STORIES FROM AFRICA.
IV.—A GREAT SEA CAPTAIN.
NCE more our tale begins in the city of Lisbon, but now it is on a summer day in the year 1497, when the banks of the Tagus were thronged with those who had come to give God-speed to the gallant captain Vasco da Gama, sailing to-morrow for 'the Indies.'
This was the age of great sailors and discoverers. Ten years before, Bartolomeo Diaz had rounded the southern point of Africa. 'The Stormy Cape' he called it; the 'Cape of Good Hope,' as his rejoicing countrymen would have it, when he came home with the news. A few years later, Columbus, sailing westward, set up the flag of Spain upon the shores of a new world. And now Manoel, the young King of Portugal, was all on fire to finish what Diaz had begun, and to earn for his country the glory of finding the way round the Cape to India, the mysterious land of which such wonderful tales were told. He could have found no fitter man for the work than the captain who knelt to-day in the little church above the river to pray for success in his perilous undertaking. Absolutely fearless, quick-witted, and prompt in action, delighting in danger and adventure, and indomitable in perseverance, Vasco da Gama was a brave leader of men, and he had himself chosen two companions after his own heart, who were to command the other two ships—his brother, Paolo da Gama, and his friend, Nicolo Coello. On his knees the captain received from King Manoel the cross-marked flag on which he swore fidelity to his sovereign, and then, followed by the cheers and good wishes of all Lisbon, the good ships set sail.
Near the Canary Isles they met with such heavy weather that, for a week, Vasco's ship, the San Raphael, was parted from the other two, and his friends had nearly given him up for lost. The ship reappeared, however, battered but safe, and the expedition waited for awhile to repair in the Bay of St. Helena.
It was November when they sailed southward again, and now the Cape of Storms began to prove worthy of its name. Such terrible tempests fell upon the three ships, as they struggled along, with much ado to keep within sight of each other, that the hearts of the crew failed them altogether. The question began to be asked among them whether the report of Diaz had after all been well founded, whether the sea passage really existed, or whether the land which bounded the eastern horizon did not go on for ever and ever until the very world's end. But when the crew of the San Raphael begged their captain to abandon the hopeless attempt, his reply was that of the captain in the song—
'"Now I've come so far,
I'm not going back," says he.'
By word and example he encouraged the whole crew, now laughing at their fears, now turning their thoughts to the triumphant return with glory for their country, himself sharing the hardest work, and, doubtless, making it quite clear that any man who failed him at the pinch would find scant mercy at his hands. And, at last, the wind dropped. The land was no longer on the eastward, the Cape of Storms had been doubled, and from the decks of the three vessels went up the sounds of praise and thanksgiving that the 'passage perilous' was accomplished.
But the crew of the San Raphael needed yet another lesson to make them into such a band as their captain needed for his great adventure. According to the strange custom of that age, Vasco had on board several convicts, who had been released from prison, where they lay under sentence of death, that he might employ them upon any service of danger for which he was unwilling to risk his better men. A band of criminals who had broken their country's laws and were not likely to be troubled with scruples, must have been a rather dangerous element among a somewhat disaffected crew; and, as the ship sailed northward and again met with rough weather, the convicts on board the San Raphael, seeing their opportunity, began to plot treason against the captain. One after another of the crew was won over to a plan which promised a speedy end to the weary, dangerous voyage, and the ringleaders found means to communicate with their friends on board the other two ships, so that all was arranged for a general mutiny.
But there was one member of the expedition, perhaps the smallest and least important person on board, to whom it was given to save the whole undertaking from destruction. One of the conspirators on board the ship San Miguel, had a little brother, who had been kindly treated by the captain, Nicolo Coello, and loved him with a boy's hero-worship of a brave man who had been good to him. Perhaps the conspirators thought the lad too insignificant to be dangerous; at any rate, he knew the details of the plot and told the captain of what was planned.
Coello's one thought was how to save his friend and leader. It was too rough for him to board the San Raphael; the warning must be shouted above the noise of winds and waves, and yet it must be for Da Gama's ear alone. His only hope was in his friend's quickness of wit, and in the perfect understanding between them. So, from the deck of his own vessel, he shouted to the San Raphael that his men were all for abandoning the expedition, and that he was constrained to agree with them and to pray the captain to give the word for returning. How the brave Coello must have hated to give, even in stratagem, such craven counsel, and how carefully he must have chosen words that might carry the double meaning to his friend.
Coello need not have feared: Da Gama knew his brave colleague too well to imagine that he was really thinking of retreat. Possibly he already suspected something amiss; at any rate, he knew which of his men he could trust, and, with their aid, he discovered the names of the ringleaders. Then, calling the crew together on deck, he announced to them that, acting upon the advice of his friend, the captain of the San Miguel, he had decided to give up the expedition and return to Portugal.
'But,' he continued, 'that I may not appear as a traitor before the King, I will myself draw up an account of what we have undergone, and those of most repute among you shall sign it, that all may see that you hold with me in my judgment.'
The mariners agreed readily, and Da Gama, having prepared his statement, sent for the chief men among the crew to his cabin to sign it, managing to include among them the most dangerous of the conspirators. All unsuspecting, down they went, leaving their companions to wonder what had made the captain change his mind. Then came a summons from below, more signatures were wanted, and down to the cabin went another band of picked men.
As they crossed the threshold, one at a time, they found themselves pinioned, and, staring round them in dismay, saw their fellow-mutineers in irons, guarded by the loyal members of the crew. At Da Gama's order all were marshalled on deck, and stood, sullen and powerless, before the captain.
'Where are your instruments?' he asked sternly of the pilot, who was among the prisoners.
Then, as the man pointed to them with his chained hands, he flung them into the sea.
'You will use them no more,' he said; 'henceforth I will myself be pilot to my own ship. If God sees us worthy He will guide us to our destination, but be sure that I will never return alive to Portugal with my purpose unfulfilled.'
That day's work made Vasco da Gama master once for all of the men who sailed with him. He spared the lives of the conspirators after a captivity long enough to teach them an enduring lesson, so winning their allegiance by mercy as well as severity.
And we may like to remember that a famous colony of our own was first sighted by Europeans on the Christmas Day of that year, 1497, and was given its Christmas name, Natal (the 'birthday' place) by the great Portuguese captain who, in those southern waters,
'Did win a gallant name,
And ruled the stormy sea.'
Mary H. Debenham.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
IV.—A GOOD CONSTABLE.
A hundred years ago the streets of London were very insufficiently guarded. Of police, as we now understand the word, there were none, but at night the public buildings and principal thoroughfares were handed over to the care of aged and decrepit men, called 'Charlies,' who, being too old to work by day, were supposed to be able to take charge of the streets by night!
These 'Charlies' were furnished with staves and lanterns, which were often violently wrenched from them, for it was then a fashionable amusement of wild young men of the upper classes to 'go on the ran-dan,' as it was called—that is, to run up and down the ill-lighted streets, knocking down first one old Charlie and then another, and carrying off the staff and lantern as trophies. A young fellow who managed to upset a wooden watch-house, with a poor old man inside, was very proud of himself indeed, though, maybe, the old 'Charlie' was meanwhile being almost suffocated to death with the watch-house on the top of him.
Besides 'guarding' the streets, these old watchmen had to announce each hour as it struck, and to give the news of the weather; thus: 'Past one o'clock and a windy morning!' Once, when many Londoners were expecting an earthquake, which had been prophesied for that day, some jesters, returning from a noisy tavern-meeting, frightened the householders by calling out, as they passed along the streets, 'Past twelve o'clock, and a fine earthquake!'
It is needless to say that robbery and ill-doings of all kinds were of nightly occurrence, and no decent person was in the streets of the City after dusk except by necessity, for neither life nor property was safe from the ruffians who then roamed about.
So things went on until the time came when Mr. John Sewell, a bookseller, was appointed Constable for the Ward of Cornhill. He was a very energetic man, who had long been ashamed of the state of the City streets, and he determined, now that he was in office, to try and introduce some reforms. The first thing he decided upon was to serve as constable in person, instead of providing substitutes, which had been always done by former Head Constables.
His friends were shocked at the idea of a respectable bookseller acting as a common constable, but Mr. Sewell was not to be moved from his purpose, assuring them 'that the office of Constable was of too much importance to be executed by every one.'
He first of all put a stop altogether to the wooden watch-houses which were wheeled out every night, and placed against the Bank and other public buildings, and, instead, converted the back room of his shop into a guard-room. Here he and many of his friends would keep watch, when his turn for service came round, which was every fourth night, and they would go the rounds of his ward, seeing that every man was in his proper place. Mr. Sewell so arranged his men that every house in his ward was passed by one of them four times in the hour, and he would constantly pay surprise visits to be sure that all were attentive to their duties.
The public executions were his next care, for hangings were in that day, alas! of weekly occurrence. Instead of the ribald scenes and unseemly jokes which accompanied the progress of the unfortunate wretches to Tyburn, Mr. Sewell insisted that a solemn decency should now mark these processions. He had his watchmen dressed in long cloaks, with crape on their hats, which he provided at his own expense; and then, as they marched slowly, two and two, he himself led the procession from Newgate Prison to Holborn Bars, where his authority ended.
"Managed to upset a wooden watch-house."
It is also interesting, in these days of naval volunteers, to find that Mr. Sewell started a 'Proposal for a Marine Voluntary Association for Manning the Ancient and Natural Defences of Old England.'
Altogether, this old Cornhill bookseller was a wonderful man, and might have lived in this day instead of a hundred years ago.
"Scores of angry bees came buzzing round her."
OLIVE AND THE BEES.
'I mean to make a study of bees!' said Olive, in an important manner, as she looked up from a big book on natural history which she had been reading for the last ten minutes. 'Listen to this, Charlie,' she went on, addressing her elder brother, who was arranging his fishing tackle; 'it says here, "To such as have leisure, and are desirous of amusement, we know of no study which promises a greater degree of satisfaction." I have plenty of leisure these holidays, and I mean to be like Hüber, and study bees, and find out wonderful things about them. He was blind, you know, and as I am not blind, I ought to find out a lot more than he did!' Olive finished up, complacently.
Charlie, however, far from being impressed with this speech, only burst out laughing. 'You are conceited!' he exclaimed; 'to think that you, at twelve years of age, are going to beat Hüber, who spent a life-time in studying bees! However, there is no doubt you will learn something from them, and by the time you have been well stung you will be able to describe some of their habits,' and he laughed again.
'I shall not be stung,' said Olive calmly; 'bees are wonderfully intelligent little creatures'—here she was again quoting from the big book—'and they will understand that I have no wish to hurt them, but am only studying their ways.'
'And one of their ways is to sting inquisitive folk,' said Charlie. 'Let me advise you to have Mary's blue-bag handy—the thing she uses on washing-days, you know. Nothing like it for the sting of an angry bee!' and picking up his fishing-rod, Charlie walked away to the river.
It was the first summer that Olive had spent in the country, and all its sights and scenes were new to her. So now, rejoicing in the freedom of being able to roam about without her hat or jacket, she ran lightly out of the low French window of the sitting-room, and down the path towards a large clump of lemon-coloured foxgloves.
'The bees were in and out of these foxgloves yesterday,' she said, as she stooped over the bed. 'Ah, yes! here is one—buried quite deep in the flower. I must have that bee,' and taking out her handkerchief, she threw it over the flower, and caught the bee in its folds, carrying it in triumph towards the hives, which stood on a shelf under a sunny wall by the high garden gate.
'Now then, dear bee,' said Olive, loosing the bee with all the calmness of ignorance, 'here is your hive; let me see you go in with your load of honey.'
Bees, however, are not creatures to be trifled with, and this one did not mean to go to its hive with its honey-bags only half full. Instead, it turned fiercely on Olive and stung her sharply on the hand.
'Oh! oh! it hurts!' she screamed, and hurrying away, she accidentally upset the straw cover of a hive. Instantly, scores of angry bees came buzzing round her, and Olive ran as she had never run before. But she did not escape without several severe stings, and she was all but fainting with pain and terror when she at last reached the kitchen door and slammed it behind her.
Fortunately, Mary was there, and at once applied the blue-bag, which eased the pain of the stings greatly.
'I only wanted to study the bees,' sobbed Olive, 'and I never meant to offend them, and make them sting me.'
'You had better study obedience, Miss, and leave the bees alone,' said Mary curtly. 'I told you only yesterday to keep away from the hives. If you want to study bees, get the old bee-master to tell you how to set about it.'
Some weeks later, Olive had an opportunity of watching the bee-master when he removed the honey from the hives. He did not get stung, though the bees were all round him, and Olive could not help admiring the fearless way he went to work.
Charlie was right. Olive did learn something from the bees, and one of her lessons was humility. She did not again think she knew all about a subject after reading of the wonderful discoveries of men who had given a life-time to it.
PERHAPS.
EFORE the dustman comes to me
As in my bed I lie,
All sorts of curious things I see
Up in my nursery high.
I see the little curly flames
Jump upwards from the fire;
I think they must be playing games,
They never seem to tire.
And now and then one leaps so high
That all the ceiling glows:
Quite suddenly it seems to die—
I wonder where it goes.
Sometimes out in the street I hear
The tinkle of a bell,
It's first far off, and then quite near;
It's passing, I can tell;
And then I see a narrow line
Of light quite slowly crawl
Across the ceiling, till its shine
Stops as it meets the wall.
I wonder how it comes, and why,
And where it was before,
And where it's gone to now, when I
Can't see it any more.
Perhaps I'll meet them in my dream,
Those curly flames so odd,
And see the little narrow gleam
Light up the Land of Nod.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [103].)