Chapter Seventeen.

Homeward Bound.

“Bedad, sorr, it sames I’m dhramin’, sure,” observed Tim Rooney to Mr Mackay as the two now stood together on the forecastle, looking out over the hows. “It’s moighty loike the ould river; an’ I’d a’most fancy I wor home ag’in, an’ not in Chainee at all at all!”

“You’re not far wrong, bosun,” replied Mr Mackay, smiling at his remark, or rather at the quaint way in which it was made. “I can fancy the same thing myself, the appearance of the Yang-tse-kiang hereabouts being strangely like that of the Thames just below Greenhithe.”

I, overhearing their conversation, thought the same too; for, although, of course, there was no dome of Saint Paul’s in the distance, nor forests of masts, nor crowds of steamers passing to and fro, nor all that bustle of business and din and dense black smoke from those innumerable funnels that distinguishes the waterway which forms the great heart artery of London, still there were many points of resemblance between the two—the show of shipping opposite Shanghai, where we lay, being almost as fair as that which is to be seen sometimes at the mouth of the Thames on a fine day, when it blows from the south and there are many wind-bound craft waiting to get down Channel.

The sampans and other native boats, darting about hither and thither in shoals, somewhat made up for the absence of the panting tugs and paddle steamers plying on the former stream, albeit there was no deficiency here either of Fulton’s invention, steamers running regularly a distance of more than seven hundred miles up the Yang-tse-kiang; and, as for houses and the signs of a numerous population, there were plenty of these, although different to the bricks and mortar structures of our more accustomed eyes in England, with the peaks of pagodas doing duty for church spires, while the paddy fields planted with rice on either hand offered a very good imitation of the low-lying banks of our great mother river along the Essex shore.

“Aye, it’s the very image, an’ as loike as two pays,” reiterated Tim Rooney on my joining the two. “Don’t ye think so, too, Misther Gray-ham?”

“I wish you would leave the ‘ham’ out of my name!” I replied laughing, but a bit vexed all the same. “I think you might by this time, it’s getting quite a stale joke.”

“Faix, I dunno what ye manes, sorr,” he replied, pretending to be puzzled, but the wink in his eye showing clearly that this density of his mental powers on the point was only assumed. “Sure, an’ I can’t hilp me brogue, ye know, if ye manes that?”

“Nobody says you can,” said I rather shortly; for one or two of the hands by the windlass bitts were grinning, as well as Sam Weeks who was standing by, too, and I did not like being made fun of before them. “No one could mistake you for anything else but a Paddy all the world over!”

“Begorra, an’ I’m proud av that very same, Misther Gray-ham,” he retorted, not one whit put out by my words, as I imagined he would be. “If other folks had as little to be ashamed av, it’s a blissid worrld sure this’d be, an’ we’d be all havin’ our wings sproutin’ an’ sailin’ aloft, loike the swate little cheroob, they says, looks arter poor Jack!”

A general laugh followed this; and the captain just then coming out of his cabin, where he had been busy getting all his papers and bills of lading together, and ordering the jolly-boat to be lowered to pull him ashore, Tim turned away to see to the job—so, he had the best of me in our little skirmish, albeit we were nevertheless good friends afterwards.

In the afternoon, Captain Gillespie came off to the ship again, with a gang of coolies under a native comprador. These were sent by the consignees to help discharge the cargo into a lot of small junks that they brought alongside; but the Chinamen made a poor show, contrasting their work with that of our stalwart able-bodied tars, one of whom thought nothing of handling a big crate as it was hoisted out of the hold which it took ten of the others merely to look at.

Fortunately, only a few boxes of the Manchester stuffs that were stowed in our fore compartment were found damaged by the sea, the rest of the goods being in good condition, and the cargo generally as sound as when it came on board in the docks; a result which afforded “Old Jock” much satisfaction, as he had feared the worst. The only loss, therefore, the owners would have to suffer would be the small amount of our freight that had been jettisoned when the ship first went ashore on the Pratas, the cargo that had subsequently been taken out to lighten her before getting her off the shoal having been carefully preserved.

“‘All’s well that ends well,’” cried he, rubbing his hands and sniffing and snorting, when the people ashore reported this after a systematic examination of all the bales and stuff. “I told ye so, Mackay, I told ye so; and when I say a thing, ye know, I mean a thing.”

“I’m sure, I’m only too glad everything has turned out right,” replied the first mate, smiling to himself, though, at “Jock’s” assertion of having prognosticated this favourable issue, the contrary being the case; for, he’d been grumbling all the way from Hongkong about the salvage to be paid, and compensation to the consignees for deterioration of the cargo, besides perhaps demurrage for late delivery, the ship arriving at Shanghai more than a month beyond her time. “‘All’s well that ends well,’ as you say, sir; and I only hope we’ll soon have a freight back which will recoup any loss the owners may have suffered from the mishaps of our voyage out.”

But, hoping for a thing, and having it, are two very different things.

It was the middle of July when we finally reached Shanghai, and it took us, with the slow way of going to work of the Chinese coolies and their comprador and the people ashore and all, a good three weeks to unload our cargo; so that, by the time we had the hold swept out and got ready below for the reception of a freight of tea promised the captain, lo and behold we found we were too late, for the consignment intended for us was now well on its way home in another vessel. This latter, however, we were told in excuse for our disappointment, had been waiting longer for a cargo than us, having been lying in the river since May, and only starting off as we commenced discharging.

We were cheered up, though, by the hope of having a cargo of the second season tea, which the shore folk said was expected in the town from up country shortly; which “shortly” proved to be of the most elastic properties, it being September before we received authoritative information of our expected freight being at last at Shanghai and ready for shipment.

When it came, though, we did not lose much time in getting it on board and stowed, even Tom Jerrold and I working under hatches.

“Begorra, we’ll show them poor craythurs,” cried Tim Rooney, bracing himself up for the task and baring his sinewy arms with much gusto as he buckled to the job, setting the hands a worthy example to follow. “Aye, we’ll jist show them what we calls worruk in our counthry, me darlints. Won’t we, boys?”

“Aye, aye,” roared out the men, all anxious to set sail and see Old England again; sailors being generally the most restless mortals under the sun, and never satisfied at being long in one place. “Aye, aye, bo, we will!”

And they did, too, “Old Jock” rubbing his hands and snorting and sniffing in fine glee as the tea-chests were rattled up out of the junks alongside and lowered into the hold, where they underwent even a greater amount of squeezing and jamming together than our original cargo out, the process of compression being helped on by the aid of the jack-screws and the port watch under Mr Mackay—who now superintended the stowage of the cargo, in place of poor Mr Saunders. No one, apparently, save the faithful Tim Rooney, gave a thought to the latter, now resting in his quiet tomb in Happy Valley!

“Bedad, we miss our ould sickond mate, sorr,” I heard him say to Mr Mackay, who was a little strange to the job, having had nothing to do in the stowing line for some time, his duties as first mate being more connected with the navigation of the ship. “He wor a powerful man to ate, sure; but he knew his way about the howld av a vissil, sorr, that same.”

“That means, I suppose, bosun,” replied Mr Mackay laughing and coughing as the tea-dust caught his breath, “that I don’t—eh?”

“Be jabers, no, sorr,” protested Tim; “I niver maned to say that, sorr, aven if I thought it. But poor ould Misther Saunders samed, sorr, to take koindly to this sort av worruk, betther nor navigatin’; which he weren’t a patch on alongside av you, sorr, as ivery hand aboard knows.”

“Get out with your blarney,” said Mr Mackay good-humouredly, urging the crew on to fresh exertions by way of changing the topic. “If we stop jawing here long we’ll never sail from Shanghai before next year. Put your hearts in it, men, and let us get all stowed and be done with it.”

“Look aloive,” yelled the boatswain, following suit; “an’ hurry up wid thim chistesses—one’d think ye wor goin’ to make the job last a month av Sundays, sore!”

They “hurried up” with a vengeance; so that, before the week was out, the tea was all stowed and the hatches battened down, with the ship quite ready to sail as soon as Captain Gillespie got all his permits and papers from the shore—of which latter, by the way, I may confess, Tom Jerrold and I got tired at last.

I had received no less than three letters from home, all in a batch, when we got to Shanghai, one also coming after we arrived, telling me about father and them all; and it seemed, as I read of their doings at the vicarage and what went on at Westham, as if it had been years since I left England, instead of only six months or so passing by; the change of life and all that had happened making me feel ever so much older.

However, reading these dear home letters made me long all the more to get back and see them again; and, in anticipation of this, you may be certain I did not forget to make a good collection of nice things for mother and my sister Nellie, as well as some “curios” for father, such as he had promised in my name when the letter came which made my mother grieve so, telling that all the arrangements had been completed for my going to sea,—do you recollect?

Yes; and besides the curios I myself bought ashore, I had one given me, at the very last moment before we left the Yang-tse-kiang, by Ching Wang, who, much to the surprise of all, said he wasn’t going back in the Silver Queen—not, at all events, this voyage, he made the captain understand, being desirous of remaining at Shanghai until the next year.

“Me likee lilly gal, she likee me,” he explained with his bland vacuous smile and his little beady eyes twinkling. “Me wifoo get chop chop. Two men not stop one placee—no go ship and ’top shore too.”

“You rascal!” shouted “Old Jock” in a rage, “you served me just the same trick the voyage before last. You’d better come with us now, for I’m hanged if I give you the chance again.”

“No, cap’en,” grinned the imperturbable Chinaman, “no can do.”

So, amidst the chaff of the men, who asserted that Ching Wang must have about fifty wives by this time at various ports, considering the number of times he had contracted matrimonial engagements, he went over the side into a sampan he had waiting for him, smiling blandly to the last, and giving me as a parting present the little brass figure of Buddha which he worshipped as his deity. This was a sure token of the strong affection he entertained for me, his “lilly pijjin,” as he always called me from the time that Tim Rooney had commended me to his good graces.

“He’ll come back with us next trip,” said Mr Mackay, as he with all of us gave Ching Wang a parting “chin chin” on the celestial cook being presently rowed ashore in great state, sitting in the stern-sheets of his sampan and beaming on us with his bland smile as long as his round face could be distinguished, dwindling away in the distance till it finally disappeared. “I’m sorry to lose him, though, sir, for he was a capital cook, besides being a plucky fellow. Recollect how he helped to save all our lives the other day, as well as the ship and cargo.”

“Humph!” grunted “Old Jock,” who appeared to have forgotten this. “He’s served us a shabby trick now, by going off like that at the last moment, and I’ve half a mind not to have any truck with him again.”

“Ha, ha, cap’en,” laughed Mr Mackay, “you said so last time, don’t you remember? Yet, you brought him aboard again with the other hands before we started from Gravesend this trip. You’re too good-natured to bear in mind all the hard things you say sometimes.”

“Perhaps I am, Mackay, perhaps I am,” sniggered and snorted “Old Jock,” thinking this a high compliment. “Though, when I say a thing, I mean a thing, you know.”

Ching Wang, when he got ashore, did not forget his old friends and leave us altogether in the lurch; for he sent off a black cook, a native of Jamaica, one Tippoo by name, to take his place; and as a messenger from the brokers on shore came off at the same time with the ship’s papers, nothing now delayed our departure from Shanghai.

Then was heard Tim Rooney’s piercing whistle once more on board, and the welcome—thrice welcome cry:

“All ha–a–nds make sail!”

The topsails were soon loosed by one watch, while the other hove up the anchor in fine style to the chorus of “Down in the lowlands, oh!”

“Up and down!” cried Matthews on the forecastle, taking poor Saunders’ place here, for he was now doing duty as second mate, although he had not yet passed the Trinity House examination for the post. “Anchor’s up and down, sir!”

“Then heave and paul!” answered Mr Mackay from the poop, calling out at the same time to the men standing by the halliards: “Sheet home and hoist away!”

In another minute, the topsails were dropped and the yards hoisted, the jib run up and the spanker set; when, as our anchor cleared the ground, soon peeping over our bows and being catted and fished in the old fashion, the Silver Queen’s canvas filled and she bade adieu to China with a graceful curtsy, making her way down the Yang-tse-kiang at a rate that showed she was as glad as those on board her to lose sight of its yellow waters at last!

It was the 14th September when we sailed; and, although it was rather early in the year for it, the nor’-east monsoon had already begun to blow, fine and dry and cold, bowling us down through the Formosa Channel and into the China Sea beyond, “as if ould Nick war arter us,” as Tim Rooney said.

In our progress past the same latitudes in which we had previously encountered such perils, we now met with nothing of interest; steering south by the Strait of Gaspar—to the other side of the island of Banca, instead of by our former route when coming up—we navigated Sunda the same day, getting out into the Indian Ocean at the beginning of October.

Shaping a course from here to pass about a hundred miles to the southward of Madagascar, our nor’-east wind changing to a nor’-westward in 15 degrees south latitude, which was all the more favourable for us, we were able to fetch the Cape of Good Hope in forty-three days from our start. Our passage round the stormy headland was now comparatively easy, being aided by the strong current that comes down the African coast through the Mozambique, and so did not cost us any bother at all, as we had fine weather all the time until we turned into the Atlantic.

From the Cape to the Channel we made a splendid passage, sighting the Lizard on the 20th December and getting into dock on the afternoon of the 22nd of the month. Strange to say, too, we were towed up from the Downs by our old friend the Arrow, just as we were towed down the river at starting on our eventful voyage.

Captain Gillespie gave me leave to go home the next day, telling me he would write when the ship would be ready again for another trip early in the following year; and so, bidding my mess-mates a cordial farewell, I was soon in a train on my way to Westham once more, with “Dick” the starling in a bran new wicker cage I had bought for him at Shanghai, as well as my sea-chest packed full of presents for the home-folk and everybody.

It was late in the afternoon of Christmas-eve when I reached the old well-known little station, which seemed to look ever so much smaller than when I left; and the very first person I saw whom I knew—none of my people coming to meet me, as they did not know when I would arrive, not expecting me indeed until the next morning—was Lawyer Sharpe, as ferrety-looking as ever!

He gave me a hearty greeting, however, saying he was glad to see me back again, and to have “ocular demonstration,” as he expressed it, that I had not been lost at sea as was reported; so, I recalled what father had said when I had turned up my nose at the legal profession, and thought Mr Sharpe no doubt was misjudged by a good many, and might not be altogether such a tricky customer as the Westham folks made out.

Leaving my traps at the station to be sent on by a porter, only taking Dick’s cage with me, I was soon trotting along through the village, passing old Doctor Jollop on my way. He, too, was the very same as ever, without the slightest alteration, muddy boots and all; for, although there was a little sprinkling of snow on the ground, as befitted the season, it had thawed in the streets of Westham, and as a matter of course the doctor, who always appeared to choose the very muddiest of places to tramp in, had managed to collect as much of the mire as he could on his boots and legs.

But, mud or no mud, he was a jolly kind old fellow, and more really pleased again to see me than—even with the most charitable feelings I must say it—Lawyer Sharpe pretended to be.

“Just back in time, Allan, for the plum-pudding,” he called out on seeing me. “Eh, my boy, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, laughing as I shook hands with him. “Just in time for it.”

“And the pills, too,” he added, chuckling as he went into a cottage close by. “And the pills, too; you mustn’t forget them.”

Nasty old fellow, as if I wished to be reminded of anything so disagreeable at such a moment!

The next instant, however, I was at the vicarage gate, when Nellie, who was on the watch, although as I’ve said I was not expected till next day, flew out of the porch and had her arms round my neck, with my mother after her and father and my brother Tom, too—the latter bringing up the rear, his dignity not allowing him to hurry himself too much; and what with meeting and greeting these all thoughts of Doctor Jollop and his pills and everything else were banished from my mind—everything, save the delicious feeling of being at home again.

“And what have you here, Allan?” inquired sister Nellie when all the kissing and hugging was over, and I’d asked and answered at least a thousand questions. “A bird?”

“Yes, a starling,” said I, introducing Dick and telling them his history as we all went back into the house, keeping this a surprise and not mentioning about the little beggar in my letter from Shanghai. “I’ve brought him home for you, Nellie.”

“Oh, thank you, Allan,” she cried, hugging me again. “What a dear little fellow!”

“Ah, wait till you hear him talk,” said I, speaking to Dick and giving him my old whistle, “Dick, Dick!”

“Hullo!” cracked the starling, so comically, in Tim Rooney’s voice that they all burst out laughing, “here’s a jolly row!”

Dick then whistled a couple of bars, which was all he could accomplish, of “Tom Bowling,” after which he ejaculated his favourite expression, “Bad cess to ye!” in such a faithful imitation of my friend the boatswain’s manner that father smiled with the rest; although he said drily, “Your bird, Nellie, I hope will learn better language when he has been amongst us a bit longer!”

My chest arriving presently from the station, I had the happiness of showing them all that I had forgotten none when away; for I had got a Mandarin hat for Tom, and two old china jars I had brought for mother delighting her heart, while Ching Wang’s idol which I gave father especially pleased him. He became, too, I may add, all the more deeply interested in this little idol when I told him all the circumstances connected with it, and the impression the Chinaman’s devotion to his god had made on me.

I have little further to say, having now given a full, true, and faithful account of my first voyage; although I might point out to you that I was no longer a “green” apprentice, but now able to “reef, hand, and steer,” as “Old Jock,” or rather Captain Gillespie to speak more respectfully of him, said when I was leaving the ship, expressing the hope of having me with him on his next trip out, as I “had the makings of a sailor” in me, and was “beginning to be worth my salt.”

I had told father, though, so much about Tim Rooney, recounting all his kindness to me on board the Silver Queen from almost the first moment I saw him—almost, but not quite, the commencement of our first interview having been rather alarming to me—that nothing would suit him but my friend Tim’s coming down to Westham for a short visit, if only for a day.

Of course, I wrote to him, inclosing a letter father sent inviting him, and Tim came next day prompt as usual in his sailor fashion, winning all the hearts at the vicarage before he had been an hour in the place.

Father naturally thanked him for all that he had done for me, which made the bashful boatswain blush, while he deprecated all mention of his care of me.

“Bedad, sorr,” said he to father in his raciest brogue, and with that suspicion of mirth which seemed always to hover about his left eye, “it wor quite a plisure, sure, to sarve him; for he’s the foorst lad I iver came across as took so koindly to the thrade. ’Dade an’ sure, sorr, I belaive he don’t think none the worse av it now, by the same token; an’ would give the same anser, sorr, to what I’ve axed him more nor once since he foorst came aboord us. Faix, I’ll ax him now, your riverince. Ain’t ye sorry, Misther Gray-ham, as how ye iver wint to say, now?”

“No, not a bit of it,” replied I sturdily, in the same way as I had always done to his stereotyped inquiry. “And I’ll go again cheerfully as soon as the Silver Queen is ready again for her next voyage.”

“There ye are, sorr!” cried Tim admiringly. “He’s a raal broth av a boy entoirely. Sure, he’ll be a man afore his mother yit, sorr!”

The End.