidst such tropical surroundings, but there was a good time coming, and we might soon see her back in dear old Trafalgar Cottage.

Of course Peter and we had fun at the Cape, and Peter played a good many more of his monkey tricks; but one particular monkey trick was played on me by a smart-looking Portuguese fellow, whom I will not forget, but am never likely to meet, so I make a virtue of necessity by forgiving him.

It was on the forenoon of our sailing. Jill was already on board, and I myself was about to put off in the very last boat, when the man came up and politely touched his cap.

“I sent them all off, sir,” he said, “and this is the little bill.”

I glanced at it. One pound 5 shillings 6 pence for various little nick-nacks, chiefly preserved fruits and other eatables.

“Ha!” I said to myself, “this is strange.” Then aloud: “I never ordered these things, my man.”

“You forget, sir. Only last night, sir, and you gave me sixpence to be sure to take them off in time. Will you come with me to the store?”

“No, no,” I said; “it was my brother, doubtless. Here you are, one pound six shillings. Keep the sixpence because I suspected you.”

I did not see my brother to speak to till dinnertime.

“Fork over, old man,” I said, throwing him the bill. “I paid that for you, and don’t you forget your liabilities when next you leave a foreign port.”

Jill glanced at the bit of paper, and his look of blank astonishment told me at once I had been very neatly victimised. So much for being a twin.

Peter exploded in a hearty fit of laughter, which went rippling round the table; and though I looked a little blank—Jill said “blue”—for a time, I presently joined in the mirth.

“You see, my boy,” said Captain Coates, “that it is quite an expensive thing to keep a double.”

“Long may he keep his double,” said Mrs Coates.

I grew serious all at once. I glanced just once at poor Jill’s innocent face, while a strange feeling of gloom rushed over my heart.

Keep my double! Why surely, I thought, it could never be otherwise. I must always have Jill—always, always. I could no more live without that brother of mine than I could exist without the air I breathe.

Perhaps dear Mrs Coates noticed the air of concern her words had inadvertently called up, for she made haste to change the subject. I do not know whether she did so very artistically or not, but very effectually.

“Have ever you seen oysters growing on trees, Mr Jeffries?” she asked.

How closely the sublime is ever associated with the ridiculous in this world! Mirth itself or folly is never really very far away from grief. The one merely turns its back to the other.

Oysters growing on a tree indeed! Yet I could not repress a smile, and I dare say Mrs Coates noticed she was victorious.

“Oysters growing on trees? Yes, years and years ago.” I often noticed that peculiarity about Peter: he used to speak as if he were indeed a very old man. And, mind you, one’s peculiarities should always be respected, even if they convey to your mind the idea that the owner is affected with pride. Because every one has peculiarities, and they are often faults; but all have faults.

I think in the present instance Peter would have been pleased if Jill or I had contradicted him, but we did not. Jill merely said:

“Wouldn’t I like to have trees like these growing in my garden.”

Then Captain Coates explained that Peter referred to the mangrove trees, with huge bare root-tops, that grew by the seashore in Africa, and graciously permitted the succulent bivalves to cling to them.

I have heard it said, reader, that there was not much romance about the merchant service; that, like the glory of war, it all clung to the Royal Navy. This is not quite true, and were I but to describe one half the adventures—none very wild, perhaps—and half the fun we had for the next four years of our life at sea, giving an account at the same time of the storms and dangers we encountered, and a pen-and-ink picture graphically told of the lovely lands and seas we made the acquaintance of, it would be one of the most readable books ever printed. But I have that to tell of poor Jill and myself which I believe will be far more absorbing than the every-day events in the life of a sailor.

Our voyage, then, to Bombay was all that could be desired. Now that Jill and I really felt ourselves to be seafarers in the strict sense of the word, we settled down to our life, and began to enjoy it.

This is a feeling that comes sooner or later to all who make going to sea their profession, and it is born of the fact that your ship becomes your home; so that on shore you always feel out for the day or the week, as the case may be, but as soon as your foot is on deck you feel back and settled down. It is this feeling I doubt not which makes every true sailor love his ship.

From Bombay we went to China, and thence to Sydney, and it was there the great grief found us, a grief which made Jill and I feel we had left our boyhood behind us and grown suddenly old.

We had lost our father!

He had died, as heroes die, fighting at the head of his regiment, sword and revolver in hand, against fearful odds.

I shall not dwell on this sorrow; it had better be imagined. It was Mrs Coates who broke the news to us, after taking us below to our cabin. She let us weep as young orphan brothers would, in each other’s arms, unrestrained for a long time, before she broke gently in with the remark:

“Dear boys, God is good to you; you still have your mother.”

Oh yes, we still had our mother, and when the first wild transports of our grief were past, our thoughts sorrowfully reverted to her, and her lonely life in auntie’s cottage by the sea.

I think the first comfort we really had was in our manly resolves to do everything that was right, and to be everything that was brave and good, for the sake of this widowed mother of ours, and out of respect to the memory of our hero father.

But as I have said, the grief made us old, and mind you, age goes not with years; the poor miserable children that beg in the streets of London, half naked and in rags, whose parents are more unnatural than the wildest beasts, they, I say, are as old in spirit and heart, and often in wisdom, as happy young men and women of over twenty-one.

It was strange, too, that, children though we were, we could not help feeling that henceforward we would be our mother’s protectors.

Ah, I have to confess, though, that, so hard was the blow to bear, so intense was the grief we experienced for father’s death, we saw no silver lining to the cloud for many a day, and, at night, neither Jill nor I could get our hearts quite round those beautiful words in God’s own prayer, “Thy will be done.”

And so months and years flew by, and Jill and I grew big and strong, and at the age of sixteen we brothers took the position of second and third mates on the Salamander. There really was no such rating as third mate, but the captain and everyone else who had anything to do with the ship, knew well we would not be parted if possible.

In all these years we had only been twice home, for our ship had what might be called a roving commission. Captain Coates was part owner of her and the rest of the owners knew well he would do all for the best, so that when abroad he invariably took whatever turned uppermost in the shape of trade. When unlading at one port, he seldom knew where he would be sailing to next. Sometimes we would take several trips back and fore between the same two ports. In a word, Captain Coates despised no trade or trip either by which he saw his way to make an honest penny.

On our last return home, we found that mamma was much more cheerful and resigned, that Auntie Serapheema had not yet got married. It was not even rumoured that she had refused many offers. She seemed wholly bound up in mamma.

Mummy Gray, Sarah, and Robert, were just as we had left them, Robert and Trots the pony being both stiffening a trifle with age.

Mattie was grown almost out of “kenning,” as the Scotch say. She had slipped up, but she was none the less wonderfully beautiful.

Peter told her in his off-hand way, in Auntie’s presence too, that when she was a few years older he might possibly make love to her, and probably marry her, but not to build upon this as a promise.

Mattie told him he was an old man, and he had better marry Sarah. She said Robert wouldn’t mind, because Robert had Trots, the pony.

Mattie, and Jill, and I, visited the Thunderbolt. Mr Moore was still in charge, and we talked much of old times and poor Tom Morley, but we did not play at pirates, though Mrs Moore pulled out the black flag and displayed it. She was always going to keep it, she said, as a memento of days gone by.

On board the hulk, Mattie took me aside to show me something, which she did with sparkling eyes and a heightened colour. It was only the little letter that I had put on her pillow.

“But,” said Mattie, “of course we always pray for you when far away at sea, only there is one word in this letter that I don’t like, quite I mean.”

“And what is that, Mattie?”

“Why do you say, ‘Poor Jill’?” I do not know how it was, but at that very moment a kind of shadow passed over my heart: I cannot otherwise define it—a kind of cold feeling.

“I don’t know, Mattie,” I replied, looking, I’m sure more serious than I intended, for my looks were mirrored in Mattie’s face. “I don’t know, Mattie; but I often think something will happen to ‘poor Jill’—”

“There it is again—‘poor Jill.’”

“Only,” I added, “Heaven, forbid it should be in my lifetime, Mattie.”

“Amen,” said the child.

It was while I was at home this time—this last time for many years—that a very curious thing happened. A sailor died at Cardiff, and on his death-bed called a priest and confessed to him that he alone had been the murderer of Roderigo, the Spanish sailor and companion of Adriano, who had suffered so long in prison.

I felt extremely happy about this, and so did auntie. She, of course, had not known the story of the man at the time when he was instrumental in saving Jill and me from probably an ugly fate. I had told her afterwards, however, when I knew Adriano had gone out of the country. And, with some show of reason perhaps, both auntie and Mummy Gray connected him and the murdered Roderigo with the mystery that enshrouded Mattie’s life.

“He will come again some day,” auntie said, “and we will know all.”

“Yes,” said Mummy Gray, solemnly, “I hope so.”

The Queen granted Adriano a free pardon. Auntie was disloyal enough to laugh when she read that piece of intelligence in the newspaper.

“Pardon for what?” she said, “after having kept the poor dear sailor in prison and bondage for so many terrible years. It sounds like adding hideous insult to awful injury.”

Chapter Twelve.

“Come to me, Jack, I cannot come to you.”

Peter Jeffries, now chief mate of the dear old Salamander, could no more help chaffing Jill and me, than a monkey can help pulling its mother’s tail. And we used to tell him so.

For instance, brother and I nearly always kept watch together, merely for company’s sake. You see we were both put in the same watch because the Salamander required no third mate. So Peter did not hesitate to remind us often enough that we were only one man between the two of us. But the fact was we were kept together on the Salamander, at auntie’s wish, in order to become perfect sailors under bold Captain Coates, and not, as Peter would have it, that we might have our socks seen to by Mrs Coates, and our pocket-handkerchiefs aired by the black but comely Leila.

However, by way of paying him out for it, Jill would sometimes keep Peter’s watch for him, and let him have four hours extra in, thus returning wheat for chaff.

During the next year of our life, Jill and I grew to to be quite men—seventeen, you know, or nearly—and Jill reminded Peter that he could thrash him now, for we really were taller.

The resemblance between us was not a whit marred, and to tell you the truth we took a pride in it, and, just for the fun of the thing, always dressed exactly alike, even to our scarves.

About this time we were bound from the Cape to Rio, which we made in fine form, though we kept a good look-out for Russian cruisers, it being war time. We often met ships that made us fidget for the time being, but the danger was never extreme at the best.

From Rio we started for San Francisco, meaning at first to go round the Horn, but Captain Coates changed his mind, and determined to penetrate through the Straits of Magellan.

We received the first intimation of the captain’s intention from Peter, when he came on deck one lovely morning to join my brother and me in our walk.

There was about a six-knot breeze blowing aslant our course from the south-west by west, so though every stitch of canvas was set, there was not a deal doing.

“The old man says you’re to keep a few points closer to the wind,” said Peter.

“All right,” I replied, giving the necessary orders.

Peter was in one of his funny moods to-day, I knew, because he asked Jill if, having nothing else to do, he would mind whistling for some more wind.

“For a capful, if you like,” said Jill, merrily; “may I have your cap to hold it in?”

“Now, youngster, I own you’re smart, but never cheek your superior officer. Besides, I’m older than either of you, and if you’re both good boys I’m going to marry your sister.”

We laughed outright.

“Thank you,” said Jill, “that is very good. I remember you told Mattie herself that last time we were home, and I thought at the time cheek couldn’t well go further.”

“If anybody marries Mattie,” continued Jill, “it must be Jack.”

“Jack! What! Marry his sister?”

I grew suddenly serious.

“My dear Peter,” I said, “it is strange that through all these years it never occurred to me to tell you that Mattie is not our sister, though we call her so, and love her just the same, but—”

“Just the same as a sister?” said Peter, interrupting me. He had a smile on his face, but it was a made one—one of those smiles that curl round the lips, but never reach as far as the eyes; at the same time in those eyes was a look of such earnestness as I but seldom saw there.

Jill and I were standing side by side looking at Peter, and as the latter spoke, our hands touched. I knew then, as I do now—though neither my brother nor I ever spoke of it—that the same thought thrilled through both of us: “Could Peter be in love with our little Mattie? To be sure she was barely fifteen, but then—”

“I ought to have told you,” I continued, “that there is a sad mystery about Mattie’s birth and parentage.”

“Ha!” said Peter, “a story, eh? Well, we will have it to-night in the first watch.”

“Very well.”

Peter brightened up again immeasurably.

“Do you know why we altered course?” he asked.

“Usual thing, I suppose.”

“No, not the usual thing.

“We’re going to try to push through the straits. Fine weather, clear skies, a spanking bit of a breeze, and good luck will do it, though it is risky enough in all weathers for sailing ships, ’cause of course you’re in and out, off and on, tacking and running, and all kinds of capers, and never off a lee-shore, morn, noon, and night, till you’re out into the Pacific Ocean.

“Ever hear of Magellan, Greenie?” he continued, looking at poor Jill. He often called Jill “Greenie,” which he said was a pet name.

Now Jill and I knew all the history of the great navigator of ancient times. Our Aunt Serapheema took good care of that.

“Magellan? let me see,” said Jill. “Oh yes, there used to be a Magellan who kept a draper’s shop in Upper High Street.”

“Well,” said Peter, “that is true enough, but I hardly think that is the man. However, I’ve been through the straits before.”

“Do they charge anything for letting you through,” said Jill, quietly.

Peter laughed till he had to wriggle about in all directions. “I tell you what it is, Greenie, you’ll be the death of me some day. Well, we shall touch at the Land of the Giants.”

“Are there really giants?”

“I’m not going to spin any yarn from personal experience, child, because I can’t to any extent. But our bo’s’n told me it was a land of giants. There are giant plains—they call them pampas—giant lakes and rivers, giant hills and forests—awful in their gloom—giant men and women, giant cocks and hens—”

“Yes, the ostriches.”

“And the whole is defended round the coast by giant cliffs, alive with giant birds; but we’ll see for ourselves in a day or two, Greenie, if you’ll only whistle for the wind.”

“If it comes.”

“Yes, if it comes.”

That same night in the first watch, which happened to be Peter’s, we told, or rather I told, him all I knew of Mattie’s history.

He was silent for some time afterwards, leaning quietly over the weather bulwarks, watching the phosphorescence in the sea. That was a glorious sight indeed, but Peter was not thinking about that at all. “Did it ever occur to you, Jack,” he said at length, “that this Adriano whom you so befriended—”

“Who so befriended us.”

”—Might be one of the sailors saved from the wreck? might be even Mattie’s father?”

“No, no, no,” I cried, “not that, Peter. It certainly was unaccountable that when she first saw Adriano she seemed to recognise him, but remember that she could have been little over a year old when the shipwreck occurred. Besides, I wouldn’t like to think of Adriano, friend and all as he must always rest in my memory, being Mattie’s father.”

“Liking has nothing to do with it one way or another.”

“No, certainly not.”

“Assuredly not,” from Jill.

“But,” I insisted, “the two shipwrecked sailors assured Nancy Gray that the lady’s husband had not been on board.”

“Jack,” said Peter, “you’re a capital sailor, but you would have made but a poor lawyer. Depend upon it there are wheels within wheels in the mystery that surrounds poor Mattie.”

“It will be all the better if it is never cleared up,” I said firmly, “and I hope it won’t be—there!”

“Well, I think otherwise. But one of the two men told the clergyman something. Do you know what that was?”

“No, and it didn’t seem to signify.”

“Didn’t it? There again I differ, and if you won’t think me officious, I’m going to probe this matter as deeply as I can.”

“Do as you please, Peter; I only hope you won’t find out—”

“What?”

“Anything disagreeable.”

“No fear of that, Jack. I pride myself in being able to read character, and there is that in Mattie’s face and eyes that tells me she is a lady born.”

“That has not been denied, Peter.”

“No, but not only of gentle but unsullied birth.”

As he spoke there came again, I thought, that same strange dreamy look in Peter’s eyes; but I could not be sure, though the light from the companion fell full in his face.

He extended his hand, and I grasped it. It was as if we were signing a compact of some kind, I hardly knew what.

Then Jill and I went below.

Mrs Coates sat near the stove, which was burning brightly, in her little rocking chair, reading; her black maid sitting not far off sewing; in front of the fire a big pleasant-faced cat was singing a duet with the brightly burnished copper kettle, and the great lamp swung in its gymbals from a beam over head.

I could not help pausing in the doorway for a moment to admire the homelike cosiness of the scene. By and by down came Captain Coates.

“Jill, my lad,” he said, as he seated himself by the little piano, “trot on deck and relieve Peter a bit.”

When Peter came down he went at once for his clarionet, and we had very sweet music indeed.

This, or something like it, is the way we usually spent our evenings in fine weather.

In two days time we were, or thought we were, not far off the entrance to the First Narrows, but the horizon was hazy.

The same afternoon a great red-funnelled steamer hove in sight, and came ploughing and churning on in our direction. She was English, and homeward bound. How glad we were! We did not take ten minutes to finish our letters. They carried all kinds of tender messages and wishes and hopes, and told how well and happy we were and expected to remain.

I went in charge of the boat with the letters, and was very kindly received. As I stood on the deck of the fine steamer, I really could not help wishing I was going home. It was but for a moment; then I remembered I had duties that called me elsewhere.

The ships parted with cheers, and the flock of seagulls, Cape pigeons, and albatrosses that had been following the steamer divided, one half going on after her, the others electing to share our fortunes, and pick up our cook’s tit-bits from off the water.

We were now in Possession Bay, which surrounds the entrance to the First Narrows of Magellan Straits; but though the wind was fair, there was a strange haze lying low all round the horizon, so our good captain determined to keep “dodging” or tacking about till the weather should clear.

Captain Coates had told us at dinner that for his part he would sooner go round the Horn any day, than through the Straits, but he had important business at Sandy Point—a Chilian town of small dimensions on the Patagonia shore—and—“duty is duty.”

The sun went down blood-red in the haze, and with as little sail as possible on her we went tacking to and fro. Two great albatrosses were sailing round and round, sometimes coming so close that we could hear the rustle of their feathers and note the glitter of their green eyes and the shape of their powerful beaks. I could not help thinking of the words of Coleridge in that weird poem, “The Ancient Mariner.”

At length did come an albatross, Thorough the fog it came, As if it had been a Christian soul We hailed it in God’s name. And a good south wind sprang up behind, The albatross did follow, And every day for food or play Came to the mariner’s “hollo!”

It may have been these lines that I conned over to myself, or the mournful sough to that was in the wind to-night; but, at all events, some sort of heaviness seemed to lie about my heart that I could not account for.

About three hours after sunset, the moon had asserted itself. Very high in air it shone, right overhead almost, and although but half a moon, was exceedingly bright and silver-like. But half-moons give the stars a chance, and to-night, though the haze lay houses high all along the horizon, the sky above was darkly blue, and so clear that you could mark the changing radiance of colour of many of the stars that sparkled as dew-drops do in the sun’s rays.

I noted all this with satisfaction, I cannot say with pleasure. There was that unbanishable feeling of heaviness at my heart, which I have mentioned. It was getting late, however, so I went below to our cosy saloon, and was soon chatting cheerfully with our little mother, Mrs Coates. As I was turning to come down the companion, I had heard Peter sing out to Jill, “Oh, look at that great grampus!” And both had gone to see it.

We expected the captain down every minute to play, as was his wont, and rather wondered he did not come.

Suddenly on deck was heard the sound of footsteps hurrying aft, and at the same moment that awful shout—who that has ever heard it is likely to forget it till his dying day—?

“Man overboard!”

Mrs Coates started to her feet, clutching at the arm of the chair to prevent herself from falling.

With a sudden and terrible fear at my heart I went rushing up the ladder.

Peter was there—alone.

“Where is Jill?” I gasped.

“It is he,” was all he could answer.

I knew where he had fallen, from the direction in which all eyes were turned. A life-buoy had already been thrown, and the usual hurried orders were being issued.

From out of the dark depths of the sea I thought I could hear my brother’s voice, as I had heard it once before, in innocent pleading tones, when he was a child—

“Come to me, Jack, come to me; I cannot come to you.”

Next moment I was in the water, and the ship was some distance off. She seemed to move so fast away.

Here was the life-buoy. In my anguish I dashed it aside. I could support my brother. Many a time I had done so in the waves before our cottage door at home.

I felt glad the ship had gone, with her noise and bustling decks. I could listen.

“Jill,” I shouted, “coo-ee! Jill, I’m here.”

Then, to my joy, a faint answering shout came down the wind.

On—on—on I swam. Taking desperate strokes. Shouting one moment, listening the next.

At last, at last.

He was sinking, but I was not weary.

I remember hearing the clunk-clank of the oars of a coming boat.

Then that was lost to me; there came a terrible roaring in my ears, sparks flashed across my eyes, and—

When next I became conscious, I was lying in my bunk.

One anxious glance upwards. Oh, joy! it was Jill’s hand I held in mine.

So I slept.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Straits of Magellan—Firelanders—The Storm—The Ship Strikes.

To rub shoulders with death always leaves a chilly feeling in my heart for a day or two. It is as though the King of Terrors had just encircled me for one brief moment in his icy mantle, and let me free again.

I felt thus next morning, anyhow, but very thankful to Heaven, when I saw Jill quietly dressing. I did not chide him.

“Are you better, brother?” he said, with his father’s smile.

I knew he was penitent, and grateful, and all the rest of it, because he said “brother.” At ordinary times I was simply “Jack.”

I was softened.

“I’m all right,” I answered. “But, Jill, you must be more careful.”

“I’ll try, brother.”

Then I turned out, and began to dress, singing as usual.

Mrs Coates did come to breakfast, but looked worn and nervous. Peter was full of banter and nonsense. Captain Coates was keeping watch to let Peter “feed,” as Peter called it. But presently our worthy skipper would come below, and make a terrible onslaught on the cold ham. Nothing ever interfered with his appetite much. He was a philosopher, although a lean one, and always looked upon the bright side of life, and the bread-and-butter side.

“I sha’n’t get over the fright for a month,” said poor Mrs Coates. “Peter tells me he was standing on the bulwark, hardly holding on to anything.”

“I’ve scolded him well,” I said, “and if we meet the mail boat I’ve a good mind to send him back to mother and Mattie.”

“Wouldn’t you feel lop-sided, Jack, without the child?” said Peter. “And the Salamander would only have half a second mate. No; we’ll stick to Jill, only next time he wants a cold bath, we’ll find means to oblige him without having to call all hands.”

“Mrs Coates, I’ll have another egg, please,” said Jill.

“Well,” said Peter, “by all the coolness—”

“Hands make sail!”

This last was a shout on deck, and in five minutes more we were all “upstairs,” as Mrs Coates phrased it.

We were entering the First Narrows, the low, moundy shores of Patagonia on our right, the gloomy grandeur of the frowning mountains of Tierra del Fuego on our left, the sea all dark between.

I have said “gloomy grandeur,” but gloom can hardly be associated with glaciers, ice, and snow; and surely, too, the myriads of wheeling birds were doing all they could to dispel the gloom; still, it lay on the sea, it hung on the dark cliffs, and hovered on the mists that had not yet risen from the mountain summits.

Indeed, everything in and around this strange ocean highway has an air of gloom. You cannot help feeling you are at the end of the world. There is something weird in the very appearance of the water, weird and treacherous too; and albeit the forests that clothe the lower sides of the mountains, some hundred miles farther on, are wildly picturesque, surmounted as they are by rugged hills, snow-white cliffs, and glittering glaciers, they look black, inhospitable, threatening.

The weather continued fine, the wind was fair. We kept quietly on all day, through the Second Narrows, and into Broad Reach, the captain having timed things well. The wind was now more abeam, but less in force, so that we should make a pleasant night of it.

Never have I seen a more glorious sunset than we now had. To gaze on that splendid medley of light and colour, that hung over the western hills, seemed to give one a foretaste of the beauty of heaven itself. But with all its dazzling, thrilling loveliness, it did not make us feel happy. At all events it kept us silent.

Next day, early, we reached Sandy Point. A strange wee town of long, low wooden huts with shingle roofs, a little church, a great prison, and a ricketty pier, very foreign-looking, and not at all elevating to the mind. But the gentleman—a Chilian he was—who came off to transact business with Captain Coates was the quintessence of politeness, doubly distilled.

We had to stop two hours here, so Jill and I, with Mrs Coates, went on shore to see the giants, and buy guanaco skins for our friends at home.

The giants were not in. At least I saw none of them. But there were shops, and I fear that both Jill and I spent more money on ostrich feathers than we had any right to do.

Early in the afternoon we once more weighed anchor, and stood away down the Reach, the breeze keeping steadily up all day, but, unfortunately for us, going down with the sun. It was my watch from twelve till four; the moon did not shine out brightly to-night, being obscured with clouds, a by no means unusual occurrence in this dreary region.

Jill did not keep me company either; he was tired, he said, and had turned early in. Perhaps it was this fact that was the occasion of my strange depression of spirits, a depression which I could neither walk off nor talk off, nor gambol off, albeit I tried hard to do so with our dogs, the beautiful deerhound and collie. They indeed appeared as little inclined for play to-night as I had ever seen them.

“They seems to have something on their minds,” said Ritchie, a sturdy old sailor who had sailed the seas off and on for twenty years.

“You’re not superstitious, Ritchie?” I asked.

Ritchie took three or four pulls at his pipe before he replied.

“I dunno, young sir, what you’d call superstitious, but I’ve seen some queer things in my time, and something was sure to ’appen arterwards. Once, sir—”

“Stay, Ritchie,” I cried. “Don’t let’s have any of your ghost stories to-night I couldn’t stand them. The truth is, I’m a bit down-hearted.”

“Go and have a tot o’ rum; I’ll j’ine you.”

“No, Ritchie, that wouldn’t do either you or me good in the long run. But I dare say I’m feeling a trifle lonely; my brother isn’t the thing, I fear.”

“Nonsense, sir, nonsense. Never saw him looking better, nor you either, sir. I knows what’s the matter.”

“Well?”

“It’s the musgo that’s coming.”

“The musgo?”

“Ay, you’re new to the Straits, I must remember. The musgo is a fog, ‘a fiend fog’ I’ve heard it called. You always feel low-like afore it rolls down. To-morrow, sir, you’ll hardly see your finger afore you.”

“So dark!”

“It’s dark and it’s white—just as if it rolled off the snow, and so cold. You’ll see.”

“You said this moment, Ritchie, I wouldn’t see.”

This was a most miserable attempt at a joke on my part, and I felt so at the time.

Ritchie laughed as if it was his duty to laugh.

“Look, look!” I cried. “Look at the fire away in shore yonder, near the cliff foot.”

“I sees him.”

“And look, another on the lee bow—if we have a lee bow to-night—another on the quarter, and is that one far away yonder like a star?”

“That’s one. Them’s the canoe Indians a signalling to each other.”

“The natives of Tierra del Fuego?”

“Yes, drat ’em, and a bad, treacherous lot they be. They’re saying now—‘Look out, there is a barque becalmed.’”

“Would they attack a ship?”

Ritchie laughed.

“Give them a chance only,” he said, “and there isn’t a more murderous, bloodthirsty lot ever launched a boat.

“I was broken down here once, or a bit farther up. It was in the little steamer Cordova, a Monte Videan. Smashed our seven, we did. Very little wind, and hardly a bit o’ sail to hoist. They weren’t long in spotting the difficulty. Durin’ the day, a miserable-looking woman and boy came in a canoe to sell skins and to beg. They must ’ave spotted that we had only a few hands. For at the darkest hour of midnight the ship was attacked.”

“Anything occur?”

“Well, it was like this: There wasn’t a longer-headed chap ever sailed than our skipper. A Scot he was, and clever for that. He knew these Fuegian fiends well, and was prepared.

“We had lights ready to get up at a moment’s notice. If we’d had arms we’d have used those, but with the exception of two or three revolvers we were defenceless. But we had coals, lumps as big as the binnacle. And we had boiling water and the hose ready. Mercy on us though, young sir, I think I hear the blood-curdling yell of those savages now, as they boarded at our bows. Up went the lights. Up came the hose, and—they caught a Tartar. It was cruel? Maybe, but it was self-defence.”

“And the coals?”

“We sank their canoes with these. A kick would knock a Fuegian canoe in bits any day, so our task was easy. They sent an arrow to the very heart of poor Bill Wheeler, and he fell backwards dead, and they harpooned another of our men; but few of them went back with a whole skin, I’ll warrant.”

Before my watch was over there was no more wind than would have sufficed to move a child’s paper boat, but the night was not quite so dark, the moon escaping now and then to cast a few silvery rays on the water or light up the rugged tops of the distant sierras, then being speedily engulfed once more in great inky-dark clouds.

The situation was by no means a desirable one, for currents run here like mill streams, and we were a measurable distance from the wild, desolate shore.

Ritchie was right; and when I went on deck next morning before breakfast, I found that the musgo was thick and white around us, and though it was easy enough to see one’s finger at arm’s length, it is no exaggeration to say it was impossible to see the jib-boom end from the foremast.

We must have been somewhere off Point Gallant, in an ugly place, so it is no wonder the captain concluded to anchor if he could get near enough to find soundings.

The wind was rising now, and though but in puffs which just gave the Salamander a send now and then, we were forging ahead at perhaps two knots an hour.

It continued like this all day long, but the wind had increased by evening, and almost threatened a gale. We could not now be far off the English Reach, which, as a glance at a map will show you, is narrow, and therefore dangerous in the extreme. So long, therefore, as we had a surety of width of water, we determined to lay to with as little sail as possible on her.

Night seemed to come on a full hour sooner. It was a night I shall never forget. Anxiety was depicted on every face that there was a chance of getting a glimpse at. And though the captain tried to speak cheerfully in his wife’s presence, it was evident his thoughts were not with his words. Every extra puff of the still rising wind must have felt going through his heart like a knife. I know it did through mine. Even Peter was serious for once.

On going forward I saw Ritchie standing by the winch.

“What do you think of it now, Ritchie?” I asked.

“Think of it, lad?” he replied. “I think it’s likely to be a case with the old Salamander before four bells in the morning watch.”

“You’re a pessimist,” I said. This was a favourite expression of poor aunt’s.

“It’s the mist that’ll do it,” he said. “Look, see sir, if the wind gets no higher the musgo will continue. Then we may drift quietly on shore and strike. If it does blow a real gale, away goes the musgo and out comes the moon; that would be a poor enough outlook, but we’d see what we were doing.”

Hour after hour went by, and though the storm increased, there was never a sign of the musgo rolling off. No one thought of turning in to-night. The captain never even suggested when he came below, as he now and then did, that even Mrs Coates should go to her cabin.

There was something very awful in this waiting, waiting, waiting. And for what? Had any one dared ask himself this question, he would hardly have been brave enough to have answered it.

It must have been about four in the morning. I could not say for certain, for bells I do not think had even been struck, when suddenly, without a moment’s warning, the wind increased to a shrieking, roaring squall of more than gale-force, and next minute we had struck and were engulfed in breakers.

Chapter Fourteen.

We Leave the Doomed Ship—Pursued by Savages.

I was in the saloon at the time, and everything seemed to fall together, as it were. It felt as if the ship’s bottom were dashed in and upwards, and when I struck a light—for the lamp had been extinguished, though it did not leave the gymbals—all was chaos in our once cosy wee saloon. Piano, chairs, books, ornaments, all mixed up together. I hastened to help Mrs Coates to her feet, and called to the steward to gather up the burning coals off the deck, else with the spilt oil we should be on fire.

No need, for a green sea came tumbling down the companion, and surged foaming in at the doorway, till we stood ankle deep in water. Another and another followed. The wind roared with redoubled violence. Then louder than the wind and the voice of the sea, came the crash of a falling mast. The squall appeared to have done its worst now, and though the seas continued to break against and over us, it was more in sheets of spray than in green water. We had gone on shore stem foremost, and were firmly wedged between two low bush-clad cliffs.

Now slowly, almost imperceptibly, the wind went down, and the musgo rolled away, and when morning broke cold and drearily over the sea and hills, the sky was comparatively clear, our position could be clearly defined and our danger could be faced.

Three poor fellows had fallen under the wreck, and were either killed at once or quickly drowned. A few others were wounded or bruised, and all were shaken.

The boats to the number of three—whalers they were—remained intact.

We were in a kind of wooded cove, with hills rising high at each side save on the sea-board, and far away above us was a region of ice and snow, with a cataract tumbling its waters apparently out of the very sky itself.

When the sun rose at last, dismal as was our plight, I could not help admiring, nay, even marvelling at, the beauty of the scenery around us. It was grand beyond compare.

We were in no immediate danger. We appeared to have been lifted in on the top of an immense wave, and deposited between the cliffs and on a hard flat bottom, from which we could not slide. There were timbers from her lower sides floating about us even now that told their own sad tale.

The ship was doomed, but we who were spared had much, very much, to be thankful for.

The captain consulted with Ritchie, who was carpenter on board, besides holding some other rating. He was not only the oldest on board, but by far the most experienced. It was resolved at once to put ourselves in a state of preparation, for the savages would assuredly find us out before long.

Then we went to prayers.

I need hardly say they were solemn and heart-felt.

There was no time to be lost now, however. We must get ready at once to leave the wreck, and in boats make the best of our way eastward towards Sandy Point. Whether we could do so in peace and safety remained to be seen.

We were in the hands of an all-seeing Providence; we could but say “Thy will be done,” and leave the rest to Him.

“We had better bury the dead on shore, Ritchie?” said the captain.

He really was asking a question for information. He seemed to quite defer to Ritchie.

“I wouldn’t do that, sir. These canoe Indians are cannibals, and they’ll have ’em up and eat them as sure as one belayin’ pin’s like another. No, sir, it’ll be just as quick to tack ’em up and give ’em a sailor’s grave.”

“You see to that then, Ritchie. Will you take charge of the boat, Mr Jack? Thank you.”

The broken and buried corpses of the poor fellows were speedily sewn in hammocks, which were heavily weighted with iron, and taken out to sea as far as we dared to go; and then, while the solemn burial service was read by Ritchie, one by one they were dropped overboard, and sank into the murky water with sullen booming plash. As he closed the book, Ritchie looked round him on all sides, but there was no sign of savages to be seen, neither smoke on shore nor canoe at sea. Nor was there any sound to break the stillness except the plaintive cry of a sea-bird; and yet who could tell what eyes of Indians the forest might not hide?

On our return we found our comrades all very busy indeed.

Poor Mrs Coates, looking very pale and resigned, sat on the companion. Woman-like, even in this dire strait she had not forgotten to bring a basket with her, and Leila clutched another. Both were warmly clad, and both wore guanaco mantles, the very garments we had purchased at Sandy Point.

Captain Coates put another question to Ritchie:

“Should we or should we not fire the ship, Mr Ritchie, think you?”

“For the matter o’ that,” replied Ritchie, “I’d as soon feed snakes in the woods as put any good thing in the way o’ these cannibal fiends, but I think, sir, leaving the ship for them will be our salvation. You ask my opinion, sir, and I give it. The wind is changing round already. It’s a way the winds have here, where the Pacific and the Atlantic seem to me to fight for mastery like. We needn’t be in a hurry then to leave the ship till they come.”

“You feel sure they’ll come?”

“Ah! never doubt ’em, sir. When they see we’re leaving the ship, they won’t chase us till they’ve cleared the wreck. My advice is, have up the ’baccy for ’em all ready, and the rum too. Let them look for everything else.”

“You seem obliging to them.”

“There’s a method in my obligingness, sir. Let’s leave the rum in different jars about, and cut the ’baccy all in bits and scatter it over the decks. Wolves, sir, fighting over a dead horse’ll be nothing to the scramble they’ll have for the ’baccy and rum.”

The boats were now lowered and laden with the ship’s valuables. Each boat was well provisioned, and supplied with water and rum, and also armed.

The men were twenty and two, all told, giving about five to each of two whalers, and seven to the largest whaler or cutter, as she was sometimes called. The captain himself took charge of this, his wife and Leila as passengers; Peter took command of the second boat, and I of the third, in my boat Ritchie being rifleman. Jill, it is needless to say, came with me, his elder brother. Ah! that five minutes of difference in our ages made me the man, you see, and Jill the child, and I would not have had it otherwise for all the world.

The day wore on. Noon passed, yet never a sign of Indian was seen. So we did what all right-thinking Englishmen would have done under the circumstances. We dined.

We made both ladies swallow a ration of rum. Poor Mrs Coates’ eyes watered, and Leila became a little hysterical and finally cried.

The wind went round and round, till at last it was fair.

Everything looked so propitious. But why did not the savages appear?

“I have it, sir,” said Ritchie. “They’re waiting to attack us at night, and I now propose we start. They’re hidden somewhere, depend upon it.”

Ritchie was right, and no sooner had we got fairly into the offing, than out their canoes swarmed after us.

“Keep well together in a line,” cried the captain, “and stand by to give them a volley.”

Ritchie stood up in his boat, and shouted at the foremost boat in broken Spanish. He tried to tell them that the tobacco was in the ship.

But on they came. Mrs Coates and Leila were made to lie down in the boat, and only just in time, for a shower of arrows flew over us next minute.

“Fire!”

Half a dozen rifles rang out in the still air, dusky forms sprang up in the canoes and fell to rise no more. Again and again our guns spread death in their ranks, and the nearer they came the hotter they had it.

We had spears in the boats, boarding pikes and axes. Would we have to use them? For a moment it seemed likely. All sail was set, and almost every hand was free for a tulzie that, if it came, would indeed be a terrible one.

One more telling volley. Would they now draw off? Yes, for over the water from the wreck came a mingled shout and yell. The canoes at once were stopped. Greed did what our guns had failed to accomplish. Murder and revenge are sweet to a savage, but tobacco and rum are sweeter still.

In ten minutes time we and our dusky foes were far apart indeed, the savages having a grand canoe race back to the wreck, we dancing away over the waves and heading straight for the east.

“Thank Heaven,” said Ritchie, fervidly, “they’re gone.”

“Do you think we could have beaten them off, Ritchie?” I asked.

“One can never tell how things will go in a hand-to-hand fight. Not as ever I’ve been in many, but, bless your innocent soul, lad, I’ve come through so much. I came to close quarters once on the African shore with a crowd o’ canoes just like that. I could have sworn we’d have beaten them off easy. And so we might have done, if our boats had continued on an even keel. But that wasn’t their game. No, they threw themselves like wild cats on one gunwale, and over we went. They had us in the water; and by the time a boat shoved off from the Wasp and came to our assistance, there was hardly a man among us left to tell tales.”

“That was fearful!”

“Ye see—haul aft the main sheet a bit—you see, sir, mostly all savages has their own ways o’ fightin’, their own tactics as you might say. Drat ’em all, I say.”

“You don’t believe in the noble savage?” said Jill.

“Not same’s they make ’em nowadays, sir. ’Cause why, we white men have spiled them. And now we want to kill ’em all off the face o’ the earth. It’s just like an ignorant old party having a dog for a pet. He’s everything at first, and the very cat takes liberties with him, till one day he snaps. It’s only natural, but what does the ignorant old party do?—why puts him in a bag and drowns him. It’s the same wi’ the savage: the white man has spoiled him, and now he thinks he’d better get rid of him entirely. Well, young gentlemen, by your leave I’ll have a smoke. You’ve got the compass all right, Mr Jill? Thank ye. ’Cause if the weather changes for the worst, then—”

“Hush, hush. Why you are a pessimist!”

“I don’t know that ship. But never mind. You don’t smoke?”

“N-no,” said Jill, “not yet.”

“Let me catch him at it,” I said.

“What have ye got under the sail, sir?”

“Why, the dogs,” said Jill, laughing. “You didn’t think I was going to leave them, did you? Look here.” He lifted the corner of the sail as he spoke, and there, sure enough, were Ossian the noble Scottish deerhound, and Bruce the collie.

“Mind,” continued Jill, “both o’ these would have done a little fighting if the worst had come to the worst.”

The wind held steadily from the west and by north, and blew stiff after a time, but the boats sailed dry—neither were far distant from the other—and everything was as comfortable as could be expected under the sad circumstances.

“If there doesn’t come any more north in it than this,” said Ritchie, with a glance skyward, “it’ll do. But, you see, we ought to be heading up Famine Reach now.”

“What a name!” said Jill.

“Ay, and there is a sad and terrible story to it too, that some day I may perhaps tell you.”

The afternoon wore slowly away, neither Jill nor I saying much; Ritchie, with his old-world yarns, doing nearly all the talking, and indeed it was a treat to listen to him. There was nothing of the nature of what are called sailor’s yarns about Ritchie’s talk, but an air of truthfulness in every sentence. Many a time by the galley fire in the dear lost Salamander, when asked by some of the men to “spin ’em a yarn,” Ritchie would reply—

“If I thinks on anything as has really happened, I’ll tell that. Mind ye, men,” he would add, “I’m going on for fifty. That ain’t a spring chicken, and I’ve knocked about so much and seen such a deal, that if I tells all the truth an’ nobbut the truth, why I’ll be seventy afore I’m finished. By that time I reckon it’ll be time to clear up decks to enter the eternal port.”

Now, being senior officer, I really was in charge of the boat, still I determined to take advice in everything from Ritchie, as in duty bound, he being my superior by far and away both in age and experience, and I may add in wisdom.

So, when near sundown, I asked him if the men should eat, he shook his head and said—“Not yet awhile.”

I did not feel easy in my mind at the answer, nor at his presently relapsing into silence, pulling harder at his pipe than usual without seeming to enjoy it, and casting so many half-uneasy glances skywards.

I feared that we were not yet out of danger. Jill had gone to sleep in the bottom of the boat, and somehow this also made me nervous and uneasy. I drew the sail over him with the exception of his face, and there he lay snug enough to all appearance, his head pillowed on the collie’s shoulder. I could not help wondering to myself where he was in his dreams. At home, I could have wagered two to one—two turnips to a leg of mutton, for instance.

Presently his features became pained, set and rigid, and his hands were clutched in the sail, while he moaned or half screamed like one in a nightmare.

Ritchie noticed it too.

“Call his name. Call his name, sir. That’s allers the way to bring ’em out of it.”

Well, desperate diseases need desperate remedies, so I did call his name—in full too.

“Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones” I shouted, so loud that the other boats must have thought I was hailing them.

Jill sat bolt upright, looking bewildered.

Ossian and Bruce jumped up and barked.

The men all laughed, and no wonder.

“Well,” said Ritchie, “blow me teetotally tight if ever in all my born days I ’eard sich a name as that ’afore. Why ’twould wake old Rip himself. After that I think the men better have ’alf a biscuit and a bite o’ bacon. It’ll do ’em good—after that.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Lost in the Snowstorm—What we Saw in the Forest.

We all felt “heartier,” as Ritchie phrased it, after our dainty morsel of supper. The pork, of course, was new, and, sailor fashion, we dipped our biscuits in the sea, to give them a relish, before we ate them.

The dogs shared just as if they had been part of the crew. So they were for that matter.

The wind fell off as the sun sank behind the snowy mountains, fell off and off, till we were becalmed. Then I gave the orders—

“In sail,” and “out oars.”

After spanking along under sail for so long a time as we had done, to be reduced to rowing seems dreary work. However, there is nothing like the sea for teaching one patience, so we did not murmur.

The sunset was gorgeous enough, in all conscience, and played all sorts of fantastic tricks of colouring among the snowy cliffs, peaks, and glaciers, making a picture such as few artists could, if they would, produce on canvas, or would dare to if they could.

As we had nothing else to do, Jill and I sat silently staring at the ever changing sky, with as much inward pleasure as ever child gazed upon the flowers in a kaleidoscope.

Even after the sun had set entirely, the sky was wondrous in its beauty. It seemed to me as if the artist Nature, whom we all try to copy, were mixing her colours to commence some great new work, and that the sky was her palette.

But that palette itself was a picture, oh how grand and solemn! First we had the sea, darkling now under the shadows of the giant hill, yet borrowing tints from the clouds. Then the wild wooded cliffs, and pointed rocks looking almost black against the background of snow and ice rising up, and up, and up its sharpest lines, softened till it ended in the rugged serrated horizon.

High up in the heavens, where in the rifts the sky could be seen, it was of a light cerulean blue, pure, ethereal, the grey clouds in bars and piles, still the same shaped bars of cloud lower down; but here the rifts of sky were of an ineffably lovely tint of pale sea green, and the clouds were purple, while all along the horizon the naked sky was of the deepest orange, almost approaching to crimson, all aglow with light.

Even as we gazed, a change came over the spirit of the scene; for the green rifts changed to a milky white, with a hazy blush of crimson floating over it, borrowed from the splendour beneath and beyond.

Still another change: the rifts away to the north and the south had all turned to sea green, and right in the east, when we look round, we find that the higher clouds that erst were grey and dull, are now a burning bronze and crimson.

Then the clouds kept borrowing each other’s colours at second hand. But at last crimson and yellow changed to lurid bronze and purple, then to grey and to darker grey, and soon, out from the only green rift left, shone a pale star.

It is night.

The air is chill and cold. Birds—strange, wild, low-flying creatures whose names we know not—hurry past us, or over us, to their eeries in some distant rock, and the silence is unbroken save by the clunk-clank—clunk-clank—of the oars in the rowlocks.

Jill is leaning against me, and I feel him shiver slightly.

“Jill,” I say, “you’re not well, old man.”

“Oh yes, brother, I’m well enough.”

“But you’re not downright, jolly well.”

“I feel a trifle shivery, that’s all, brother. I had an ugly dream; and besides, I don’t think I’ve quite recovered my sea-bath yet.”

“Look ’ee here, sir,” said Ritchie. “That young man isn’t quite the thing. Now I’m going to prescribe. He’s going to bed down among the dogs, and what’s more, he’s going to sleep. He’ll have a tot o’ rum as medicine. There are times, gentlemen, when such a thing may do good. Now’s one o’ them. And if he doesn’t wake up early in the morning his old self, then my name isn’t Ted Ritchie.”

I left my brother in Ritchie’s hands, and soon he had him snug in bed.

There was more moonlight to-night, but still the moon had a struggle for it.

I happened to be looking behind me towards the bay where we had left the good old Salamander, and Ritchie was looking too—both thinking the same thoughts perhaps—when suddenly a huge pear-shaped column of fire-rays shot up into the sky, then gradually died away. We spoke not, but listened, till over the water came a dull crashing rumble, the like of which I had never heard before. The sound died away among the hills like thunder.

“She’s gone,” said one of the men, and for a few moments all lay on their oars.

“Ay, right enough,” said Ritchie, “and there’s more’n a score o’ them sea-fiends gone with her, I’ll warrant.

“It’s the gunpowder we were taking to Honolulu that’s done it,” he continued.

“A pity,” I said, “we did not throw that overboard.”

“I dunno so much about that. Those Indian savages would have had to die sometime. It’s just as well now, as before they do more mischief.”

I laughed.

“That is queer philosophy,” I said; “we should never do evil, nor wish for evil, that good may come. I wonder how they managed it.”

“Why, sir, they’re as inquisitive as monkeys—they be. They would find out a barrel and take it for rum. Off would come the lid, one fellow holding the light. A dozen hands would be plunged in, and they would taste the black stuff. Well, they wouldn’t like it, and one savage would pitch a handful at the other. That would begin the fun. We’ve just heard how it ended. Well, gentlemen, I feel a sort of satisfied now, for blame me if I half liked the idea of leaving our old bones there for these savages to pick at.”

A red gleam now illumined the sky where we had noticed the flash; it was evident the old Salamander was on fire, and burning fast and furiously.

“Now, then,” I said presently, “I’ll take the first watch, Ritchie. You turn in there. You go to the dogs with Jill.”

“Ay, sir; and I’ll sleep sound now I’ve seen the last of my dear old ship.”

As the night wore on I was concerned to notice the moon become obscured. Although on the water there was not a puff of wind, still, high over head, the clouds were hurrying over the sky from east to west. Something was coming, but I did not care to wake Ritchie yet. He needed all the rest he could get, having been awake so long and working so hard.

It grew very dark now, and I could not see the other boats, though they must have been close at hand. We had kept well together on purpose, for we cared not to show signal lights.

Presently there came a puff of wind. Then almost before words could describe it, a snow-squall. It was the spring of the year, but indeed even during summer, in this dreary region, snow-storms are not uncommon.

How soundly Ritchie slept! There was hail rattling on the canvas over him, and there had been one or two sharp peals of thunder also, but still he slumbered on. The men could make no headway against the storm; in fact we must have been losing way considerably, for the poor fellows were tired, and, even before the squall, had been nodding at their oars. Still they would not give in, nor give up. By and by came the lull, but the wind still blew with a good deal of force, and the snow was blinding.

“In oars,” I said, “and get the sail up now; we’ll tack a bit.”

We did so, reaching well over on both sides, as far as we thought was safe; the snow continuing thick and fast. Presently another squall came. And so on and off for many long hours. I would not think of waking Ritchie, for I felt very fresh and fit for duty, and what could he do even if up. I allowed the men to sleep, two at a time, for an hour or so. Thus I managed to keep them fresh also.

The snow left off at last, and the sky cleared a little, but the wind kept up and blew from the same quarter. Just at grey daylight in the morning Ritchie threw off his tarpaulin and sat up, looking dazed for a moment or two.

“My dear young sir, I’m ashamed of myself,” he said, looking at his watch; “but where in the world are we?”

“No where that I know of; it has been blowing and snowing all night long, and now we’re close under some wooded cliffs, and the other boats are not in sight.”

“This is bad,” said Ritchie.

I had taken off my jacket, and was wringing the sleeves when Jill appeared.

“I’m as fresh as a daisy,” he said; “but what a time I must have slept! Are we nearly at Sandy Point?”

We laughed.

“Sandy Point, my dear sir; you won’t see Sandy Point for a week if it keeps on like this.”

“Well, we’ll have breakfast, I suppose. I could eat a hunter.”

“Good sign. We’ll all join you.”

By and by Ritchie stood up and had a good look round.

“I know where we are. I’ve been here before in happier times. We’ll run in shore and rest. No good trying to beat up against this breeze. The other boats sail more closely to the wind, and I hope by this time they are well on to Froward Reach, and round the corner.”

The boat was now put about, and in a few minutes we found ourselves in a bay, and sheltered cove off the bay.

At another time and under happier auspices we could have afforded to admire the scenery around us. At first glance, had you been there, you might have fancied yourself in some lovely glen in the wilds of Scotland or Wales. That is so long as your glance did not go too high, away up to the hills of everlasting snow. But all about us, except a few yards of shore, was wood and forest, among the trees being several such as the beech—just breaking into bud—with which the English eye is familiar. Here, too, were ferns and mosses such as we had seen growing in the woods and sylvan dells at home.

We had landed, as I have said, in a cove off the bay, and this was really the mouth of a little river, very silent here and very deep, but a little more inland hurrying along over its stony bed with a noise like thunder. It was doubtless fed by the melting snows of the Cordilleras.

Jill and I left the men to draw up the boat while we took a little ramble into the interior, promising Ritchie not to go beyond hail. We wanted to stretch our legs and get fully awakened.

Jill was his old self again, so I was happy accordingly.

“How’s all this going to end, Jill?” I said.

“I don’t know,” replied Jill; “but I suppose we might as well be here as anywhere else.”

“Certainly; if those interesting savages do not give us more trouble.”

“Oh, bother take them; never mind. We gave them such a dose yesterday they’ll hardly want another.”

“Jill,” I said, “look!”

We had come to a bit of clearing on the banks of the river, and close by a huge tree were the remains of a fire. The ground round it, too, was well beaten down, as if people had lately been round it.

“Strange!” said Jill, “and no one seems about.”

I took up two half-burned branches. The ends were covered with ashes and looked cold. I struck them together, sparks flew out!

“Jill,” I said, “we’ll go back now. The Indians are near us now.”

Chapter Sixteen.

A State of Siege.

We hastened back to give Ritchie the news.

If we had expected he would exhibit any surprise we were mistaken.

“It’s no more’n I expected,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps,” I hazarded, “these are friendly Fuegians?”

“I never met ’em,” he replied. “Must be some new tribe. All that ever I saw could be friendly enough when driving a good bargain, and scraping the butter all to their own side of the dish. Their motto is, ‘Take all we can get, and take it anyhow.’ My dear lad,” he continued, “could anything be handier for these savages than to collar a white man. He is dressed, and has nick-nacks in his pocket; well, they want the dress and the nick-nacks, for you see they don’t have any clothes of their own worth mentioning; then the body of the white man comes in handy for a side-dish. They think no more of killing a white man than they do of sending an arrow through the heart of a guanaco. No, never trust a Fuegian farther than you can fling him, and that’d be over the cliff if I had all my will.”

Hark! There was a crashing sound among the bushes not far off. I ran to my gun. So did Jill. But Ritchie never moved step nor muscle, at which I was at first a little surprised. Not, however, when a guanaco appeared in the clearing not far off, and had a long-necked look at us.

“Don’t fire!” he cried. “We’re not ready for the niggers yet.”

“Didn’t you fancy,” I asked, “that the savages were on us when you heard the bushes crackling?”

“That I didn’t. They don’t come like that. You don’t see them, and you never hear them. No, they’re all from home. That fire was lit last night, and left burning. But they’ll come back. So now to get ready. You see, young gentlemen, the gentry very likely look upon the glen and woods round here as a kind of happy hunting-ground. There is fish in the river, too, and fish in the bay. So, though it may be days before they come, we may as well cook their dinner in time.”

“But surely we won’t be here for days?”

“Maybe not. But it’s just as likely to be days as not. It all depends.”

As he spoke, Ritchie advanced some little distance to the right, beckoning us to follow.

He drew the bushes aside from the foot of the rock, and lo! the entrance to a large cave.

“It’s still there, you see,” said Ritchie. “Not a bit altered since I was here before. No; caves are like keyholes, they never fly away.”

He entered, and we followed, the men holding the branches aside to admit the light. The place was large and roomy, and evidently constantly inhabited. Here were the remains of a fire, here a heap of bones, and here again a bed of dry leaves.

The most of the forenoon was spent in preparing our fortifications. The bushes were cut down from the front, admitting light and air, and a bulwark of small tree trunks was built in front, the boat being hauled inside. There was plenty of fallen wood about, so that our work was by no means difficult.

After all had been done that could be done, we had nothing to do but watch and wait.

Watch and wait for the wind to change and give us a chance, or for the foe to come.

I do not know anything more irksome than such a position. When there is danger ahead, it is human nature to wish to face it at once and be done with it. But in this case we did not know whence the danger would come, nor what would be its precise character when it did come.