Chapter Ten.
Afloat—and ashore.
“Sure, I’m almost dead entirely, with all that hurrying and scurrying!” exclaimed Mrs Gilmour, when she was at length got safely on board the little steamer and comfortably placed on a cosy seat aft, near the wheel, to which Captain Dresser had gallantly escorted her. “Really, now, I couldn’t have run another yard, if it had been to save me life!”
She panted out the words with such a racy admixture of her Irish “brogue,” which always became more “pronounced” with her when she was at all excited in any way, that the Captain, even while showing every sympathy for her distressed condition, could not help chuckling as he imitated her tone of voice and accent—much to the amusement of Master Bob and Miss Nellie, you may be sure!
“Sure, an’ there’s no knowin’ what ye can do, now, till ye thry, ma’am!” said he. “Is there, me darlint?”
“None of your nonsense,” she replied laughing; “I won’t have you making fun of my country like that. I’m sure you’re just as much an Irishman as I am!”
This slip delighted the Captain.
“There, ma’am,” he exclaimed exultingly, “you’ve been and gone and put your foot in it now in all conscience.”
“Oh, auntie!” cried Nellie, “an Irishman!”
This made Mrs Gilmour see her blunder, and she cheerfully joined in the laugh against herself.
Bob, meanwhile, had stationed himself by the engine-room hatchway, and was contemplating with rapt attention the almost human-like movements of the machinery below.
How wonderful it all was, he thought—the up and down stroke of the piston in and out of the cylinder, which oscillated from side to side guided by the eccentric; with the steady systematic revolution of the shaft, borne round by the crank attached to the piston-head, all working so smoothly, and yet with such resistless force!
The whole was a marvel to him, as indeed it is to many of us to whom a marine engine is no novelty.
“Well, my young philosopher,” said the Captain, tapping him on the shoulder and making him take off his gaze for a moment from the sight, “do you think you understand the engines by this time, eh?”
Bob only needed the hint to speak; and out he came with a whole volley of questions.
“What is that thing there?” he asked, “the thing that goes round, I mean.”
“The paddle-shaft,” replied the Captain; “it turns the wheels.”
“And that other thing that goes up and down?”
“The piston-rod,” said the old sailor. “It is this which turns the shaft.”
“Then, I want to know how the piston makes the shaft turn round, when it only goes up and down itself?”
“The ‘eccentric’ manages to do that, although it was a puzzle for a long time to engineers to solve the problem—not until, I believe, Fulton thought of this plan,” said the Captain; and, he then went on to explain how, in the old beam-engine of Watt, as well as in the earlier contrivances for utilising steam-power, a fly-wheel was the means adopted for changing the perpendicular action of the piston into a circular motion. “Of course, though,” he added, “this fly-wheel was only available in stationary engines for pumping and so on; but, when the principle of the eccentric was discovered later in the day, the previously uneducated young giant, ‘Steam,’ was then broken to harness, so to speak, being thenceforth made serviceable for dragging railway-carriages on our iron roads, and propelling ships without the aid of sails, and against the wind even, if need be!”
“But what is steam?” was Bob’s next query. “That’s what I want to know.”
This fairly bothered the Captain.
“Steam?” he repeated, “steam, eh? humph! steam is, well let me see, steam is—steam!”
Bob exploded at this, his merriment being shared by Nellie and Mrs Gilmour, the latter not sorry for the old sailor’s “putting his foot in it” by a very similar blunder to that for which he had laughed at her shortly before; while, as for Dick, the struggles he made to hide the broad grin which would show on his face were quite comical and even painful to witness.
The Captain pretended to get into a great rage; although his twinkling eyes and suppressed chuckle testified that it was only pretence all the time, though his passion was well simulated.
“I don’t see anything to laugh at, you young rascal,” he said to Bob. “I’m sure I’ve given you quite as good a definition as you would find in any of those ‘catechisms of common things’—catechisms of conundrums, I call them—which boys and girls are made to learn by rote, like parrots, without really acquiring any sensible knowledge of the subjects they are supposed to teach! I might tell you, as these works do, that ‘steam was an elastic fluid generated by water when in a boiling state’; but, would you be any the wiser for that piece of information, eh?”
“No, Captain,” answered Bob, still giggling, “I don’t understand.”
“Or, I might tell you ‘steam: is only a synonym for heat, the cause of all motion’—do you understand that?”
Bob still shook his head, trying vainly to keep from laughing.
“Of course not,” cried the Captain triumphantly, “nor would I, either, unless I knew something more about it; and to tell you that would take me all the day nearly.”
“Oh spare us,” said Mrs Gilmour plaintively. “Pray spare us that!”
“I will, ma’am,” he replied. “I assure you I wasn’t going to do it. Some time or other, though, this young shaver shall come along with me when one of the new ships goes out from the dockyard for her steam trials; and then, perhaps, he will be able to have everything explained to him properly, without boring you or bothering me.”
“How jolly!” ejaculated Bob. “I should like that.”
“You mustn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” growled the other, turning round on him abruptly; “and, if ever I catch you sniggering again when I’m talking I’ll—I’ll—”
What the Captain’s terrible threat was must ever remain a mystery; for, just at that moment, Nell, who had been looking over the side of the steamer, watching the creamy foam churned-up by her paddles and rolling with heavy undulations into the long white wake astern marking her progress through the water, suddenly uttered an exclamation.
“Look, look, aunt Polly!” she cried excitedly. “Oh, look!”
“What, dearie?” inquired Mrs Gilmour, bending towards her, thinking she had dropped her glove or something into the sea. “What is it?”
“There, there!” said Nellie, pointing out some dark objects that could be seen tumbling about in the tideway some distance off the starboard quarter. “See those big fishes, auntie! Are they whales?”
It was the Captain’s turn to laugh now.
“Whales, eh? By Jove, you’ll be the death of me, missy, by Jove, you will, ho-ho-ho!” he chuckled, leaning on his stick for support. “What does Shakespeare say, eh? ‘very like a whale,’ eh? Ho-ho-ho!”
Miss Nell did not like this at all, though she did not object to laughing at others.
“Well, what are they?” she asked indignantly. “What are they?”
“Pigs;” replied the Captain with a grave face, but there was a sly twinkle of his left eye approaching to a wink. “Those are pigs, missy.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried the young lady in a pet, putting up her shoulders in high disdain. “You’re only making fun of me!”
“Hush, dearie, you mustn’t be rude,” said Mrs Gilmour reprovingly; “but sure, Captain, you shouldn’t make game of the child.”
“I assure you, I’m not doing so, ma’am,” he protested, chuckling though still with much enjoyment. “I’ve only told her the simple truth. They are pigs, sea-pigs if you like, commonly called porpoises. But, whales, by Jove, that’s a good joke, ho-ho-ho!”
This time Nellie laughed too, the old sailor seemed to enjoy her mistake with such gusto; and, harmony being thus restored, they all turned to watch the graceful motions of the animals that had caused the discussion, which, swimming abreast of the vessel, were ever and anon darting across her bows and playing round her, describing the most beautiful curves as they dived under each other, apparently indulging in a game of leap-frog.
The Bembridge Belle was now just about midway between Southsea and Seaview, and close upon the buoy marking the spot where the old Marie Rose, the first big ship of our embryo navy, sank in the reign of bluff King Hal, in an action she had with a French squadron that attempted entering the Solent with the idea of capturing the Isle of Wight. The ‘mounseers,’ as the Captain explained to Bob, were beaten off in the battle and most of their vessels captured, a result owing largely to the part played by the gallant Marie Rose; though, sad be it to relate, while resisting all the efforts made by the enemy to carry her by the board, being somewhat top-heavy, “she ‘turned the turtle’ at the very moment when her guns were brought to bear a-starboard, to give a final broadside to the French admiral and settle the action, the poor thing then incontinently sinking to the bottom, where her bones yet lie.”
“Not far-off either,” continued the Captain, “the Royal George also foundered in the last century, with over nine hundred hands, there being a lot of shore folk in the ship beside her crew. Her Admiral, Kempenfeldt, was also on board, and—”
“Yes,” said Mrs Gilmour, interrupting him; “and, sure, there’s a pretty little poem my favourite Cowper wrote about it which I recollect I learnt by heart when I was a little girl, much smaller than you, Nell. The lines began thus— ‘Toll for the brave, the brave that are no more,’—don’t you remember them; I’m sure you must, Captain?”
“Can’t say I do, ma’am,” he replied—“poetry isn’t in my line. But, as I was saying, the Royal George heeled over pretty nearly in the same way as the other one did that I just now told you about; and, I remember when I was studying at the Naval College in the Dockyard ever so many years ago, when I was a youngster not much older than you, Master Bob, being out at Spithead when the wreck of the vessel was blown up, to clear the fairway for navigation. I’ve got a ruler and a paper-knife now at home that were carved out of pieces of her timber which I picked up at the time.”
“How nice!” observed Mrs Gilmour. “A charming recollection, I call it!”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” replied the Captain, who seemed a little bit grumpy, and was fumbling in his pockets without apparently being able to find the object of which he was in search—“my recollection is not so good as I would like it!”
On Mrs Gilmour looking at him inquiringly, noticing the tone in which he spoke, the truth came out.
“The fact is, ma’am, I’ve lost my snuff-box,” he said apologetically to excuse his snappy answers. “I must have left it in my other coat at home.”
He did not give up the quest, however, but continued to dive his hands on the right and left alternately into pocket after pocket; until, suddenly, the cross expression vanished from his face, being succeeded by a beaming smile, followed by his customary good-humoured chuckle.
“I’ve found it!” he exclaimed triumphantly, producing the missing box from the usual pocket in which he kept it, where it had lain all the time; and, taking a pinch, the Captain was himself again. “By Jove, I thought my memory was gone!”
The porpoises all this while continued their gambols about the steamer, now ahead, now astern, now swimming abreast, one after the other, rolling, diving, and jumping out of the water sometimes in their sport.
They seemed to be having a regular holiday of it; and, tired of leap-frog, had taken to “follow my leader” or some other game. At any rate, they did not think much of the Bembridge Belle, passing and repassing and going round her at intervals, as if to show their contempt of a speed they could so readily eclipse.
“Do you often see them here playing like this?” asked Nellie of the Captain, who was also looking over the side. “Is that the way they always swim?”
“No, missy,” said he, with all his old geniality, “not often, though they pay us a visit now and then in summer when so inclined. Their coming now through Spithead is a sign that there’s going to be a change of wind.”
“Oh!” cried Nell wonderingly. “How strange!”
“Yes, my dear,” went on the old sailor, smiling as he looked down in her puzzled face upturned to his, “I’m not joking, missy, as you think. Those fellows are regular barometers in their way; and, if you note the direction towards which they are seen swimming when they pass a ship at sea, from that very point wind, frequently a gale, may be shortly expected.”
“I hope we’re not going to have another storm,” said Nellie, thinking of their late experience. “I don’t like those gales.”
“No, no, not so bad as that now, I think,” he replied, chuckling away. “There probably will be only a slight shift of wind from the western quarter, whence it is now blowing, to the eastward, whither the porpoises are now making off for, as you can see for yourself.”
So it subsequently turned out.
The “sea-pigs,” as the Captain had at first jocularly termed them, bade good-bye to the steamer and its passengers when they had got a little way beyond No Man’s fort, and were approaching shoal water, with an impudent flick of their flukey tails in the air as they went off, shaping a straight course out towards the Nab light-ship, as if bound up Channel.
They had all been so occupied watching the porpoises that they had not noticed the rapid progress the steamer had been making towards her first port of call on the other side of the Solent; and so, almost at the same moment that the Captain called Nellie’s attention to the last movements of the queer fish as they vanished in the distance, she shut off her steam and sidled up to Seaview pier.
“Who’s for the shore?” cried out the skipper from his post on the paddle-box, as soon as the vessel had made fast, and the “brow,” or gangway, was shoved ashore for the passengers to land, without any unnecessary delay. “Any ladies or gents for Seaview?”
The majority of those on board at once quitted the steamer, amongst them being our quintet.
As they were stepping on to the pier, however, a slight difficulty arose in connection with one of their number.
It was about Rover.
“Is that your dog?” asked the collector of tickets of the
Captain, as the retriever darted ahead in a great hurry. “That your dog, sir?”
“No,” replied the old sailor, “not exactly—why?”
“Because, if he is, he’ll have to have a ticket the same as the rest,” said the man. “Dogs is half-price, like children.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” cried the Captain apologetically, as he put his hand in his pocket and paid Rover’s fare, adding in a low voice to Mrs Gilmour, while they were ascending the steps from the landing-stage to the pier above, “I do believe that rascal thought I meant to cheat him and smuggle the dog through without paying, the fellow looked at me so suspiciously.”
“Perhaps he did,” replied she laughing. “You know you are a very suspicious-looking gentleman.”
“Humph!” he chuckled. “I think Rover intended to do him, though. He squeezed himself past my legs very artfully!”
“He did, the naughty dog,” said Nellie, who, with Bob, had been much amused by the little incident. “He’s always doing it in London at the railway-stations whenever we go by the underground line; and papa says he wants to cheat the company. He comes after us sometimes, and jumps into the railway-carriage where we are, when we think him miles away and safe at home! Did you ever hear of such a thing, aunt Polly?”
“No, dearie,” she answered as they all stepped out briskly along the rather shaky suspension bridge connecting the pier with the shore, which oscillated under their feet in a way that made Mrs Gilmour anxious to get off it as quickly as she could to firm ground. “Rover is a clever fellow, sure!”
“He’s a very artful dog!” observed the Captain, whereat Rover wagged his tail, as if he understood what he said and appreciated the compliment—“a very artful dog!”
Arrived on shore, presently, the children were in ecstasies at all they saw; for, by only crossing the roadway opposite the land end of the shaky bridge, they at once found themselves within the outlying shrubbery and brushwood of Priory Park, which the kindly proprietor freely threw open for years to the public, without post or paling interfering with their enjoyment, until the vandalism and vulgarity of some cockney excursionists, who wrought untold destruction to the property, led to the rescinding of this privilege!
Although touching the sea, the waters of which lapped its turf at high tide, when once within the park, it seemed to Bob and Nellie as if they were miles away already in the heart of the country; so that, accustomed as they had been only to town life, it may be imagined how great the change was to them in every way.
As for runaway Dick from Guildford, who had been familiarised to rustic scenes from his earliest infancy, he could see no beauty in the various objects that each instant delighted the little Londoners’ eyes and ears; for, like the hero of Wordsworth’s verse, “the primrose by the river’s brim” was but a primrose and nothing more to him!
To Bob and Nellie, however, the scene around, with its salient features, disclosed a new world.
There were great, nodding, ox-eyed daisies that popped up pertly on either side, staring at them from amidst wastes of wild hyacinths and forget-me-nots that were bluer than Nellie’s witching eyes.
Pink and white convolvulus hung in festoons across the bracken-bordered little winding pathways that led here and there through mazes of shrubbery and undergrowth, under the arched wilderness of greenery above.
Rippling rivulets trickling down from nowhere and wandering whither their erratic wills directed, their soft, murmuring voices chiming in with the gayer carols of the birds.
Amongst these could be distinguished the harmonious notes of some not altogether unknown to them, the trill of the lark on high, the whistle of the blackbird in the hidden covert, the “pretty Dick” of the thrush, and the “chink, chink!” of the robin and coo of the dove, mingled with the sweet but subdued song of the yellow-hammer and sharp staccato accompaniment of the untiring chaffinch; while, all the time, a colony of asthmatic old rooks in the taller trees of the park cawed their part in the concert in a deep bass key at regular intervals, “Caw, caw, caw!”
Bob and Nellie were so delighted and unsparing of their admiration of everything they saw and heard, that Dick fell to wondering at the pleasure they took in things which he held of little account.
If unappreciative, however, Dick was of some service in telling Nellie the names of the principal wild-flowers; while he rose high in Bob’s estimation by his lore in the matter of birds’ nests, of which the ex-runaway from the country, naturally, could speak as an expert.
Touching the feathered tribe generally, he was able to tell them off at a glance, with the habits and characteristics of each, as readily as Bob could repeat the Multiplication Table—more so, indeed, if the strict truth be insisted on, without stretching a point!
“That be a throosh,” he would say; and, “t’other, over there’s, a chaffy. He ain’t up to much now; but wait till he be moulted and he’ll coom out foine! I’ve heard tell folks in furrin’ parts vallies ’em greatly, though we in Guildford think nowt of they. I’d rayther a lark mysen, Master Bob.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Nellie, who had previously been shocked by Dick’s lack of sentiment, much pleased now at this expression of a better taste—“you do like their singing then!”
“Lawks no, miss,” replied the unprincipled boy. “Larks is foine roasted!”
Nellie was horrified.
“You don’t mean to say, Dick,” she cried, “that—that you actually eat them?”
“Aye, miss,” he replied, without an atom of shame, “we doos. They be rare tasty birds!”
She gave him up after this, going along by herself in silence.
“This is jolly!” exclaimed Bob presently, when, after getting a little way within the park and ascending the rise leading up from the shore to an open plateau above, he saw a sort of fairy dell below, at the foot of a grassy slope, the green surface of which was speckled over with daisies and buttercups. “Come along, Nell!”
Down the tempting incline he at once raced, with Nellie and Rover at his heels; and, diving beneath a jungle of blackberry-bushes at the bottom, matted together with ropes of ivy that had fallen from a withered oak, whose dry and sapless gnarled old trunk still stood proudly erect in the midst of the mass of luxuriant vegetation with which it was surrounded, Nellie heard him after a bit call out from the leafy enclosure in which he had quickly found himself—“Oh, I say, I see such a pretty fern!”
There was silence then for a moment or so, as if Bob was trying to secure the object that had taken his fancy, the quietude being broken by his giving vent to a prolonged “O-o-oh!”
“What’s the matter?” cried Nellie, who had stopped without the briary tangle into which her brother had plunged, noticing that his accents of delight suddenly changed to those of pain. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve scratched my face,” he said ruefully, emerging from the blackberry-brake with streaks of blood across his forehead and his nose looking as if it had been in the wars. “Some beastly thorns did it.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Nellie, in sympathy and surprise; “I’m so sorry!”
“It is ‘oh,’ and it hurts too!” retorted he, dabbing his face tenderly with his pocket-handkerchief. “However, I shall get that fern I was after, though, in spite of all the prickles and thorns in the world!”
So saying, in he dashed again, stooping under the thorny network, and came out ere long with a beautiful specimen of the shuttlecock fern, which elicited as expressive an “Oh” from Nellie as the sight of his scratched face had just previously done—an “Oh” of admiration and delight. But, as with Bob, her joyful exclamation was quickly followed by an expression of woe.
As she stepped forward to inspect the fern more closely, she put her foot on a rotten branch of the oak-tree, which had become broken off from its parent stem and lay stretched across the dell, forming a sort of frail bridge over the prickly chasm below up to the higher ground on which she stood.
Alas! the decayed wood gave way under her weight, slight as that was, and Nellie, uttering a wild shriek of terror, disappeared from Bob’s astonished gaze.