“Yes, certainly,” I replied, much astonished at having such a question addressed to me by a British seaman, instead of—as I had fully expected—receiving a cordial invitation to come alongside; “I was fourth officer of the Saturn, of the Planet Line of steamers running between London and Melbourne—” and then I stopped, for instead of listening to me they were all talking together again. At length, when the life-boat had crept up close under the brigantine’s lee quarter, one of the men came to the rail and, looking down into the boat, remarked:
“All right, mister; come aboard, and welcome. Look out, and I’ll heave ye a line.”
A couple of minutes later the life-boat, with her sails lowered, was alongside, and, climbing the craft’s low side, I reached her deck.
“Welcome aboard the Yorkshire Lass, mister,” I was greeted by a great burly specimen of the British “shellback”, as I stepped in over the rail. “Very glad to see ye, I’m sure. But what about your boat? She’s a fine boat and no mistake; but I’m afraid we’ll have to let her go adrift. She’s too big for us to hoist her in; we’ve no place on deck where we could stow her. But if there’s anything of value aboard her we’ll have it out, eh, mister?”
“Certainly,” I agreed. “There is still a quantity of preserved provisions in that locker; there are the two water breakers; there is a life-buoy—and that is about all. But, look here!” I continued; “if something must be turned adrift, why not get rid of that long-boat of yours, and hoist in the life-boat in her place? The latter is very much the better boat of the two—there is indeed no comparison between them—and I am sure she would stow very snugly in your long-boat’s chocks.”
“Ay,” agreed the other, “I believe she would. And, as you say, she’s a lot better than the long-boat; she’ve got air-chambers, I see, and—in fact she’s a proper life-boat, and she’s roomy enough to take all hands of us if anything should happen. What say, chaps, shall us try it?”
This last to the other men, who had stood around listening to everything that was said.
The party, five of them in all, slouched over to the rail and stood looking down into the life-boat with an air of stolid indifference, as she rose and fell alongside. Then they turned and looked inboard at the long-boat, which stood upright in chocks, on top of the main hatch, with the jolly-boat stowed, keel-up, inside her. Finally one of them said:
“Yah, ve’ll do id; she’s wort’ de drouble. Gome on, poys, led’s ged do vork; we haven’d done moosh dese lasd dwo days, und id von’d hurd us. Shoomp ub dere, zome of you und ged de sholly-boad oud of dad!”
“Now,” thought I, “what sort of a craft is this that I’ve blundered aboard of? She’s Liberty Hall afloat, by the look of it—Jack as good as his master! There seems to be something a bit queer here—something that I can’t quite understand at present, but I’ll find out what it is before long. Which of those fellows is the skipper, I wonder—or, if neither of them is, as I am very much inclined to think, where is he?” And then I suddenly recalled to mind the question—“Are you a navigator?”—which had been put to me before I received permission to come aboard. For a moment I thought of demanding an explanation before permitting the life-boat to be hoisted in; but I changed my mind and resolved to defer my investigation until later. I flattered myself that if anything should prove to be really wrong aboard the brigantine I had wit enough to enable me to deal with it.