I fancy every one’s first voyage by one of the P. and O. steam-packets must be a matter of considerable amusement, from the novelty of everything. Perhaps one of the most curious sights is the coming on board of the Indian and Colonial mails. It seems scarcely possible that such a multitude of boxes and sacks as those which lie heaped up in such solid masses can really be all postal matter. A very great man on board is the guardian of Her Majesty’s mails. A man of wondrous authority—occasionally a thorn in the side of the captain, as being the possessor of certain powers of interference or of counsel, rarely, however, brought into action. Then as to fellow-passengers, there is no type of man, woman, or child who is not here represented. Happily, when outward bound, the proportion of children is very small. The return voyage is very different. Perhaps ninety or a hundred children of all sizes and ages, flying from oriental climates, in which young English life cannot flourish, and all more or less spoilt by the care of ayahs and native servants, whose sole idea of training is to give a child whatever it cries for. Imagine the torture which must be inflicted by such an army of babies on the older passengers, probably never, at the best, much addicted to babiolatry, but now rendered doubly irritable by long battles with sun and liver; for on a voyage homeward there are generally a sad proportion of sickly folk; men conscious of possessing a liver, and all manner of other complaints, or, worse still, unconscious alike of life’s cares or pleasures. On our return to England, there were no less than twelve lunatics on board, victims of the combined influence of the sun and the system of incessant ‘pegs,’ alias brandy and soda-water.
Outward bound, we find abundant studies of character in ship-life, where business is laid aside, and in general every one tries to make the best of his neighbours. From the grave old Indian official, returning to his high post in some distant corner of the empire, down to the beardless Competition Wallah, still breathless from the educational high-pressure to which he has been subjected, all minds are naturally more or less tinged with thoughts of the land for which they are bound; and we hear more of Indian and Colonial manners and customs than we should do in a year in Britain. A considerable number of the more energetic set to work at once to learn Hindustani or some other oriental language—generally a fruitless struggle, as only an exceptional few, with wondrous powers of abstraction, can find leisure for any settled work.
Among the small novelties which catch the unaccustomed eye, is the setting of a great dinner-table in stormy weather. The table from end to end is covered with skeleton frames of mahogany, laid over the tablecloth. These are called ‘fiddles,’ and keep your plate from rolling too far. As to your cup or wine-glass, it stands on a swinging table opposite your nose, and preserves so perfect an equilibrium, that in the wildest storm, not one drop of the contents is spilt. How the stewards manage to wait, and the cooks to cook, for such a multitude, in such a rolling and turmoil, and in such limited space, is a matter for perpetual wonder and admiration. If you go for’ard, you will find a regular town—butcher’s shop and baker’s shop, carpenter’s shop and engineer’s shop, tailors and laundrymen—that is, sailors doing amateur work; and as to the live-stock, there are sheep and pigs, and cows and oxen, and poultry of every description; in short, a regular farmyard; and I think some of the big children find as much amusement as the little ones in that corner of the ship.
One thing startling to a new traveller is the rapidity with which time changes. He finds his watch going very wrong, and perhaps, for the first day or two, is weak enough to alter it, till he finds it simpler to count ‘bells’ after the manner of the sea. Speaking of hours, one of the many small gambling devices to relieve the tedium of the voyage is a system of sweepstakes as to the exact moment when the vessel will drop anchor at any given port, tickets being issued for every five or ten minutes of the expected forenoon or afternoon, and the winnings being sometimes presented to a Sailors’ Orphan Fund. Some of my fellow-travellers have told me that in long weary voyages they had been driven to institute races for short distances, the steeds being cheese-mites, or maggots carefully extracted from the nuts. These races at last became positively exciting; and the same creatures being preserved from day to day, were, if of approved speed, worth small fortunes to their owners. A very swift maggot would sell for a large sum! Fly loo was another favourite game, but happily, we have never had occasion to try such singular amusements. There are games at Bull for those who want exercise; and sedentary games and books, and singing and chatting, for sociable folk. For my part, being an unsocial sort of animal, I think that ‘to be talked to all day’ is the sum of human misery, as much on board ship as on land. So, on my memorable first voyage, when all was new and delightful, I soon discovered a quiet nook on the top of the deck cabin, right astern, where, with infinite satisfaction, I established myself, and there read in peace, no one venturing to invade that haven of refuge save under a solemn vow of silence. But when the light began to wane, the silence was no more; for the sons and daughters of music there assembled, and as there were several good voices and a first-rate leader, the glees and choruses were sometimes very effective.
Thus pleasantly day and night slipped by in quick succession. Casual acquaintanceships ripened into lifelong friendships; and when at length we reached our journey’s end, the joy of arrival was tempered by true regret for the break-up of a pleasant party, and the dispersion of many friends, of whom the majority in all probability might never meet again.
A brief year passed away—a year of ever-changing delight in the wondrous Indian land, and ere we realised that our allotted twelve months were over, we found ourselves numbered with The Homeward Bound. Very different was our return journey from the last. Instead of finding ourselves surrounded by a superabundance of bright energetic life, our companions were almost all on the sick-list, as few people who were not driven home by illness, would exchange an Indian winter for the chilly frosts and snows of England. Instead of the continuous sunshine of our outward journey, we had bitter winds and sharp storms, and though we were too good sailors to be thereby affected, some of our neighbours were wretched enough.
But the saddest change of all was the long list of funerals, which, commencing ere we left the deep-blue Indian Ocean, only ended as we neared the English shores. Sometimes we heard the beautiful words of the solemn funeral service read in the quiet moonlight, and sometimes when we could scarcely distinguish a word for the howling of the storm and roar of waters, and only knew by the sad, earnest faces of sailors and soldiers crowding round, that the uncoffined clay, which lay so still beneath the outspread Union-jack, was about to be committed to the deep. The first who thus ‘fell asleep’ was a little child, on whom the tropical sun had laid its fiery finger. Not all the ice of Himla could cool the burning of that fevered, throbbing brow; and the wistful baby-eyes looked vainly up, in piteous mute appeal, to those who knew too bitterly how utterly powerless they were to help. But when the red glowing sun sank below the mellow waters, that tender spirit rose to its Home, far beyond the stars; and loving hands laid the tiny marble form in a pure white shell, meet for so fair a pearl. Then kind, warm-hearted British tars covered that little coffin with England’s flag, and laid it down gently and reverently, standing round bareheaded in the warm southern moonlight, while holy words were uttered as the little white coffin sank down into the quiet depths of that wondrously blue sea.
A few more days went by, and again the Angel of Death was among us. This time he came to call away a poor fellow with the frame of a young giant, who but a few months before had left the Emerald Isle in glowing health and strength, but who now wearily dragged himself along sun-stricken, utterly unconscious that the shadow of the angel’s wing already darkened over him; only craving once more to reach the old home, where mother and sisters would welcome him. But when the sun rose, one cold, bleak morning, we were told he had passed away in the night. We were on the Red Sea; but it was bitterly cold and stormy, and the dull, drear, wintry winds were echoing over bleak bare shores, and sighing among the masts and rigging. Even the sea was leaden-hued; and when the funeral service was read, and the body lowered into the sullen waves, the pale sunrise was overclouded by a heavy drifting shower. It was the saddest, dreariest funeral at which I was ever present. In the cabin next to his was another victim of the sun—a handsome young bride, with mind, alas! all unstrung. Of course she could not have known what was passing so near, yet, through all those sad hours she kept on crooning a low plaintive song, telling how
Somebody’s darling, so young, and so fair,