CHAPTER XXVIII.
ON BOARD THE "MERRY ANDREW."
While the "Merry Andrew" was lying at Blackwell taking in cargo, Capt. Liddle, like the shrewd captain he was, had caused it to be notified that he would be happy to take a certain number of passengers to the New World at fifty pounds per head. It happened, as it usually happens in such like cases, that just at that time the exact number of persons that the ship could accommodate found either that Great Britain was too crowded for them to move freely in, or that at length the hour had arrived for them to make a fresh start in life. The captain of the "Merry Andrew" offered them the necessary opportunity. His ship would take them to a country where they would be able to turn without being elbowed. And there was no doubt that the start they contemplated would be a fresh one, inasmuch as in the new land their heads would be where their feet were now, and night was day and day night, and cherries grew with their stones outside, and many other wonders were commonplaces of every-day life. Accordingly, these enterprising souls, much to Capt. Liddle's satisfaction, paid their fifty pounds per head for four months of quiet misery on the sea. By that stroke of business Capt. Liddle served two purposes. He put money in his pocket as chief owner of the vessel, and he provided society for his wife, who was to accompany him on the voyage. Mrs. Liddle was a cheerful little body, who, although she was thirty years of age, had as much sentiment as a tender-hearted miss of eighteen. Her engagement with Capt. Liddle had been a long one. It was now more than twelve years since she first saw him and fell in love with him, as he did with her; but she happened to be blessed in a father who entertained not uncommon ideas as to the value of money, and as to the difference it made in a man, especially in a man who presumed to fall in love with his daughter. At that time Capt. Liddle was only second mate, and his matrimonial overtures were pooh-poohed by Capt. Prue, which was the name and title of his wife's father; Bessie Prue was hers. Capt. Prue (retired from the service) declared that he loved sailors and loved the sea, and that nothing would please him better than that his Bessie should marry a sailor. But then, that sailor must be a captain, he declared, and that captain must be absolute owner of the ship he commanded. Having passed the principal part of his life on sea, in a position where his word was law, he was, as most old sea-captains are, intolerant of opposition. Having given the word, he would not depart from it. Consequently, second-mate Liddle found that all his arguments and rhapsodies were as wind--a fluid which is much more useful at sea than on land, however it is produced. Bessie, as it proved, possessed a goodly share of her old father's determination of character. Having fallen in love with second-mate Liddle, and having determined to marry him or die an old maid, she informed her lover that if he would be faithful to her, she would be faithful to him--a form of declaration which has been very popular from time immemorial. The pledge being sealed by the infatuated ones in the usual manner--that is, with much protestation, with much unnecessary solemnity, (as if they were doomed to execution, and were to be beheaded within a few hours), with many kisses and tender embracings--Bessie went to her father and apprised him, melodramatically, of her determination.
"You wouldn't marry without my consent?" was the obstinate old captain's question, after a little consideration. They were absurdly happy, these two determined persons. Bessie was the apple of his eye, the pride of his heart; she had not a wish, except the wish matrimonial, that he would not have made any sacrifice to satisfy. "You wouldn't marry without my consent, my pretty?" he repeated anxiously, for she did not answer his question immediately.
"I won't, on one condition," replied Bessie categorically; "and that is, that you won't ask me or wish me, or try to persuade me to marry anybody but John Liddle; for I love him with all my heart, and I wouldn't give him up--no, not to be made Lord High Admiral."
"I give you my promise, my pretty," said Capt. Prue, secretly admiring his daughter's determination, and loving her the more for it; "I'll never ask you, nor wish you, nor try to persuade you to marry anybody but John Liddle."
It may be guessed how willingly the old sea-captain gave the pledge, when it is known that he looked forward with absolute dread to the time when Bessie might be taken from him to another home. He would give her any thing, help her to anything but a husband. What right had any body else to her? Why, the ship would go on the rocks without her "And when John Liddle is skipper and owns a ship," he added, "I'll give my consent free and willing." In which last words Capt. Prue was not quite ingenuous. But the compact was made and adhered to. Second-mate Liddle was informed of it, and was compelled to abide by it. He trusted to chance, as many other men, not lovers, have done before him; and he derived consolation from the thought, that when Capt. Prue and Bessie pledged their word, it would need something very extraordinary and unlooked-for to induce them to break it. He rose from second mate to first mate, from first mate to skipper; and when he returned from his voyages, he found Bessie faithful and true, and received a hearty welcome from her father. And during these long and many years of probation, he learned to love his true-hearted little woman more deeply than he had done at first; she taught him to understand what love really was; she taught him the true beauty of it, the holiness of it--that it was something more than a sentiment, something higher than a passion; she taught him to understand that it was a sacrament.
It seems fated for this story, that its narration should necessitate, for the most part, the depicting of the higher virtues, and what is most noble and self-sacrificing in our natures. But it should be none the less acceptable because of that.
A short time after Bessie's lover became skipper, a relative of his died, and left him some money. Directly he came into possession of it, he bought a share in the "Merry Andrew." Bessie was then twenty-six years of age, as pretty as ever, and as fresh at heart as ever. One would have thought that her father would have spoken to her of his own accord, there and then, and that he would have given her the reward of her faithfulness and devotion. But the truth must be told; he was a selfish old curmudgeon, and he trembled at the thought of losing her. So once more Capt. Liddle sailed away from his lady-love on the voyage in which our Joshua commenced his apprenticeship at sea. The "Merry Andrew" was away, as you know, for more than four years; and when it returned, and Capt. Liddle went to see his Bessie, he found her in mourning. Her father was dead. Before he died he had made her the only reparation in his power. The last codicil to his will, written a few weeks before his death, contained expressions of his love for her, his admiration of her lover, his consent to their marriage, and his regret that he had not consented to it years ago. But it is so easy to regret after a thing has occurred which we might have prevented or remedied. I have not yet made up my mind as to the value of deathbed repentance. Neither am I satisfied that we may sin properly for six days in the week, in a comfortable knowledge that we can evade the penalty by crying, "I have sinned!" on the sabbath.
However, the departed Captain Prue had been in all other respects a kind and tender father, and no word of reproach passed the lips of Bessie and John Liddle. They were not too old for the enjoyment of life's blessings. Two months before the present sailing of the "Merry Andrew" they were married; and it is not to be doubted that the circumstances of their engagement promised them a lasting happiness.
Mrs. Liddle had a maid, a beautiful brown-complexioned girl, whose appearance might have suggested some suspicion of a gypsy breed, had it not been for her manners, which showed a refinement no gypsy-girl could have acquired in her vagrant life, and for her eyes, which were gray despite their brightness. The circumstances of her becoming Mrs. Liddle's maid were somewhat peculiar. She had presented herself to that lady a few days before the "Merry Andrew" sailed, and stating that she had heard by accident that Mrs. Liddle wanted a maid to accompany her on the voyage, asked to be engaged in that capacity. There was something so winsome about the girl, that Mrs. Liddle--who had not succeeded in engaging a maid willing to brave the terrors of a sea-voyage--was at once attracted to her, and lent a sympathizing ear to her story of being alone in the world and without friends. Perhaps it was Mrs. Liddle's romantic happiness that caused her to be less prudent than usual; but certain it is that the girl was engaged, and, setting about her duties at once, proved so apt and attentive, that Mrs. Liddle congratulated herself upon her decision. Captain Liddle did not interfere in the matter; but when he first saw the girl her face seemed familiar to him, and he glanced at her more than once, wondering where he had met her. But he could not settle the doubt, and the matter was not of sufficient importance to permanently engage his attention. Thus it was that Minnie succeeded in obtaining a passage in the "Merry Andrew," and in being near to the man who was dearer to her than all other earthly considerations. She was not influenced by any dishonoring passion; she simply desired not to be parted from the man she loved. She did not want him to see her or speak to her--at least, so she thought at that time; it was sufficient for her to know that she was in the same ship with him, and that she would perhaps now and again catch a glimpse of her hero, without his knowing that she was by. When she first made up her mind to leave her home, she did not pause to consider what would be the consequences of her rash act. She was unhappy there and utterly miserable; everybody was against her; and when she discovered, as she did discover, that Susan was playing the spy upon her, she became defiant and more resolved. She loved her father and honored him; but she loved Joshua with all the passion of her passionate nature, and in her mistaken sense of right and wrong, the stronger love usurped the place of duty, and made her oblivious of all else. She was blinded by love, and by love in which there was not a shade of impure passion.
She had had at first a wild idea of dressing herself in sailor's clothes, and had saved a few shillings towards the purchasing of them; but her success with Mrs. Liddle set that aside. When she went on to the ship with her mistress, she was careful that Joshua should not see her; but indeed, if they had met face to face at that time, it is not likely that he would have recognized her in her disguise; for his thoughts were with Ellen, and his heart was too full as yet to be curious about the passengers. But the Lascar saw her, and was puzzled about her directly he set eyes upon her face. He watched her like a cat, and yet he could not make up his mind about her. He had seen her often in Stepney, but he could scarcely believe that the fair girl with the beautiful hair and this dark gypsy with the short curls were one and the same. He knew her name and all about her from Solomon Fewster, and he was quite ready to believe in the villainy of Joshua. Resolved to make sure of the value of his suspicions, he contrived to pass close by her as she was taking some bandboxes down stairs to the saloon, and as he passed her, he muttered the name of "Minnie Kindred." A start, a frightened look over her shoulders, and the dropping of the bandboxes down the stairs, were sufficient confirmation of his doubts; and before the pilot left the ship he gave him a scrawl for Solomon Fewster to the effect that Joshua and Minnie had run away together. He was cautious enough also to send upon another piece of paper a private scrawl to Solomon Fewster, saying he was not quite sure, but that Fewster would know how to act if Minnie were missing from home.
But when the Lascar next saw Minnie's face, which was not until the "Merry Andrew" was a thousand miles the other side of the Bay of Biscay, his doubts returned, and he thought that, after all, he must have been mistaken. He did not know the cunning of Minnie. In the startled glance she had thrown over her shoulder when her name was pronounced, she had marked the Lascar's face, so that she was sure she would know it again; and when, after the lapse of weeks, she detected him gazing at at her, she looked at him so boldly and contemptuously that he drooped his eyes before her. What added to his perplexity was, that he never saw Joshua speak to her, never saw him look at her. When she came on deck, which she did very rarely, and never unless her duty to her mistress called her there, she was careful not to give Joshua an opportunity of speaking to her or of looking closely at her; and he, detecting in her manner a wish to avoid any little attention he might have it in his mind to offer her, did not trouble himself even by giving her a thought. She was as distant and reserved to all the officers; and in a little while it began to be understood, that the handsome gypsy-maid did not wish to be spoken to by any one on board but her mistress; and her wish was scrupulously respected.
To readers who are not well acquainted with ship-life, it may seem strange that Minnie should have been able to keep herself so free from observation; but there really can be--and there often is--as much exclusiveness on board a passenger-ship as there is in society on land. You may live in a ship for months, and travel for thousands upon thousands of miles over the seemingly interminable waste of waters, without having any more personal knowledge of those who sleep within a few yards of you than you would have of them if you and they were living at the extreme ends of a great city. When the long, long voyage is at an end, and the ship is being piloted into the bay that skirts the land of Pisgah, men and women whom you do not remember ever to have seen before appear magically on deck; and you wonder where they come from, and how it is you have not set eyes on them during all the time that you and they have been living in the wonderful house of wood and iron that has brought you safely over the raging seas.
Joshua knew the Lascar directly he saw him on board, and was not pleased to find that he was one of the crew. But the man did his duty, and worked as well and apparently as willingly as the other sailors; and as he was uniformly respectful, Joshua could not, even if he had been so inclined, treat him harshly with any sense of justice.
And so the "Merry Andrew," containing within its wooden walls its load of human love and hate, cleaves through the ocean onward to its goal steadily and patiently, while before it, with every new rising of the sun, a monotonous hill of waters, never varying, never changing, lies in the gray distance mocking its progress. Through cold weather, through hot weather, burnt up in the torrid zone, and chilled by winds which rush from ice-bound waters; through days when scarce a ripple can be seen on the grand ocean's breast, and others when the waves leap at its throat furiously, as an enemy might do; through nights when the moon rises threateningly in the heavens, like a blazing ball of lurid fire, suggesting thoughts of a dreadful to-morrow; and through dark nights, solemnly beautiful, when the track of the vessel is marked by the brilliant Medusæ (the sailor's girdle of Venus) which gleam and shine--a line of living light--in the wondrous sea: through all these, with unerring faith, the ship pursues its way steadily and patiently to the garden of the world. Now the captain smells the breeze, and hoarse cries, unintelligible to all but the initiated, travel about the ship to clap on sail and make good use of the breath of Boreas. Then the ship dashes on like a god drunk with joy, dives into awful depths, and climbs water-mountains that a moment ago threatened to fall in upon it and dash it to pieces. The curling seas break over the deck, and the toilers that are battling with wind and wave cling fast for dear life to ropes and spars; while ever and anon a water-titan, more angry than his fellows, breaks against the side with such tremendous force that the vessel reels and quivers beneath the mighty shock. So! the breeze slackens and dies away; the anger of the sea subsides, and after many days the ship is becalmed. Then the passengers lie about the white deck in happy indolence, and muse and dream of the great whale they saw a while ago, hung round with sea-weed and barnacles; of the cloudless night, star-gemmed above and below; of the beautiful Southern Cross and the strange Magellan clouds; and while they muse and dream, the white sky stares down lazily into blue peaceful waters. Every one on board is contented with the change, excepting the skipper, who paces the deck restlessly and prays for the breeze to spring up--taking advantage of the calm, however, like the good skipper he is, to splice ropes, and make new sails and mend old ones. Soon wind and water wake into life again, and the waves sparkle, and the fresh breeze blows merrily, when a sudden cry rings through the ship that a man is overboard. The next moment every soul on board is bending over the bulwarks, watching the retreating form of the sailor who is floating on his back, gazing with agonizing dread at the cruel beaks of the swan-white albatrosses, which are already hovering above him. Quickly the ship is put about; a boat, with rowers in it, is lowered into the sea; and after the lapse of many anxious moments a wild cheer rings through the air, as the man saved from death, is dragged into the boat. He tells afterwards to eager listeners--he is a notable man on board from that day forth--how it seemed to him that he was floating on his back for full a day, and how the only fear he felt was that the albatrosses would pick out his eyes. Then the following week a young man died who was in a consumption when he was first brought on to the ship, and who had hoped that the warm breezes of the South would give him a new lease of life; but he was never to breathe the balmy southern air. The little colony of human beings is very sad when the funeral service is read over the body, and the canvas coffin slips with a dull thud into the sea; and a fear arises that some calamity is near. And surely that night there is a fearful storm. The wind howls and roars; heavy seas dash down the two men at the wheel; the sails split into a thousand shreds; masts and spars crack like reeds. The sobs and lamentations of the passengers are dreadful to bear. Minnie, creeping from her cabin into the saloon, sees a dozen men and women, half-dressed, on their knees, praying for mercy and forgiveness, making vows of reformation, and indulging in all the fear-impelled evidences of a suddenly awakened contrition. Pursued by the conviction that in a few minutes she and all in the ship will meet their doom, she yearns with all her soul to see Joshua, to touch him, to whisper in his ear that Minnie is by his side. Then, if he will but take her hand, she will be content to go down with him into the solemn depths of the awful sea. She creeps to the wet stairs leading to the deck, only to find that the hatches are fastened down, and that she is a prisoner. She tears at the cruel door that separates her from Joshua, until her fingers bleed and her strength gives way. She calls aloud to him, but she cannot hear her own voice, so weak is it and so overwhelming is the roar of the storm. She sinks, despairing, at the foot of the stairs, and in the agony of her mind and the terror of the time so entirely loses consciousness, that the cold waters which steal down the hatchway are powerless to arouse her. But with the next rising of the sun the storm has passed away, and the captain looks joyful, and the sailors sing blithely at their work, and the passengers forget their vows of reformation. So the ship sails on and on, until land is sighted, and the passengers begin to prepare their best clothes to go on shore in. Then comes a quiet evening when the "Merry Andrew" drops quietly down the beautiful bay, and as evening deepens into night, a thousand twinkling lights from distant hills welcome the wanderers and gladden their hearts. How peaceful, how lovely, is the night! The balmy air, the restful sound of dipping oars, the floating strains of music that come from a neighboring ship, the beautiful star-lit waters--all these bring grateful feelings to weary travellers, and silent prayers of thankfulness arise to Heaven for the mercy that has brought them safely through the perils of the mighty sea.