So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult of wind and wave had become normal, and slighter sounds could be easily distinguished because the ear had become attuned to the elemental din. Unobtrusively the impassive Svensen had been preparing their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, &c. The skipper had watched him with a dull eye, as if his proceedings were devoid of interest, but felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the Dorothea’s weathering the gale was now completely gone. Even the blue patches breaking through the heavy cloud-pall to leeward could not revive it. For she was now only wallowing, with a muffled roar of turbid water within as it sullenly swept from side to side with the sinking vessel’s heavy roll. The gale died away peacefully, the sea smoothed its wrinkled plain, and the grave stars peered out one by one, as if to reassure the anxious watchers. Midnight brought a calm, as deep as if wind had not yet been made, but the old swell still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure, the wide heavens bared their solemn emptiness, and the glowing sun in lonely glory showered such radiance on the sea that it blazed with a myriad dazzling hues. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig was the pathetic centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome stain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the benevolent calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat, and as she lay quietly alongside the few finishing touches were given to her equipment. As the sun went down the vessel’s motion ceased—she was now nearly level with the smooth surface of the ocean, which impassively awaited her farewell to the light. Hardly a word was spoken as the little company left her side and entered the boat. When all were safely bestowed the skipper said, “Cut that painter forrard there,” and his voice sounded hollowly across the burdening silence. A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the boat glided away. At a cable’s length they ceased pulling, and with every eye turned upon the brig they waited. In a painful, strained hush, they saw her bow as if in stately adieu, and as if with an embrace the placid sea enfolded her. Silently she disappeared, the dim outlines of her spars lingering, as if loth to leave, against the deepening violet of the night.
With one arm around his wife, the skipper sat at the tiller, a small compass before him, by the aid of which he kept her head toward Madeira, but, anxious to husband energy, he warned his men not to pull too strenuously. Very peacefully passed the night, no sound invading the stillness except the regular plash of the oars and an occasional querulous cry from a belated sea-bird aroused from its sleep by the passage of the boat. At dawn rowing ceased for a time, and those who were awake watched in a perfect silence, such as no other situation upon this planet can afford, the entry of the new day. Not one of them but felt like men strangely separated from mundane things, and face to face with the inexpressible mysteries of the timeless state. But it was Svensen who broke that sacred quiet by a sonorous shout of “Sail-ho!” With a transition like a wrench from death to life, all started into eager questioning; and all presently saw, with the vigilant Finn, the unmistakable outlines of a vessel branded upon the broad, bright semi-circle of the half-risen sun. No order was given or needed. Double-banked, the oars gripped the water, and with a steady rush the boat sped eastward towards that beatific vision of salvation. Even the skipper’s face lost its dull shade of hopelessness, in spite of his loss, as he saw the haggard lines relax from Mary’s face. Quite a cheerful buzz of chat arose. Unweariedly, hour after hour, the boat sped onward over the bright smoothness, though the sun poured down his stores of heat and the sweat ran in steady streams down the brick-red faces of the toiling rowers. After four hours of unremitting labour they were near enough to their goal to see that she was a steamer lying still, with no trace of smoke from her funnel. As they drew nearer they saw that she had a heavy list to port, and presently came the suggestion that she was deserted. Hopes began to rise, visions of recompense for all their labour beyond anything they could have ever dreamed possible. The skipper’s nostrils dilated, and a faint blush rose to his cheeks. Weariness was forgotten, and the oars rose and fell as if driven by steam, until, panting and breathless, they rounded to under the stern of a schooner-rigged steamer of about 2000 tons burden, without a boat in her davits, and her lee rail nearly at the water’s edge. Running alongside, a rope trailing overboard was caught, and the boat made fast. In two minutes every man but the skipper was on board, and a purchase was being rigged for the shipment of Mrs. South. No sooner was she also in safety than investigation commenced. The discovery was soon made that, although the decks had been swept and the cargo evidently shifted, there was nothing wrong with the engines or boilers except that there was a good deal of water in the stokehold. She was evidently Italian by her name, without the addition of Genoa, the Luigi C., being painted on the harness casks and buckets, and her crew must have deserted her in a sudden panic.
Like men intoxicated, they toiled to get things shipshape on board their prize, hardly pausing for sleep or food. And when they found the engines throbbing beneath their feet they were almost delirious with joy. Opening the hatches, they found that the cargo of grain had shifted, but not beyond their ability to trim, so they went at it with the same savage vigour they had manifested ever since they first flung themselves on board. And when, after five days of almost incessant labour, they took the pilot off Dungeness, and steamed up the Thames to London again, not one of them gave a second thought to the hapless Dorothea. Twelve thousand pounds were divided among them by the Judge’s orders, and Captain South found himself able to command a magnificent cargo steamer of more than 3000 tons register before he was a month older.
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE
“SARAH JANE”
There was no gainsaying the fact that the Sarah Jane was a very fine barge. Old Cheesy Morgan, whose Prairie Flower she had outreached in the annual barge regatta by half a mile, owned up frankly that the Sarah Jane, if she had been built out of the wreckage of a sunken steamboat looted by the miserly old mudlark who owned her, could lay over any of his fleet, and when he gave in as far as that you might look upon the discussion as closed. Her skipper and mate, Trabby Goodjer and Skee Goss, were always ready (when in company) to punch any single man’s head who said a word against her, and many sore bones had been carried away from the “Long Reach House” in consequence. Not that these two worthies were ever sparing of their extensive vocabulary of abuse of their command when working up or down the Thames, especially when she missed stays and hooked herself up on a mudbank about the first of the ebb, making them lose a whole day.
Ever since her launching she had been regularly employed in the Margate trade from London with general merchandise and returning empty. Even this double expense for single freight paid the Margate shopkeepers better than submission to the extortionate railway charges, while their enterprise was a golden streak of luck for the owner of the Sarah Jane, and her consorts. When she commenced the memorable voyage of which this is the veracious log, she had for crew, besides the two mariners already named, a youngster of some fifteen years of age as near as he could guess, but so stunted in growth from early hardships that he did not look more than twelve. He answered to any name generally that sounded abusive or threatening, from long habit, but his usual title was the generic one for boys in north-country ships—Peedee. He had already seen a couple of years’ service in deep-water vessels, getting far more than his rightful share of adventurous mishaps, besides having done a fairly comprehensive amount of vagabondage in the streets of London and Liverpool. But being so diminutive for his years he found it difficult to get a berth in a decent-sized ship, and in consequence it was often no easy matter for him to fill even his small belly, for all his precocious wits. Fate, supplemented by his own fears, had hitherto been kind enough to keep him out of a Geordie collier or a North Sea trawler, but on the day he met Trabby Goodjer outside the “King’s Arms” in Thames Street, and asked him if he wanted a boy, his evil genius must have been in the ascendant. He hadn’t tasted food for two days with the exception of a fistful of gritty currants he had raked out of a corner on Fresh Wharf, and as the keen spring wind shrieking round the greasy bacon-reeking warehouses searched his small body to the marrow he grew desperate. Thus it was that he became the crew of the Sarah Jane. Properly, she should have carried another man, but following the example of their betters in the Mercantile Marine the skipper and mate trusted to luck, and found under-manning pay. The owner lived at Rochester, and rarely saw his vessel except through a pair of glasses at long intervals as she passed the entrance to the Medway. So the payment of the crew was in the skipper’s hands entirely, left to him by the London agent who “managed” her. By sailing her a man short, and giving a boy 10s. a month instead of a pound, Captain Goodjer and chief officer Goss were able to enjoy many cheap drunks, and have thrown in, as it were, the additional enjoyment of ill-using something that was quite unable to turn the tables unpleasantly.
Between this delightful pair therefore, whose luck in getting backwards and forwards to Margate and London was phenomenal, Peedee had a lively time. Especially so when, from some unforeseen delay or extra thirst, the supply of liquor in the big stone jar kept at the head of the skipper’s bunk ran short and they were perforce compelled to exchange their usual swinish condition of uncertain good-humour for an irritable restlessness that sought relief by exercising ingenious forms of cruelty upon their hapless crew. Occasionally they had a rough-and-tumble between themselves, once indeed they both rolled over the side in a cat-like scrimmage, but there was nothing like the solace to be got out of that amusement that there was in beating Peedee. But he, preternaturally wise, was only biding his time. The score against his persecutors was growing very long, but a revenge that should be at once pleasant, enduring, and final, slowly shaped itself in his mind. Accident rather than design matured his plans prematurely, but still he showed real genius by rising to the occasion that thus presented itself and utilising it in a truly remarkable manner.
One Friday evening in the middle of October the Sarah Jane was loosed from the wharf where she had received her miscellaneous freight, and with the usual amount of river compliments and collisions with the motley crowd of craft all in an apparently hopeless tangle in the crowded Pool, began her voyage on the first of the ebb. The skipper and the mate were both more than ordinarily muzzy, but intuitively they succeeded in getting her away from the ruck without receiving more than her fair share of hard knocks. Once in the fairway the big sprit-sail and jib were hove up to what little wind there was, and away she went at a fairly good pace. Peedee did most of the steering as he did of everything else that was possible to him, receiving as his due many pretty bargee-compliments from his superiors as they sprawled at their ease by the bogie funnel. They reached Greenhithe at slack water, where, the wind veering ahead, they anchored for the night at no great distance from the reformatory ship Cornwall. The sails were furled after a fashion, and with many a blood-curdling threat to Peedee should he fail to keep a good look-out, Trabby and his mate went below into their stuffy den to sleep. Somewhere about midnight the shivering boy awoke with a start, that nearly tumbled him off his perch on the windlass, to see two white figures clambering on board out of the river. Wide awake on the instant he saw they were boys like himself, and whispered, “All right, mates, here y’are.” Noiselessly he showed them the fo’c’s’le scuttle, where they might get below and hide. When they had disappeared he crept to the side of the darksome hole and held a whispered conversation with the visitors, finding that they were runaways from the Cornwall, and immediately his active brain saw splendid possibilities in this accession of strength if only he could conceal their presence from his enemies aft. For the present, however, there was nothing to be done but lie quietly and wait events. Daring the risk of awakening the “officers” he made a raid upon the grub-locker aft, securing half a loaf and a lump of Dutch cheese, which he carried forward to the shivering stowaways. His own wardrobe being on his back he could not lend them any clothes, but they comforted themselves with the thought that they would soon be dry. And assisted by Peedee they made a snug lair in the gritty convolutions of a worn-out mainsail that was stowed in their hiding-place, finding warmth and speedy oblivion in spite of their terrors.