The Shellback's Progress / In the Nineteenth Century

by Baron Walter Runciman Runciman

They did not commune together again, for the Omnipotent had willed that she should pass through the valley before the long beams of light had been drawn from the dawn. The little colony was cast into gloom, and neither the chilly, puritanic doctrine of the Lord of the Manor, nor the mechanical piety of his adjutant, the rector, could stay the anger that permeated even the dullest of the inhabitants, who believed that a crime had been committed in the name of righteousness. The indignation of the female portion of the Burnside family was well subdued, not because of any cantish false delicacy, but in order that their own lads might not be encouraged to say or do anything rash. They left the father to communicate the news of Mary Routledge's illness to them. He had prayed for her on the first night they were at home; this gave them the first intimation of the tragedy, but the ghastly character of it was learnt from outside, and they never either forgave or forgot the wicked perpetrators.

The hearts of the two sailors were sorely touched by the tale of suffering and treatment of the poor girl whom they were accustomed to regard in the light of a sister when they were boys at school, and though a few years of rough sea life had rubbed the finer edges off their early training, they still retained a strong affection for the girls who were their favourites, and as she was one of them, their affection and their grief for her was never concealed. The fulness of their pleasures had been marred by this great affliction, but as they would have made any sacrifice in order that their sympathy might be known to her, they steadfastly observed an attitude of conduct that well-nigh approached piety; and after she had been "put away" and their father told them of her last dying message, they resolved that if spared to reach a position, and her boy was alive, and those who had charge of him were agreeable that he should become a sailor, either one or the other would undertake his training. Meanwhile the child was left as a legacy to the grandfather, but incredible though it may appear, he was not allowed to bring it to the estate during the sanctified lifetime of Mr Humbert.

The young men had reached the limit of their period ashore; it was only fourteen days, but that was all that could be spared, as the vessels they were to sail in were nearly at the fitting-out stage. The night before they had to depart a tea-party was given by a distinguished old lady, who was known for her great kindness to needy people in the district, and to wayfarers who passed by her house. She owned a large adjoining estate, and managed it herself with consummate skill. She was very fond of the two lads, so that they were invited to the party, and, truth to say, it was really in their honour it was given. Nearly the whole of the young people round about were there, but the tragic death of their young friend prevented a full outburst of joyous revelry, though they arranged their mode of amusement to suit the occasion. The hostess was charming to everybody, but especially to the sailors. Her exhortations that they should be careful not to slip when they were climbing all over the rigging and yards, and to be sure not to get washed off the jib-boom, as she had heard of so many others being, and to keep ropes tied round them when the sea was coming aboard, so that they might not be washed overboard, were absurd and laughable, but tender. Of course the young men, in the true orthodox fashion of sailors, on being pressed by her and the young guests, male and female, told a few stories of their adventures that created both admiration and sensation; then by request they sang a few sea songs that were much appreciated. And when the regulation hour came for closing the proceedings the time had slipped away too quickly. A request was made to their hostess for an extension of time, and with a goodness that always characterized her it was granted for one hour longer, part of which was used by an appeal made by the sailor lads to be allowed to correspond with her two granddaughters, who were young ladies of prepossessing appearance. After some delicate negotiations and many assurances of honourable intentions, they were told that, provided their letters were confined to a history of their movements and their doings, and without any foolishness, they might write twice a voyage to the girls and to herself. "But," said she, "there must be no proposals of marriage until you have both reached the head of your profession." This condition was gratefully agreed to, and when the young men joined the party again there were many inquiries and many hints as to the nature of the conference with their hostess, but the secret was only divulged to the two who were directly interested, and then the jovial gathering formed themselves into a ring, sang "Auld lang syne," and added "Will they no come back again?" which was specially intended to apply to the sailors. These formalities having been completed, the young mariners proceeded to say their farewells, and kissed and cuddled with astonishing rapidity first one girl and then the others until all had shared the ebullition of their rugged endearment. The male portion of the assembly viewed this form of emphasizing good-bye with sheepish amazement. They would have been stupefied with shame if any one had seen them walking even with a girl, although the enterprising seafarers had done their best to assure them that it was the only true style of showing genuine goodwill.

Long before dawn the following morning the lads were tramping over a wild expanse of common towards a seaport, and they carried on their shoulders as fine a kit as ever went into a vessel's forecastle. All the things that had happened during their stay, especially the incidents of the last night, were talked of amongst the villagers for many a long day after the sailors had left the district and travelled to the southern hemisphere. Yes, and many an eloquent petition was sent up from the familiar cottage homes that knew them so well for their safe-keeping and speedy return. This phase of sailor life existed in the country places, and to some extent in the smaller seaport towns bordering on the country, in the middle of the last century. It is always pleasant to think of the innocent, robust enjoyment these better class seamen planned out for themselves, aided of course by their rural friends. They were sought after and loved by everybody. What balderdash has been spoken and written about poor Jack everlastingly misconducting himself! Assuredly the Christian virtues did not take complete hold of all of them, and no one will deny that a large percentage were wayward and took a lot of steering. But compare them with other classes of men, and I do not think they would take a second place.

Norman and Kenneth Burnside worked, saved, and studied very hard, and rapidly rose in their profession. They had no sooner got their extra master's certificates than they were offered and accepted the command of handsome square-rigged vessels employed in the Eastern trade, and both of them became famous for making quick passages. The old lady who had been their friend so long became impressed with the idea of their reaching great heights, and was quite frank in stating that she was proud to see the speedy advancement of two boys that had been reared within sight of her home. She indicated to some of her closest friends that she had no misgiving now about giving her granddaughters in marriage to the young sailors, and this interesting confession was made known to them by some unknown agent. They arrived in England within a month of each other, and were quietly married. The venerable lady settled a considerable sum on her granddaughters, and no lack of instructions were omitted as to its purpose. The sailors said it was very good of the old girl to do this for her young relatives, but they each reminded their wives that they did not marry them for money. After a brief holiday the brothers rejoined their respective ships, and sailed, one from Liverpool to Australia, and the other from London to Calcutta, and little did they expect when they parted that it would be nearly two decades before they were to meet again.

Many years after, two vessels were racing down the China seas, one of them a new barque heavily sparred and very crank, and the other a large, full-rigged ship. Both were rushed through the sea at great speed. The full-rigger, with Norman Burnside in command, drew ahead of the barque and lost sight of her in the darkness. Between ten and eleven at night the second officer was on the poop chatting with the captain; the sky was cloudless, not a speck to be seen, and the wind strong and steady; every stitch of canvas was set, when all of a sudden the captain ceased conversing with the officer, told him that a white squall was close upon them, and to call all hands to shorten sail. They had only got a portion of it in when the squall struck her, and everything had to be let fly. During the few minutes it lasted it was terrific; many of the sails were torn to shreds, the masts were heavily strained, and the vessel herself was well-nigh doomed. Nothing was seen or heard of the barque after that night, but the fears of those aboard the full-rigger were great lest trouble should have come to her. When they arrived in London an account was sent to them of the loss of their companion in the China Seas. The paragraph stated that the vessel was struck by a white squall, thrown on her beam ends and literally capsized; the captain was Norman's brother. He was on deck at the time and tried to get down into the cabin to rescue his wife, but the rush of water prevented him. She was drowned almost before his eyes, and her body went down with the vessel. Some of the crew who were aft managed with the assistance of the captain to get the gig disentangled from the wreck, but he refused to save himself and had to be dragged into the boat by force. Others of the crew clung to floating spars, and were either killed or drowned, and only one survived until succour came. The day following the casualty, those that took to the boat were picked up. A day later a passing vessel saw some wreckage ahead, and as they drew towards it they discovered a boy clinging to a spar which was being tossed about by the motion of the sea. The vessel was at once hove to and a boat went to his rescue. The only clothing he had on was a light flannel shirt and a pair of drawers. The poor little fellow had tried to lash himself to the spar with a piece of rope. When they got close to where he was his feeble voice whispered from it a few words of touching thanks; and then, as though a supernatural force had been given him, he said in a tone that seemed to have been flashed from another world: "It is too late. I am about to pass on to where my mother is. I feel my stomach is chafed through." His face, it was said, wore a spiritual air, and his eyes had an expression of quiet, resigned sadness. They cast off the rope that bound him to the spar, took him gently from it and placed his disembowelled body in the boat. His remains were sewn up in a hammock, heavy weights were put at his feet, and at the dead hour of the night the mourners, with uncovered heads bowed in hallowed manifestation of pity, listened to the harrowing words that came throbbing from the captain's lips as substituted for the written funeral service. When he had finished, orders were whispered to lower the body in silence down the side of the vessel, and then the waters covered him over. Many weeks elapsed before it was known that it was Mary Routledge's boy.

Nothing could exceed the genuine sympathy that was shown to the poor distracted Kenneth Burnside, but all attempts at consolation were received by him with a sad smile that conveyed the idea of an unhealing wound. He lived the life of a recluse and never went to sea again.

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VII

FORECASTLE LIFE