Stories by English Authors: The Sea
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Various >> Stories by English Authors: The Sea
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"My brother told me he should not mind seeing her end her days as
a picturesque wreck, but to sell her for match-wood was barbarous.
I was really of the same opinion. And--and--couldn't it be managed
for her, Captain Anderson?"
The two looked at each other narrowly. "If you can get any one to
do it, of course it can be done. But _I_ would sooner--"
"Now before you judge, hear me, Captain. I feel sure you could
find that man if you chose. See; the Chrysolite is insured in
the Jupiter Insurance Company for nine thousand pounds. Here is
the policy. And the man that saves her from the axe, and makes a
picturesque wreck of her, will earn the gratitude of Messrs. Ruin
& Ruin, and three thousand pounds besides."
For once even the remnants of a smile had disappeared from the
senior partner's face, and he stood confessed--the type of a cool
financial scoundrel.
The sailor, on the other hand, was agitated as no one had ever seen
him before. The veins stood out on his brawny throat like rope;
his eyelids were purple; for a few moments his head swam. Then he
righted himself as suddenly, with an emphatic refusal ready on his
lips. But the wily partner had left the room. This gave Anderson
time to think, and the more he thought the more that pile of gold
forced itself before him, until, forsooth, he fell to thinking
how such an end COULD be compassed--by another commander. He saw
clearly that a skilful seaman might achieve this thing with slight
danger to himself and his crew. And all this time the three thousand
pounds shone so lustrously that his moral vision was dazzled, and
the huge iniquity of the whole affair was rapidly vanishing from
sight.
When Mr. Ruin reentered, Anderson was looking ashamed and guilty.
"Well, Captain, can I help you to a conclusion?" came from the
oily lips.
"It's this way," replied the old man, turning round, but keeping
his eyes fixed on the carpet; "I can't do it. No, I can't."
Mr. Ruin eyed him dubiously, and rubbed his chin gently. "I'm
sorry--very, very sorry! Three thousand pounds won't go long begging,
though. And I shall have to accept your resignation, Captain."
Anderson only took up his hat and walked slowly out of the room.
He had not descended many steps when he turned back and reopened
the door.
"No, sir," he said; "it can't be done. I must think it over,
and--no--it can't be done." With that he went his way, miserable.
The same night he received a letter by post. It contained his old
commission, reinstating him in the command of the Chrysolite.
Four months later the Chrysolite was unloading a general cargo in
Mauritius harbour. Captain Anderson had thought it over.
The quay was quickly covered with Manchester bales and Birmingham
cases; and it was not long before the tackle at the main-yard arm
was set a-clicking, as the baskets of sand ballast were hove up
to be poured into the empty hold. No such luxuries were there as
steam-winches; not any of those modern appliances for lightening
labour. Instead, five or six hands plied the ponderous work at
the winch handles, the labour being substantially aggravated by
the heat of a vertical sun. A spell at the orthodox hand-winch in
the tropics is an ordeal not to be lightly spoken of, and sailors
have the very strongest objection to the work. It requires the
utmost vigilance on the part of the captain, therefore, to prevent
the feebler spirits from deserting. He was able, however, to reckon
a full crew as he steered out of Port Louis harbour and shaped his
course for Ceylon.
Some of the hands had grumbled at not having more liberty to go
ashore. In an excess of passion, Anderson made answer:
"To your kennels, you dogs! I'll put you ashore soon enough, and
I'll warrant you'll stay there longer than you care for."
It was indiscreet language, and the men puzzled over it. They
concluded that the skipper meant to obtain their imprisonment at
the next British port they should touch for mutinous conduct, and,
knowing he was a man of his word, they assumed their best behaviour.
Captain Anderson had not changed for the better. Hitherto he had
maintained a firmness of discipline boarding upon severity, and he
certainly had never relaxed from that attitude. Now he had become
an incomprehensible mixture of indulgence and cruelty. The two
elements were incompatible, and the more intelligent of his officers
were not long in perceiving that there was a vicious and variable
wind in their superior's moral atmosphere, under which his canvas
strained or flapped unaccountably. They imagined, to pursue their
own figure, that his hand did not grasp the reason tiller with
its customary grip, and that his bark was left more or less to the
conflicting guidance of other influences. Many a time since his
departure from England had the old sailor been stung with remorse
at the unwritten tenor of his present commission. He would frequently
try to look the whole thing in the face--would endeavour to account
for the acceptance of an office against which his whole self
revolted. He would recite the interview in the Billiter Street
chambers with his employer, passing rapidly over the preliminary
parts until he came to the REWARD. No! he was not false enough or
euphemistic enough to call it a reward; he would regard it as a
bribe. But he could never get further. He always grounded on his
reef of gold, and no tide of indignation or regret, no generous
current of honour, had power to sweep him off again into the
saving waters. Here the fierce rays of desire shot down upon the
resplendent heap, whose reflected glory filled the whole vision
of the water with its lustre. Blame him not too much, nor it. For,
after all, man is but man, and gold is a thing of comfort.
But had Captain Anderson followed his mental inquiries to a conclusion,
had he demonstrated to himself the depth of moral degradation into
which he must be plunged, his pride would never have allowed him
to do anything but redeem his unuttered word.
As an illustration of the captain's lately acquired habit of indulgence,
the most remarkable was his treatment of the watch on deck during
the night. The man on the lookout, for instance, was in the habit
of going to sleep if the weather made it at all practicable. The
rest of the watch, some fifteen or twenty hands, followed suit, or
even skulked back into the fo'castle, there to stretch themselves
out on their chests and smoke. These things the captain connived
at, and the men were only too glad of the relief to inquire
too curiously into his reasons. The main object of a sailing-ship
sailor is to gain as much sleep as he can by whatever means, and
in pursuit of this end he will evade even those duties which are
most essential to the safety of the ship.
One night, during the middle watch, the captain came on deck, and
took to walking up and down with the second mate. The night was
clear, though dark. The Chrysolite was close-hauled on the starboard
tack, and was making good headway under a clinking breeze. She
was an old-fashioned, frigate-built, full-rigged ship, such as one
seldom happens on now, her quarter-galleries, chain-plates, to'
gallant bulwarks, and single topsail-yards being all out of date
among the ship-builders of to-day. It has been said that she had
"rare lines," and the remark was just. A more imposing pile of
timber was possibly never floated. She had plenty of beam to cope
with the South Atlantic wave-giants, and not too much sheer. Her
fiddle-stem was gracefully cut, and harmonised to perfection with
the slight rake aft of her lofty masts. Her spars, also, were finely
proportioned to the breadth of her hull. So that, with her canvas
spread in an unwavering breeze, the Chrysolite was a stately creature
and "a thing of beauty."
"Mr. Grant," said the captain, addressing his subordinate officer,
"be good enough to take a star and work out the ship's position."
The second mate quickly brought his sextant, and took the altitude
of a star convenient for his purpose. He then went below to the cabin
to perform his calculations. The lookout man, a ready sleeper, was
in a heavy slumber, upon which the stiffening breeze made no effect.
The rest of the watch had disappeared in the customary fashion.
Captain Anderson was practically alone on deck.
He walked forward, leaned over the weather-rail, and directed his
glass. He saw just exactly what he expected to see. There, right
ahead in the distance, the binoculars showed a long, thin streak
of sparkling silver, appearing like a lightning flash held fast
between the darkness and the deep sea. It was phosphorescent water
playing on a sand-bank.
Anderson put the glass into his pocket. He was sullen and determined.
He stood motionless for full half an hour, trying to repress the
workings of an aroused conscience; but his thoughts would not let
him alone. There was something behind them, some new sensations,
which set them buzzing in his mind. These sensations were his
finest feelings--ennobling emotions which had been cramped in the
grip of discipline for forty years. He could not comprehend it, but
he found himself pursuing a train of thoughts of finer sensibility
than he had ever experienced, and in which the great bribe had no
place. He foreshadowed in his mind's eye the tragic events over which
he was now presiding. He foresaw the danger to life and limb with
a fresh clearness of vision. He pictured to himself the possible
agonies of his fellow-creatures (never once thinking of his own) with
a sentiment much akin to pity--strong, too, but not sufficiently
strong to overcome that unbending guide which forbade him for
honour's sake to go back upon his promise. Then there was the doom
of the ship itself--
The man is not angry, much less fearful; but his lips are quivering
and his nostrils widening with a passion hitherto unknown. He sees
the picture vividly--a majestic, gallant ship done to destruction;
a rich, ruined seaman wandering on earth a broken heart in a
dishonoured bosom. Not only a gallant ship, but a lifelong pride
and the fulness of a heart's desire swept recklessly into limbo.
Here, at last, had his love revealed itself.
"No, by God, she SHALL not perish!"
With a rapid movement he gains the fo'castle, and roars into it,
"All hands 'bout ship! Quick now, for your very lives!"
There is no mistaking his tone. It is not one of driving tyranny,
but of urgent agony, and it goes right home to every man.
Up they tumble in a ready crowd, many in their shirts alone. They
are all sleepy, but the business on hand will soon cure them of
this.
They stand by. The helm is put down, and quickly the Chrysolite
veers round in process of reaching the other tack. Will she do it?
No! She trembles almost in the teeth of the wind, misses stays,
and falls off again on to the old tack.
Anderson cannot understand it, old sailor as he is; puts the helm
down once more; once more she misses.
"Back the main-yard! Shiver the foreyard!"
Soon every stitch of canvas on the mainmast is swung about to face
the breeze, while that on the foremast is hauled in. Although she
be going at eight knots, THAT should check her.
But it does not.
"Mizzen topsail braces, then!" Quick as thought the lee braces are
slacked off, and those on the weather side made taut. Still she
is not checked. Strange, too, for the breeze is stiff. Anderson
feels she is in the stream of a strong current.
There had been no need to say what was the cause of danger. The
heavy boom of breakers rose above the tread of feet, the clashing
of spars, and the chorus of curses.
Meanwhile Mr. Grant has finished his calculations below. He has
found for a result that the ship is among the Maldive reefs. He is
certain there must be some error in his work, and he sets himself
to revise his figures. But the breeze sweeps into the cabin with
a faint command from the upper air--"Back the main-yard!"--and he
shrewdly guesses that his calculations are correct.
The captain is everywhere at once, urging and aiding. He sees the
whole canvas aback, and yet the Chrysolite drifts on. He cannot
'bout his ship nor back her.
The reef is quite within appreciable distance now. The hands can
do nothing more, so they gaze at the dancing line of phosphorescent
atoms, and curse tremendously--though these may be their last
moments.
"All hands wear ship!" comes sharply from Anderson.
"--you and your orders!" cries some one. "To the boats, to the
boats!"
Although the Chrysolite carried five boats, no less than four of them
were unseaworthy. In those days the examination of an outward-bound
ship was slurred over, with the natural consequence that the
marine law was more frequently broken than observed. The only boat
on board the Chrysolite worth launching was the life-boat, which
stood bottom upward between the main and mizzen masts. At the cry
"To the boats!" there was a rush for her. But Anderson is first.
He carries in his hand a small axe, meant for clearing away light
wreckage. With a vigorous blow the life-boat is stove in. The men
stop short, daunted. He turns about and faces them, looking like
an angry Titan.
"Now then, you hell-hounds, wear the ship or sink!" They see he
means to be master to the end.
It is too late even for imprecation. The men literally spring to
their work, with an alacrity begot of desperation. Every moment is
of the utmost value, for the reef is very close and the horrible
breakers are in all ears.
Anderson himself holds the wheel. He has put the helm up, and soon
the great ship, with swelling sails, breaks out of the current.
He feels the change in an instant; the hands know it too. But the
danger is not past. Leaving the wheel to another, he runs quickly
forward to lean over the weather-rail. As he passes through the
crowd on the fo'castle, the poor fellows cheer him ringingly. The
fine old seaman doffs his cap and makes them a grand, manly bow.
He glances at the reef and then mutters quietly to himself, "She
will never clear it, and God forgive me!" Then, wheeling round, he
gives a command.
"Let go both anchors; it is our only chance!"
Many hearts sink at the order, but in as few moments as possible
the cables are smoking through the hawse-pipes. The anchors touch
bottom, and hold. All hands clutch the stanchions or shrouds in
anticipation of the shock. It comes. The ship, racing on, is brought
up with a round turn of such sudden force as to shake every nail
in her timbers. Aloft there is crash upon crash, and the lighter
spars come showering on to the deck, bringing with them ragged
remnants of canvas. One man is struck down. The hawsers hum with
strenuous vibration. The timbers at the bluff of the bow crack
almost vertically, until the ship's nose is well-nigh torn out.
The tension is too great and the port cable snaps. The starboard
one is tougher. But were it ever so tough it would not save the
ship, for its anchor is dragging. Back she sags, gathered into her
doom by the whitening waters; until at length, thus lifted along,
her keel rests athwart the bank, and she heels over. Her sailing
days are done. As the consecutive seas sweep up the reef, she lifts
her head and drops it again and again, like a poor recumbent brute
in its death-hour. But the wind must sometime cease, and the waves
forget their anger. Then will she take a long repose, leaning on
her shattered side--the very type of a picturesque wreck.
About this time Messrs. Ruin & Ruin were more than usually interested
in the shipping news, and one morning they saw, under the heading
of "Wrecks and Casualties," this:
"MINICOY (MALDIVE ISLANDS).--The ship Chrysolite, of London, went
ashore yesterday night on the southern reefs, and is now a total
wreck. All hands saved except John Anderson, master, who was killed
by a falling spar."
The result of the whole business had far exceeded the owners'
expectations. It had been so neatly done; and the greatest comfort
of all was that no one was now left who could tell tales. They
did not exactly thank God in so many words for the death of their
faithful servant. That was very sad, as of course it should be.
But they thanked Him in all humility for a certain sum of three
thousand pounds, which would have gone elsewhere but for--If he,
Anderson, had had wife or children, Messrs. Ruin & Ruin felt almost
certain they would have made provision for them. But they thanked
God again that he had never married. All that was necessary to be
done now was to send in a claim for the insurance money, and, if
well advised, retire into private life.
Messrs. Ruin & Ruin talked the matter over between them, congratulated
themselves upon their prosperity, made no end of choice little
plans for the future, and finally decided to forsake the commercial
profession. And, indeed, they would have done so, but that the
evening papers contained an item of intelligence which, though less
expected, and therefore more startling, contained just as lively
an interest for them as the report of the wreck. It ran thus:
"It is currently reported that the Jupiter Insurance Company has
failed heavily, and is only able to meet its liabilities with a
composition of sixpence on the pound."
Messrs. Ruin & Ruin still carry on business near Billiter Street,
but their offices are now on the top floor in a very back alley.
"PETREL" AND "THE BLACK SWAN"
(ANONYMOUS)
"Sail, ho!"
Never, surely, did the cry fall upon more welcome ears, save and
except those of men becalmed in a boat upon the open sea. For
twelve weary days and nights had we, the officers and men of H.M.S.
Petrel (six guns, Commander B. R. Neville), been cooped up in our
iron prison, patrolling one of the hottest sections of the terrestrial
globe, on the lookout for slavers. From latitude 4 deg. north to
latitude 4 deg. south was our beat, and we dared not venture beyond
these limits. Our instructions were to keep out of sight of land
and try to intercept some of the larger vessels, which, it was
suspected, carried cargoes of slaves from the ---- coast. The ship,
the sea, the cloudless sky--there was nothing else to see, nothing
else to think of. Work, study, play even, were alike impossible in
that fierce, scorching heat. If you touched a bit of iron on deck
it almost burned your hand. If you lay down between-decks covered
with a sheet, you awoke in a bath of perspiration.
"Sail, ho!"
The man, in his excitement, repeated the shout before he could be
hailed from the deck.
"Where away?" sang out the captain.
"Two points on the weather-bow, sir," was the reply.
That phrase about the "weather-bow" was a nautical fiction, for
there was no wind to speak of, and what there was was nearly dead
astern.
"Keep her away two points," said Commander Neville; and the order
was promptly obeyed.
In a few seconds the news had spread through the ship, and the men
clustered on the bulwarks, straining their eyes to get a glimpse of
the stranger. Even the stokers, poor fellows, showed their sooty
faces at the engine-room hatchway. Of course the stranger might
be, and probably was, an innocent trader; but then she might be a
slaver; and golden visions of prize-money floated before the eyes
of every man and boy on board the Petrel.
We did not steam very fast, as of course our supply of coal was
limited; and it was about two hours before sundown when we fairly
sighted the stranger. She was a long three-masted schooner, with
tall raking masts, lying very low in the water. All her canvas was
set; and as a little wind had sprung up, she was slipping through
the water at a fair pace.
"She looks for all the world like a slaver, sir," remarked Mr.
Brabazon, the first lieutenant, to the commander.
Neville said nothing, but his lips were firmly compressed, and a
gleam of excitement was in his eyes.
"Fire a blank cartridge, Mr. O'Riley," said he to the second
lieutenant; "and signal her to ask her nationality and her code
number."
This was done; and in answer to the signal the schooner slowly
hoisted the American colours.
"She has eased away her sheets, and luffed a point or two, sir,"
said the quartermaster, touching his cap.
The captain merely answered this by a nod.
"Put a shot in your gun, Mr. O'Riley," said he. "Lower your hoist
and make a fresh hoist demanding her name."
This was done, but the American took no notice.
"Fire a shot, Mr. O'Riley--wide, of course," said the commander.
Again the deafening report of the big gun sounded in our ears; and
we could see the splash of the shot as it struck the water about
fifty yards from the schooner. Immediately a flag was run up, then
another and another; and we saw that she was not giving us her
code number, but was spelling out her name, letter by letter--The
Black Swan.
"Just look that up in the United States Merchant Registry," said
the captain to the first lieutenant. And in half a minute he
had reported--"No such name, sir." This was something more than
suspicious. And the wind was rising.
"Hoist the signal for her to heave to!" cried Commander Neville.
"Take a boat and half a dozen hands, Mr. O'Riley," he continued;
"board her, inspect her papers, and come back to report. If her
papers are not in order," added he, "you may search for slaves;
but if they are you had better do nothing further. You know it is
clearly set down in the Protocol that we are not entitled to search
the hold if the papers are in order; and there have been complaints
lately against some over-zealous officers, who have got into trouble
in consequence. So be careful. But keep your eyes open. Note any
suspicious circumstances, and come back and report."
Before Lieutenant O'Riley reached the ship he saw that everything
about her had been sacrificed to speed. Her spars, especially, were
unusually heavy for a craft of her size.
The British officer was received by a little, thin, elderly man
wearing a Panama hat and speaking with a strong Yankee accent.
"Produce your papers, if you please," said O'Riley. They were handed
out at once, and seemed to be perfectly regular.
"What have you got on board?" was the next question.
"General cargo--dry goods, and so on."
"Why isn't your name on the register?"
"Ain't it now? Well, I guess it must be because this is a new ship.
We can't put our name on by telegraph, mister."
"Just tell your men to knock off the hatches. I want to have a look
at your cargo."
The skipper shook his head.
"I've been delayed long enough," said he, "and have lost a great
part of the only wind we've had in this darned latitude for a week."
"I'll do it myself, then!" cried O'Riley.
"Not now, sir; not with six men while I have fifteen. You have no
right to search the hold of a respectable merchantman and disturb
her cargo. Do you take me for a slaver, or what? Ef you must have
the hatches up, send back to your man-of-war for a larger crew, so
as to overpower me, you understand, and you may do it with pleasure.
Bet I guess there'll be a complaint lodged at Washington, and you
folks in London will have to pay for it. That's all, mister. I only
want things fair and square, within my treaty rights."
And having delivered himself of this long speech, the Yankee skipper
turned on his heel.
Of course O'Riley could only return to the Petrel and report all
this to his commander. "I'm convinced she is a slaver, sir," said
he in conclusion.
"But you have no evidence of it; and you say the papers were all
in order."
"Apparently they were, sir."
"Then I'm afraid I can do nothing," said the commander. And to the
deep disgust of the whole ship's crew, the order was given for the
Petrel to return to her course.
All that night, however, Commander Neville was haunted by a doubt
whether he had not better have run the risk of a complaint and a
reprimand, rather than forego the overhauling of so suspicious-looking
a craft; and in the morning a rumour reached his ears that the
cockswain, who had accompanied Mr. O'Riley to The Black Swan, had
noticed something about her of a doubtful nature. The man was sent
for and questioned; and he said that, while the lieutenant was on
board, the boat of which he was in charge had dropped a little way
astern; and that he had then noticed that the name of the vessel
had been recently painted out, but that the last two letters were
distinctly visible. And these letters were LE, not AN.
"The scoundrel said she was a new ship!" cried the commander. "'Bout
ship!"
"We can't possibly catch her up, sir," said the first lieutenant,
drily.
"I don't know that, Mr. Brabazon," answered Neville. "There has
been hardly any wind, and we know the course she was steering. She
could not expect to see us again; so in all probability she has
kept to that course. By making allowances, we may intercept her;
I am convinced of it."
The hope of again encountering The Black Swan, faint as it was,
caused quite a commotion in our little world. The day passed without
our sighting a single sail; but when the morning dawned Lieutenant
Brabazon was forced to own that the commander's judgment had
proved better than his own. By the greatest good luck we had hit
upon the right track. There, right in front of us, was the American
schooner, her sails lazily flapping against her masts.
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