In the afternoon, Captain Gillespie came off to the ship again, with a gang of coolies under a native comprador. These were sent by the consignees to help discharge the cargo into a lot of small junks that they brought alongside; but the Chinamen made a poor show, contrasting their work with that of our stalwart able-bodied tars, one of whom thought nothing of handling a big crate as it was hoisted out of the hold which it took ten of the others merely to look at.
Fortunately, only a few boxes of the Manchester stuffs that were stowed in our fore compartment were found damaged by the sea, the rest of the goods being in good condition, and the cargo generally as sound as when it came on board in the docks; a result which afforded “Old Jock” much satisfaction, as he had feared the worst. The only loss, therefore, the owners would have to suffer would be the small amount of our freight that had been jettisoned when the ship first went ashore on the Pratas, the cargo that had subsequently been taken out to lighten her before getting her off the shoal having been carefully preserved.
“‘All’s well that ends well,’” cried he, rubbing his hands and sniffing and snorting, when the people ashore reported this after a systematic examination of all the bales and stuff. “I told ye so, Mackay, I told ye so; and when I say a thing, ye know, I mean a thing.”
“I’m sure, I’m only too glad everything has turned out right,” replied the first mate, smiling to himself, though, at “Jock’s” assertion of having prognosticated this favourable issue, the contrary being the case; for, he’d been grumbling all the way from Hongkong about the salvage to be paid, and compensation to the consignees for deterioration of the cargo, besides perhaps demurrage for late delivery, the ship arriving at Shanghai more than a month beyond her time. “‘All’s well that ends well,’ as you say, sir; and I only hope we’ll soon have a freight back which will recoup any loss the owners may have suffered from the mishaps of our voyage out.”
But, hoping for a thing, and having it, are two very different things.
It was the middle of July when we finally reached Shanghai, and it took us, with the slow way of going to work of the Chinese coolies and their comprador and the people ashore and all, a good three weeks to unload our cargo; so that, by the time we had the hold swept out and got ready below for the reception of a freight of tea promised the captain, lo and behold we found we were too late, for the consignment intended for us was now well on its way home in another vessel. This latter, however, we were told in excuse for our disappointment, had been waiting longer for a cargo than us, having been lying in the river since May, and only starting off as we commenced discharging.
We were cheered up, though, by the hope of having a cargo of the second season tea, which the shore folk said was expected in the town from up country shortly; which “shortly” proved to be of the most elastic properties, it being September before we received authoritative information of our expected freight being at last at Shanghai and ready for shipment.
When it came, though, we did not lose much time in getting it on board and stowed, even Tom Jerrold and I working under hatches.
“Begorra, we’ll show them poor craythurs,” cried Tim Rooney, bracing himself up for the task and baring his sinewy arms with much gusto as he buckled to the job, setting the hands a worthy example to follow. “Aye, we’ll jist show them what we calls worruk in our counthry, me darlints. Won’t we, boys?”
“Aye, aye,” roared out the men, all anxious to set sail and see Old England again; sailors being generally the most restless mortals under the sun, and never satisfied at being long in one place. “Aye, aye, bo, we will!”