Chapter Nine.
A Midnight Drive—Arrival at Bristol—The Good Ship “Salamander”—How Tom Morley Died.
My brother and I jumped up into the dog-cart, I making Jill sit in front for safety’s sake, he being the younger, and the roads being hilly in parts. Then up jumped our Jehu as I may now call our friend the Spaniard, all the more truly in that he was arrayed from chin to knee in a double breasted buff-coloured coachman’s coat with buttons of brass. The coat, when daylight came, looked a little the worse for wear, but, to use a paradox, this was all the better for the part he was playing.
I had only time to press Adriano’s hand and ask for auntie and Mattie before we started. They were well and it was all right, and aunt would meet me at Bristol.
I should have liked to have asked many more questions, but the noise and jolting of the cart prevented me. Besides, Adriano seemed but little inclined to talk, and I noticed that he gave frequent glances from side to side, scanning as well as he could that portion of the moor which could be seen in the starlight.
Jill put his hand over the back of the seat and I placed it in my bosom, and thus felt I had my brother’s company and he mine. There was no need to speak to him then. Jill and I understood each other’s thoughts by touch as well as by talk. But indeed I was myself but in small humour for conversing. I felt safe—that was enough for the present; but why Adriano had brought a cart, or where he was driving us to, I had no desire to be informed.
In about half an hour, far away on the horizon to the right, I thought I could perceive the reflection of a great fire behind the hills. The flames looked increasing every minute. Surely, I thought, some forest must be on fire away over yonder. But soon the moon rose red and round, and apparently laughing at the trick it had played me. I watched it mount higher and higher, getting paler and more silvery, fighting its way through the clouds, and changing their blackness into beauty and brightness, just as our souls may change sorrows and afflictions, if we but have true faith in the Father.
Ere long, the moon ruled queen of the heavens’ blue arch, and the very stars seemed to pale before its glory.
I could not help thinking as we jogged along, how very differently things had all turned out from the morning—very far away it seemed—when poor Jill and I had left the ship with, figuratively speaking, rope around our necks. So true is it that we cannot even guess from hour to hour what is before us. You may try the experiment, if you please, of imagining what some place you are going to will be like, or some person you are going to meet for the first time. Your imagination will be very far out indeed. Still, I am certain of one thing, that if we do our duty simply and well, and leave the rest in the hands of the Providence we entrust with our life-guidance, all will turn out for the best. Who could have dreamt of our meeting the “terrible” convict, or of his giving us such honest, fatherly advice. With our heads full of silly romance, and our purses brimming over with three pounds ten each, where would Jill and I have landed. We would soon have been poor little ragged, bare-footed boys, with never a penny to buy bread or a postage-stamp, and oh, I tremble now to think what we might not have come to.
As I was musing thus, the road began rapidly to descend till we found ourselves in a deep, wooded ravine and on a bridge.
Adriano had quick eyes. He saw two men spring from the bank a little ahead before I did, and slackened speed. One stood at each side of the road as we drove very slowly past.
Adriano simply raised his whip hand as Jehus do by way of salute, but spoke no word. A moment afterwards, however, he raised his cap as if to scratch his head and the moon glinted on his grey hair—which I knew was a wig.
The men were very upright and soldierly in their bearing, but dressed in dark clothes tightly fitting.
One caught the back-board of the dog-cart, and walked some little way, helping himself along up the hill by the hold he had taken, which was only natural. But my heart began to jump and flicker, and my mouth grew suddenly dry with dread. Luckily I did not lose the power of speaking, nor did I falter much.
“You’re late out, my lad?”
“Y-es.”
“Going far?”
“Y-es, very far. Going to see my poor aunt.”
I had taken my handkerchief out, for what reason I do not know. But a sudden inspiration made me raise it momentarily to my face.
The man noticed it.
“Ah! poor boy,” he said; “I hope you’ll find her better than you expect.”
“I hope so,” I said, and in my heart of hearts I did.
“Death comes sooner or later to us all, lad,” he added. “Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”
Not a word was spoken by any of us in the trap, till we were a good mile past the place. Then Adriano turned round.
“Who you think those men are?” he asked.
“I can guess.”
“They belong to the preeson. I know them. Ha, ha, they not know me.”
There were no further adventures that night, but just as day was breaking slowly in the east, we all alighted near a brook, and Adriano put a nose-bag on the horse after letting him drink. Then our friend took out a basket from the cart. It contained one of auntie’s pies—auntie was famous for pies—and many other good things. I could not help thinking now how truly good at heart she was, and how ungrateful I had been. Hope returned to my heart, however, while eating, and I prayed inwardly I might live to reward her for all her kindness.
We were now in a very lonely and also a very quiet place, so that when Adriano suggested a few hours’ sleep, nothing seemed more natural. He gave us a rug and we lay down together, Jill and I under a bush, and very soon indeed all our tiredness and all our troubles were alike forgotten.
My watch had run down and so had Jill’s, so I have no actual notion how long we slept, only it must have been for many hours, because the sun was over in a different part of the sky and we were hungry. This last, I have often proved in deserts and wilds, is an excellent way of knowing the time when you do not happen to possess a watch.
We slept that night at a little country inn, and were up and away before the sun was well over the woods. We took our time on the road to-day, lazed and dawdled in fact, while Jill and I committed all kinds of frolics. We culled huge bunches of wild flowers, and even bedecked the horse’s head, so that when we arrived in the evening at a little village the people at once put us down as boys on a holiday.
Next night we drove into Bristol, and now Jill and I forgot all about the wild flowers, as we thought of our interview with auntie.
I pictured to myself all sorts of dreadful and impossible situations. How would she receive us? How would we advance? How apologise for all the trouble and inconvenience we had been to her? How this, that; and fifty other things, that were all scattered to the winds when we drove into the inn yard and found auntie all smiles and ribbons, actually waiting to help us down out of the trap?
“Poor dear lads, you must be so tired and hungry. But dinner is waiting when you’ve had a wash. I declare to you, boys, I’m not a bit sorry to come to Bristol. It is quite a holiday to me. And old associations do so crowd round my heart. Your grandpa, my dear father, used to sail regularly from Bristol. Oh, Reginald, you do look unkempt. Sleeping in your clothes, I dare say. Come along. We will say good-night, Señor Adriano. Be here at ten to-morrow.”
And it was not till just before we went down to one of the nicest dinners ever a boy sat down to, that auntie said, “Now, boys, say not a word again about the Thunderbolt. All is past and forgiven. It was not to be, boys. You were not destined for the navy.”
We clung to her hands, and thanked her.
“And after all,” mind you, “I believe with my dear father, that we have far better sailors in the merchant service than in the navy.”
On the whole, then, our reunion was more like coming home after being away on a holiday than anything else. So different from anything we could have expected.
We were too tired to talk much that night, and next morning Adriano bade us good-bye after doing some business with auntie.
I felt some sorrow at parting; so did Jill.
“Shall we ever, ever see each other again, Adriano?” I said.
“Quien sabe? de world is not wide to de sailor. We meet—perhaps.—I go home now, I hope. I will see my government—I will return here or to Cardeef—a free man. A dios. A dios.”
This was a busy day with auntie, and a busy day for us too. We saw the inside of many a shipping office before evening, and I was proud to learn that my Aunt Serapheema was so well known and so highly respected by every one, but I was not aware then that she was owner of a great many shipping shares.
I remember what one white-haired old gentleman said to her.
“The boys are big enough for their years, and look strong and well, but are they not just a little too young?”
“Their grandfather,” said auntie, proudly, “went to sea when barely ten.”
“I know your father was an exceptional youngster, and no man could have died more highly respected. No man.”
“Let me see now,” said auntie, speaking more to herself than to Mr Claremont, “the Salamander belongs to only a few shareholders.”
“Belongs mostly to you, Miss Domville.”
“And the captain is a gentleman.”
“Captain Coates is an excellent fellow.”
“Takes his wife with him most trips?”
“He does so in September.”
“I love a man who does that. He is a true sailor.”
“Perhaps too soft-hearted, though,” said Mr Claremont. “Don’t you think so, Miss Domville?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So brusque and cheerful. Just like your father, Miss. Just like dear old Captain Domville.”
“And I couldn’t be like a better man, could I, Mr Claremont?”
“True, true, true.”
“Well, my boys shall go out in September with Captain and Mrs Coates.”
“So like her father. So like her father. Why, Miss Domville, do you know that your words sound very like a command?”
“And so they are meant to sound, Mr Claremont,” said auntie, laughing. “But mind you, it is I, not you, who are giving it. It is with me all responsibility rests, remember. I, not you, have to account to Major Jones, their dear father, and to my sister.”
“Yes, Miss, yes, yes, yes. I am just your adviser.”
“That’s all. So that settles it.”
“So like her father. So very like her father,” said the old gentleman, as he bowed us to the door.
I looked at Jill after we got into the street, and Jill looked at me, and the wish uppermost in our minds at that moment was to take off our caps and shout, as we used to do when playing pirates; and the greatest sorrow in our hearts at the same moment was that we could not do anything of the sort, because it would have looked so silly.
When at luncheon that afternoon, auntie told us she would remain with us until our ship sailed in September, we of course felt very glad.
“But,” I said, “will they not miss you at home?”
“I was thinking of Mattie.”
“Oh, no,” said auntie, “who is to miss me? Poor dear Mattie has her Mummy Gray, the canaries have Sarah, and Trots has Robert to wash his feet and exercise him. You see, Reginald, I am free. I love to be free. That is the sole reason why I do not get married.”
Poor auntie, it struck me even then she did not look much like a marrying lady; but I did not say anything.
Captain Coates called in the evening. He was not your beau ideal of a sailor quite, being rather tall, thin, and dressed like a landsman. The peculiar feature of his face was his nose. It was a big nose, but sharp and thin. If his nose had been a circus horse, a clown would hardly have cared to ride bare-back on it. I may as well state here, at once, that Captain Coates never drank anything stronger than tea; still his nose was somewhat flushed at all times, and more so during an east wind. Mrs Coates was with him, a round-faced, cosy, bonnie wee woman that Jill and I took to at once.
She was very proud of her husband, and he was fond of her.
“Jack,” she told us that evening, “is every inch a sailor. Oh, it is fine to hear him carrying on when we’re shortening sail in front of a puff. And all the men obey him, too.”
Captain Coates laughed aloud—rather a pleasant, hearty laugh it was.
“Obey me, do they! Quite an exceptional thing on board a ship. Thunder! Miss Domville, the man who didn’t obey me would soon be scratching an ailing head.”
“That’s just his way,” Mrs Coates whispered to me. “Jack is such a fellow.—Oh, by the way, you’re called Jack. We’ll have two?”
“Oh, it won’t matter much,” I said, “I’ve a whole barrowful of names besides to pick and choose from.”
“I’m sure you’ll like the sea and Captain Coates, and that we shall all pull together famously. By the way, Miss Domville, I’m taking a maid again.”
“You had one last time.”
“Yes, and a nice handful she was. Ill for weeks, and I had to attend upon her. This is a black girl, so humorous, kindly, and good, and been to sea quite a long time.”
We were very happy that evening, especially when aunt told us that we were going to India, and that we should call at the Cape and probably see mamma.
“Oh,” I shouted, “I’m so glad that we played pirates.”
“So am I,” cried Jill, and began to dance.
“Auntie,” I said, “promise me one thing. Oh, you must promise.”
“Well, well, if I must promise, what is it?”
“You’ll write and tell mamma we’ve gone to sea. But don’t say where. We want to pop in on her unawares. Don’t we, Jill?”
“Certainly.”
“Well,” said auntie, “I’ll humour you for once.”
There is always something in this life happening to mar one’s joy, just when it is at its height. That is my experience. But things are wisely ordered. Heaven does not desire us to get too fond of this world. If it were all sunshine we would be sure to, and forget there is a happier land beyond the grave.
But before we went to bed, auntie told us about the sad fate of poor Tom Morley.
She seemed unwilling at first to tell us anything to damp our spirits, but as we had mentioned Tom, and saw there was something behind her first simple statement that Tom was dead, we pressed her and she withheld nothing.
The brief narrative of his latter end was related to her by Tom’s own quondam shipmate, the man who had come on board for him on that unfortunate evening before our final foolish adventure on the Thunderbolt; and when we heard it from auntie’s lips it made an impression on us I am never likely to forget.
Boys do take fancies for persons, whether men or women, whom they get in tow with—to use a sea phrase—when young, and I think they are more likely to be lasting ones if these persons have any memorable oddity about them. Tom had several, his hoarse but not unpleasant voice, his flower-pot coloured face, and his exceeding good nature when off duty. To put it in few words, he then used to let us do as we liked. I think I see Jill yet jumping round him and singing—
“Dear old Tom Morley,
Come tell us a storley.”
Then we would catch him and “lug him below” (the phrase is Tom’s) and seat him in his armchair, and even light his pipe for him, and then sit down to listen.
Tom’s stories nearly always had much about the same plan of commencement, which was somewhat as follows:—
“When I was in the old Semiramis, young gentlemen, ah! ships were ships in them days, and officers and men were officers and men, I can tell you, and knowed their duty, and did it too, no matter what stood in their way. Well, one day we were a-cruisin’ off a bit o’ land,”—and so on and so forth.
Yes, we did like Tom. But sad was the pity he had that predilection for “tossing cans” with friends, else he might have gone aloft in a different fashion and his body filled an honoured grave.
But Tom met his old messmate that day, and went off with him, and they must have a can together for old times, and many more than one perhaps. The evening probably passed away quickly enough, what with talking of the dear old days “when ships were ships and you I were young, lad.”
But, according to his friend, Tom pulled himself up with a round turn at last, and as he pulled out his big, old-fashioned silver watch.
“Oh dear,” he cried, “I’d no idea how the time was flyin’; and those dear children on board, too, all by their dear little selves. Now, old chummy, I’m off. Duty’s duty, and we may meet again another day.”
“I don’t think you can get off to-night to the Thunderbolt,” replied his friend.
“What d’ye mean?” said Tom.
“Why I mean that it’s blowin’ big guns.”
“No matter if it blows fifty-sixes or Armstrongs, Tom’s goin’ off if birds can fly.”
“There won’t be a boat’ll take you off to-night, Tom,” said the landlord.
“Then I’ll swim,” said Tom Morley, doggedly. “I’ve done that afore, when duty was duty.”
“I know you has, Tom; but take my advice, don’t try any such foolish game on a night like this, or you’ll get left.”
“Good-night, landlord.—Come on,” cried Tom to his friend.
Away they went together.
It was past ten by the time they reached the usual steps. No boatman was there.
“Tom, come on back. Sleep on shore to-night, old man.”
“What,” cried Tom, “and those three darlings on board! Don’t ye try to persuade me, Bill. You knows Tom o’ the old. Duty is duty, and Tom’ll face it.”
The moon was shining quite brightly, and though the water was rough, the wind was favourable.
“D’ye see the dear old Thunderbolt yonder, Bill? Well, Tom’ll sleep there to-night or—in a sailor’s grave. I think I see the anxious wee faces at the port yonder watching for me. Coming, darlings Tom’s a-coming.”
Tom had kicked off his boots as he spoke; then he relieved himself of what he called his top hamper. But even now his old shipmate could not believe him in earnest. He did, though, when Tom darted from his side and took a header into the tide.
He swam up close in shore first for a good distance, then struck out across, but still heading up. For a time his messmate could even hear him singing a stave of that charming old song—
“Good-night—all’s well.”
“The last long notes,” said his mate, “rang down the wind like a death-knell.”
And death-knell it was to poor Tom. If ever he reached the ship’s longitude, he must have been carried past her with fearful speed, and—the curtain drops.