A SEA CHANGE
Night was unfolding her wings over the quiet sea. Purple, dark and smooth, the circling expanse of glassy stillness met the sky rim all round in an unbroken line, like the edge of some cloud-towering plateau, inaccessible to all the rest of the world. A few lingering streaks of fading glory laced the western verge, reflecting splashes of subdued colour half-way across the circle, and occasionally catching with splendid but momentary effect the rounded shoulder of an almost imperceptible swell. Their departure was being noted with wistful eyes by a little company of men and one woman, who, without haste and a hushed solemnity as of mourners at the burial of a dear one, were leaving their vessel and bestowing themselves in a small boat which lay almost motionless alongside. There was no need for haste, for the situation had been long developing. The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor and unable to spare sufficient from her scanty earnings for her proper upkeep. So she had been gradually going from bad to worse, not having been strongly built of hard wood at first, but pinned together hastily by some farmer-shipbuilder-fisherman up the Bay of Fundy, mortgaged strake by strake, like a suburban villa, and finally sold by auction for the price of the timber in her. Still, being a smart model and newly painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw her lying in lonely dignity at an otherwise deserted quay in the St. Katharine’s Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him. Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a vessel as the Dorothea. And the shrewd old man who owned her drove a hard bargain. For the small privilege of the skipper carrying his wife with him 50s. per month was deducted from the scanty wage at first agreed upon. But in spite of these drawbacks the anxious master felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction thrill him as he thought that soon he would be once more afloat, the monarch of his tiny realm, and free for several peaceful months from the harassing uncertainties of shore-life.
In order to avoid expense he lived on board while in dock, and made himself happily busy rigging up all sorts of cunning additions to the little cuddy, with an eye to the comfort of his wife. While thus engaged came a thunderclap, the first piece of bad news. The Dorothea was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and machinery to Buenos Ayres. Had he been going alone the thing would have annoyed him, but he would have got over that with a good old-fashioned British growl or so. But with Mary on board—the thought was paralysing. For there is only one cargo that tries a ship more than railway metal, copper ore badly stowed. Its effect upon a staunch steel-built ship is to make her motion abominable—to take all the sea-kindness out of her. A wooden vessel, even of the best build, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage. Every timber in her complains, every bend and strake is wrenched and strained, so that, be her record for “tightness” never so good, one ordinary gale will make frequent exercise at the pump an established institution. And Captain South already knew that the Dorothea was far from being staunch and well-built, although, happily for his small remaining peace of mind, he did not know how walty and unseaworthy she really was. A few minutes’ bitter meditation, over this latest crook in his lot, and the man in him rose to the occasion, determined to make the best of it and hope steadily for a fine run into the trades. He superintended her stowing himself, much to the disgust of the stevedores, who are never over particular unless closely watched, although so much depends upon the way their work is done. At any rate, he had the satisfaction of knowing that the ugly stuff was as handsomely bestowed as experience could suggest, and, with a sigh of relief, he saw the main hatches put on and battened down for a full due.
In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five A.B.’s were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons burden, two officers besides himself, and one man for the double function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best possible according to his judgment, and really succeeded in getting together a sturdy little band. His chief comfort, however, was in his second mate, who was a Finn—one of that phlegmatic race from the eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural aptitude for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, &c.—all, in fact, that there is to a ship, as our cousins say. Slow, but reliable to the core, and a perfect godsend in a small ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart and trustworthy—not too independent to thrust his arms into the tarpot when necessary, and amiable withal. The other six members of the crew—two Englishmen and three Scandinavians—were good seamen, all sailors—there wasn’t a steamboat man among them—and, from the first day when in the dock they all arrived sober and ready for work, matters went smoothly and salt-water fashion.
It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner been cast adrift by the grimy little “jackal” that towed them down to the Nore than they were greeted by a bitter nor’-wester that gave them a sorry time of it getting round the Foreland. The short, vicious Channel sea made the loosely-knit frame of the brig sing a mournful song as she jumped at it, braced sharp up, and many were the ominous remarks exchanged in the close, wedge-shaped fo’c’s’le on her behaviour in these comparatively smooth waters, coupled with gloomy speculations as to what sort of a fist she would make of the Western Ocean waves presently. Clinkety-clank, bang, bang went the pumps for fifteen minutes out of every two hours, the water rising clear, as though drawn from overside, and a deeper shade settled on the skipper’s brow. For a merry fourteen days they fought their way inch by inch down Channel, getting their first slant between Ushant and Scilly in the shape of a hard nor’-easter, that drove them clear of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then it fell a calm, with a golden haze all round the horizon by day, and a sweet, balmy feel in the air—a touch of Indian summer on the sea. Three days it lasted—days that brought no comfort to the skipper, who could hardly hold his patience when his wife blessed the lovely weather, in her happy ignorance of what might be expected as the price presently to be paid for it. Then one evening there began to rise in the west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by outward-going ships—the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the setting sun. The skipper watched its growth as if fascinated by the sight, watched it until at midnight it had risen to be a vast convex screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. At the changing of the watch he had her shortened down to the two lower topsails and fore-topmast staysail, and having thus snugged her, went below to snatch, fully dressed, a few minutes’ sleep. The first moaning breath of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship, and as the watchful Svensen gave his first order, “Lee fore brace!” the skipper appeared at the companion hatch, peering anxiously to windward, where the centre of that gloomy veil seemed to be worn thin. The only light left was just a little segment of blue low down on the eastern horizon, to which, in spite of themselves, the eyes of the travailing watch turned wistfully. But whatever shape the surging thoughts may take in the minds of seamen, the exertion of the moment effectually prevents any development of them into despair in the case of our own countrymen. So, in obedience to the hoarse cries of Mr. Svensen, they strove to get the Dorothea into that position where she would be best able to stem the rising sea, and fore-reach over the hissing sullenness of the long, creaming rollers, that as they came surging past swept her, a mile at a blow, sideways to leeward, leaving a whirling, broadside wake of curling eddies. Silent and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made by the trembling timbers beneath his feet, whose querulous voices permeated the deeper note of the storm.
All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his vessel was put into practice. One by one the scanty show of sail was taken in and secured with extra gasket turns, lest any of them should, showing a loose corner, be ripped adrift by the snarling tempest. By eight bells (4 A.M.) the brig showed nothing to the bleak darkness above but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays, and the long peaked forefinger of the jibboom reaching out over the pale foam. A tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the brig’s head up in the wind except when, momentarily becalmed by a hill of black water rearing its head to windward, it relaxed its steadfast thrust and suffered the vessel to fall off helplessly into the trough between two huge waves. Now commenced the long unequal struggle between a weakly-constructed hull, unfairly handicapped by the wrench of a dead mass of iron within that met every natural scend of her frame with unyielding brutality of resistance, and the wise old sea, kindly indeed to ships whose construction and cargo enable them to meet its masses with the easy grace of its own inhabitants, but pitiless destroyer of all vessels that do not greet its curving assault with yielding grace, its mighty stride with sinuous deference of retreat. The useless wheel, held almost hard down, thumped slowly under the hands of the listless helmsman with the regularity of a nearly worn-out clock, while the oakum began to bulge upward from the deck seams. As if weary even unto death, the brig cowered before the untiring onslaught of the waves, allowing them to rise high above the weather rail, and break apart with terrible uproar, filling the decks rail-high from poop to forecastle. Pumping was incessant, yet Svensen found each time he dropped the slender sounding-rod down the tube a longer wetness upon it, until its two feet became insufficient, and the mark of doom crept up the line. And besides the ever-increasing inlet of the sea, men stayed by the pumps only at imminent risk of being dashed to pieces, for they were, as always, situated in the middle of the main deck, where the heaviest seas usually break aboard. There was little said, and but few looks exchanged. The skipper had, indeed, to meet the wan face of his wife, but she dared not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the deck, as if the wide grey hopelessness around had an irresistible fascination for him, and he watched with unspeculative eyes the pretty gambols of those tiny elves of the sea, the Mother Carey’s chickens, as they fluttered incessantly to and fro across the wake of his groaning vessel.
So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult of wind and wave had become normal, and slighter sounds could be easily distinguished because the ear had become attuned to the elemental din. Unobtrusively the impassive Svensen had been preparing their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, &c. The skipper had watched him with a dull eye, as if his proceedings were devoid of interest, but felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the Dorothea’s weathering the gale was now completely gone. Even the blue patches breaking through the heavy cloud-pall to leeward could not revive it. For she was now only wallowing, with a muffled roar of turbid water within as it sullenly swept from side to side with the sinking vessel’s heavy roll. The gale died away peacefully, the sea smoothed its wrinkled plain, and the grave stars peered out one by one, as if to reassure the anxious watchers. Midnight brought a calm, as deep as if wind had not yet been made, but the old swell still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure, the wide heavens bared their solemn emptiness, and the glowing sun in lonely glory showered such radiance on the sea that it blazed with a myriad dazzling hues. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig was the pathetic centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome stain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the benevolent calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat, and as she lay quietly alongside the few finishing touches were given to her equipment. As the sun went down the vessel’s motion ceased—she was now nearly level with the smooth surface of the ocean, which impassively awaited her farewell to the light. Hardly a word was spoken as the little company left her side and entered the boat. When all were safely bestowed the skipper said, “Cut that painter forrard there,” and his voice sounded hollowly across the burdening silence. A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the boat glided away. At a cable’s length they ceased pulling, and with every eye turned upon the brig they waited. In a painful, strained hush, they saw her bow as if in stately adieu, and as if with an embrace the placid sea enfolded her. Silently she disappeared, the dim outlines of her spars lingering, as if loth to leave, against the deepening violet of the night.
With one arm around his wife, the skipper sat at the tiller, a small compass before him, by the aid of which he kept her head toward Madeira, but, anxious to husband energy, he warned his men not to pull too strenuously. Very peacefully passed the night, no sound invading the stillness except the regular plash of the oars and an occasional querulous cry from a belated sea-bird aroused from its sleep by the passage of the boat. At dawn rowing ceased for a time, and those who were awake watched in a perfect silence, such as no other situation upon this planet can afford, the entry of the new day. Not one of them but felt like men strangely separated from mundane things, and face to face with the inexpressible mysteries of the timeless state. But it was Svensen who broke that sacred quiet by a sonorous shout of “Sail-ho!” With a transition like a wrench from death to life, all started into eager questioning; and all presently saw, with the vigilant Finn, the unmistakable outlines of a vessel branded upon the broad, bright semi-circle of the half-risen sun. No order was given or needed. Double-banked, the oars gripped the water, and with a steady rush the boat sped eastward towards that beatific vision of salvation. Even the skipper’s face lost its dull shade of hopelessness, in spite of his loss, as he saw the haggard lines relax from Mary’s face. Quite a cheerful buzz of chat arose. Unweariedly, hour after hour, the boat sped onward over the bright smoothness, though the sun poured down his stores of heat and the sweat ran in steady streams down the brick-red faces of the toiling rowers. After four hours of unremitting labour they were near enough to their goal to see that she was a steamer lying still, with no trace of smoke from her funnel. As they drew nearer they saw that she had a heavy list to port, and presently came the suggestion that she was deserted. Hopes began to rise, visions of recompense for all their labour beyond anything they could have ever dreamed possible. The skipper’s nostrils dilated, and a faint blush rose to his cheeks. Weariness was forgotten, and the oars rose and fell as if driven by steam, until, panting and breathless, they rounded to under the stern of a schooner-rigged steamer of about 2000 tons burden, without a boat in her davits, and her lee rail nearly at the water’s edge. Running alongside, a rope trailing overboard was caught, and the boat made fast. In two minutes every man but the skipper was on board, and a purchase was being rigged for the shipment of Mrs. South. No sooner was she also in safety than investigation commenced. The discovery was soon made that, although the decks had been swept and the cargo evidently shifted, there was nothing wrong with the engines or boilers except that there was a good deal of water in the stokehold. She was evidently Italian by her name, without the addition of Genoa, the Luigi C., being painted on the harness casks and buckets, and her crew must have deserted her in a sudden panic.
Like men intoxicated, they toiled to get things shipshape on board their prize, hardly pausing for sleep or food. And when they found the engines throbbing beneath their feet they were almost delirious with joy. Opening the hatches, they found that the cargo of grain had shifted, but not beyond their ability to trim, so they went at it with the same savage vigour they had manifested ever since they first flung themselves on board. And when, after five days of almost incessant labour, they took the pilot off Dungeness, and steamed up the Thames to London again, not one of them gave a second thought to the hapless Dorothea. Twelve thousand pounds were divided among them by the Judge’s orders, and Captain South found himself able to command a magnificent cargo steamer of more than 3000 tons register before he was a month older.
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE
“SARAH JANE”
There was no gainsaying the fact that the Sarah Jane was a very fine barge. Old Cheesy Morgan, whose Prairie Flower she had outreached in the annual barge regatta by half a mile, owned up frankly that the Sarah Jane, if she had been built out of the wreckage of a sunken steamboat looted by the miserly old mudlark who owned her, could lay over any of his fleet, and when he gave in as far as that you might look upon the discussion as closed. Her skipper and mate, Trabby Goodjer and Skee Goss, were always ready (when in company) to punch any single man’s head who said a word against her, and many sore bones had been carried away from the “Long Reach House” in consequence. Not that these two worthies were ever sparing of their extensive vocabulary of abuse of their command when working up or down the Thames, especially when she missed stays and hooked herself up on a mudbank about the first of the ebb, making them lose a whole day.
Ever since her launching she had been regularly employed in the Margate trade from London with general merchandise and returning empty. Even this double expense for single freight paid the Margate shopkeepers better than submission to the extortionate railway charges, while their enterprise was a golden streak of luck for the owner of the Sarah Jane, and her consorts. When she commenced the memorable voyage of which this is the veracious log, she had for crew, besides the two mariners already named, a youngster of some fifteen years of age as near as he could guess, but so stunted in growth from early hardships that he did not look more than twelve. He answered to any name generally that sounded abusive or threatening, from long habit, but his usual title was the generic one for boys in north-country ships—Peedee. He had already seen a couple of years’ service in deep-water vessels, getting far more than his rightful share of adventurous mishaps, besides having done a fairly comprehensive amount of vagabondage in the streets of London and Liverpool. But being so diminutive for his years he found it difficult to get a berth in a decent-sized ship, and in consequence it was often no easy matter for him to fill even his small belly, for all his precocious wits. Fate, supplemented by his own fears, had hitherto been kind enough to keep him out of a Geordie collier or a North Sea trawler, but on the day he met Trabby Goodjer outside the “King’s Arms” in Thames Street, and asked him if he wanted a boy, his evil genius must have been in the ascendant. He hadn’t tasted food for two days with the exception of a fistful of gritty currants he had raked out of a corner on Fresh Wharf, and as the keen spring wind shrieking round the greasy bacon-reeking warehouses searched his small body to the marrow he grew desperate. Thus it was that he became the crew of the Sarah Jane. Properly, she should have carried another man, but following the example of their betters in the Mercantile Marine the skipper and mate trusted to luck, and found under-manning pay. The owner lived at Rochester, and rarely saw his vessel except through a pair of glasses at long intervals as she passed the entrance to the Medway. So the payment of the crew was in the skipper’s hands entirely, left to him by the London agent who “managed” her. By sailing her a man short, and giving a boy 10s. a month instead of a pound, Captain Goodjer and chief officer Goss were able to enjoy many cheap drunks, and have thrown in, as it were, the additional enjoyment of ill-using something that was quite unable to turn the tables unpleasantly.
Between this delightful pair therefore, whose luck in getting backwards and forwards to Margate and London was phenomenal, Peedee had a lively time. Especially so when, from some unforeseen delay or extra thirst, the supply of liquor in the big stone jar kept at the head of the skipper’s bunk ran short and they were perforce compelled to exchange their usual swinish condition of uncertain good-humour for an irritable restlessness that sought relief by exercising ingenious forms of cruelty upon their hapless crew. Occasionally they had a rough-and-tumble between themselves, once indeed they both rolled over the side in a cat-like scrimmage, but there was nothing like the solace to be got out of that amusement that there was in beating Peedee. But he, preternaturally wise, was only biding his time. The score against his persecutors was growing very long, but a revenge that should be at once pleasant, enduring, and final, slowly shaped itself in his mind. Accident rather than design matured his plans prematurely, but still he showed real genius by rising to the occasion that thus presented itself and utilising it in a truly remarkable manner.
One Friday evening in the middle of October the Sarah Jane was loosed from the wharf where she had received her miscellaneous freight, and with the usual amount of river compliments and collisions with the motley crowd of craft all in an apparently hopeless tangle in the crowded Pool, began her voyage on the first of the ebb. The skipper and the mate were both more than ordinarily muzzy, but intuitively they succeeded in getting her away from the ruck without receiving more than her fair share of hard knocks. Once in the fairway the big sprit-sail and jib were hove up to what little wind there was, and away she went at a fairly good pace. Peedee did most of the steering as he did of everything else that was possible to him, receiving as his due many pretty bargee-compliments from his superiors as they sprawled at their ease by the bogie funnel. They reached Greenhithe at slack water, where, the wind veering ahead, they anchored for the night at no great distance from the reformatory ship Cornwall. The sails were furled after a fashion, and with many a blood-curdling threat to Peedee should he fail to keep a good look-out, Trabby and his mate went below into their stuffy den to sleep. Somewhere about midnight the shivering boy awoke with a start, that nearly tumbled him off his perch on the windlass, to see two white figures clambering on board out of the river. Wide awake on the instant he saw they were boys like himself, and whispered, “All right, mates, here y’are.” Noiselessly he showed them the fo’c’s’le scuttle, where they might get below and hide. When they had disappeared he crept to the side of the darksome hole and held a whispered conversation with the visitors, finding that they were runaways from the Cornwall, and immediately his active brain saw splendid possibilities in this accession of strength if only he could conceal their presence from his enemies aft. For the present, however, there was nothing to be done but lie quietly and wait events. Daring the risk of awakening the “officers” he made a raid upon the grub-locker aft, securing half a loaf and a lump of Dutch cheese, which he carried forward to the shivering stowaways. His own wardrobe being on his back he could not lend them any clothes, but they comforted themselves with the thought that they would soon be dry. And assisted by Peedee they made a snug lair in the gritty convolutions of a worn-out mainsail that was stowed in their hiding-place, finding warmth and speedy oblivion in spite of their terrors.
The slack arrived some little time before the pale, cheerless dawn, and with it a small breeze fair for their passage down. Unwillingly enough Peedee aroused his masters from their fetid hole, getting by way of reward for his vigilant obedience of orders a perfectly tropical squall of curses. Nevertheless they were soon on deck, having turned in like horses, “all standing.” Without speaking a word to each other, they proceeded to get the anchor, but so out of humour were they that Peedee had much more than his usual allowance of fresh cuts and bruises before the barge was fairly aweigh. Gradually the wind freshened as if assisted by the oncoming light, so that before the red disc of the sun peeped over the edge of London’s great gloom behind them, the Sarah Jane was making grand progress. Again Peedee took the wheel, while the skipper and mate retired to the cabin for a drink. Suddenly sounds of woe arose therefrom. The agonising discovery had been made that the precious jar was empty. It had been capsized during the night, and the bung, being but loosely inserted, had fallen out. Its contents now lay in a sticky pool behind the stove, mixed with the accumulated filth of two or three days. It was a sight too harrowing for ordinary speech. They glared at one another for a few seconds in silence, until Trabby with a vicious set of his ugly mouth growled, “Thet—— young mudlawk.” “Ar,” said the mate, with an air of having found what he wanted, “I’ll—— well skin ’im w’en I goo on deck.” But though the thought was pleasant and some relief to their feelings, they remembered, being sober, that if they were not a little less demonstrative in their attentions to the boy they would certainly have to do his work themselves. That gave them pause, and they discussed with much gravity how they might deal with him without inconvenience to themselves, until breakfast time. When they had in hoggish fashion satisfied their hunger (their thirst no amount of coffee could quench) they lit their pipes and lay back to get such solace as tobacco could afford, and ruminate also upon the possibility of replenishing the stone jar. Peedee steered on steadily, breakfastless, and likely to remain so. Swiftly the barge sped down the reaches in company with a whole fleet of her fellows “cluttering up the river,” as an angry Geordie skipper, who had just shaved close by one of them, remarked, “like a school o’ fat swine in a tatty field.” So they fared for the whole forenoon without incident, until with a savage curse and a blow Trabby took the wheel from the hungry lad, bidding him go and get their dinner ready. While he was thus engaged a thick mist gradually closed in upon the crowded river, reducing its vivid panorama to an unreal expanse of white cloudiness through which phantom shapes slowly glided to an accompaniment of unearthly sounds. Suddenly to Peedee’s amazement the big sail overhead began to flap, the jib-sheet rattled on the “traveller,” and Skee Goss, striding forward, let go the anchor. Then the two men brailed in the mainsail, allowed the jib to run down, and without saying a word to the wondering boy, shoved the boat over the side, jumped into her, and were swallowed up in the fog. The instant they disappeared Peedee stood motionless, his ears acutely strained for the measured play of the oars as the skipper and mate pulled lustily shorewards. When at last he could hear them no longer, he rushed to the scuttle forward, and dropping on his knees by its side, called down, “Below there! ’r y’ sleep? On deck with ye ’s quick ’s the devil’ll let ye.” Up they came, looking scared to death. Without wasting a word, under Peedee’s direction the three hove the anchor up, although Peedee was artful enough to lift the solitary pawl so that it could make no noise. By the time they got the anchor they were all three streaming with sweat, but without a moment’s pause Peedee dropped the pawl, and taking a turn with the chain round the windlass end in case of accidents, cast off the brails, letting the great brown sail belly out to the fresh breeze. Having got the sheet aft with a tremendous struggle, he took the wheel, saying, “Now you two fellers, git forrard ’n histe thet jib up, ’n look lively too ’less you want ter be dam well murdered.” In utter bewilderment as to what was happening the two lads blundered forward, and guided by the energetic directions of their self-appointed commander, soon got the sail set. Fully under control at last, the Sarah Jane sped away seaward before a breeze that, freshening every minute, bade fair to be blowing a gale before night.
But Peedee, transformed into a man by his sudden resolve and its successful execution, called his crew to him, and while he skilfully guided the barge down the strangely quiet river, endeavoured to explain to them what he had done and why; together with his plans for the future. He was utterly contemptuous of their seafaring abilities, telling them that “he’d teach ’em more in two days than they’d learn aboard that ugly old hulk in a year,” and although they were each quite a head and shoulders taller than himself, he treated them as if they were mere infants and he was an old salt. And there was a light in his eye, an elasticity in his movements that impressed them more than all his words. Woe betide them had they dared to cross him! For in that small body was bubbling and fermenting the sweet must of satisfied revenge, strengthened by conscious power and utterly unadulterated by any sense of future difficulty or responsibility. Higher rose the wind, driving the mist before it and revealing the broad mouth of the river all white with foam as the conflicting forces of storm and tide battled over the labyrinth of banks. Obviously the first thing to do was the instruction of his crew in steering, for as soon as he found time to think of it he felt faint with hunger. Fortunately one of the runaways had been coxswain of a boat, and very little sufficed to show him the difference between a tiller and a wheel. And all untroubled by the rising sea, the deeply-laden barge ploughed on far steadier than many a vessel ten times her size would have done. Relieved from the wheel, Peedee hastened to the caboose and found some of the dinner he had been preparing still eatable. Supplementing it by such provisions as he could easily lay hands on in the cabin, the trio made a hearty meal, winding up with a smoke all round in genuine sailor fashion.
With hunger appeased and perfect freedom lapping them around, who shall say that they were not happy? Occasionally a queer little tremor, a premonition of a price by-and-by to be paid for their present adventure, thrilled up the spine of each of the two runaways, but when they stole a glance at the calm features of their commander they were comforted. So onward they sailed, through the tortuous channels of the Thames’ estuary, scudding before a stress of wind under whole canvas at a rate that made Peedee rejoice exceedingly, although every few minutes a green comber of a sea swept diagonally across the whole of the low deck, but never invaded the cabin top. Night fell, the side-lights were exhibited, and like any thousand-ton ship the Sarah Jane stood boldly out into mid-channel, Peedee shaping a course which would carry them down well clear of all the banks. Morning saw them off the Varne shoal, the objects of eager curiosity to the gaping crew of a huge four-masted barque that passed them within a cable’s length. And as the sun rose the weather cleared, the sky smiled down upon them, the keen wind and bright sea gave them a delicious sense of freedom, while the grand speed of their ship stirred them to almost delirious delight. This ecstatic condition lasted for two days until, no definite land being in sight, and passing vessels becoming fewer, the two new hands began to feel that dread of the unknown that might have been expected of them. Timidly they appealed to Peedee to tell them what he was going to do. But with bitter scorn of their fears, all the fiercer because he didn’t in the least know what was going to happen, he railed upon them for a pair of cowardly milksops, and suggested hauling up for some West-country port and dumping them on the beach. Truth to tell he was becoming somewhat anxious himself as to his whereabouts, for the stock of water was getting very low, although there was enough food in the hold to have lasted them round the world. Fate, however, served them better than design. When night fell a heavy bank of clouds which had been lowering in the west all day suddenly began to rise, and soon after dark, in a sudden squall, the wind shifted to that quarter with mist and rain. Under these new conditions Peedee lost his bearings and allowed his command to run away with him into the darkness to leeward. At about four o’clock in the morning he heard a dreadful sound, well known to him from experience, the hungry growl of breakers. But before he had time to get too frightened there was a sudden turmoil of foaming sea around them in place of the dark hollows and white summits of the deep water, and with a tipsy lurch or so the Sarah Jane came to a standstill. She lay so quietly that Peedee actually called his crew to brail up the mainsail and haul down the jib in sailor fashion. Daylight revealed the fact that she was high and dry, having run in past all sorts of dangers until she grounded under the lee of a beetling mass of rock and there remained unscathed. While they were having a last meal they were startled by seeing some uncouth-looking men coming at top speed over the rugged shore. But they lowered themselves down over the side and ran to meet them, finding them foreigners indeed. Before long the whole scanty population was down and busy with the spoil thus providentially provided, while the three boys were hailed as benefactors to their species, and made welcome to the best that the village contained. And two tides after the Sarah Jane was as though she had never been, while the wanderers, well provided with necessaries, were off for an autumn tour on foot through Southern Brittany.