“Do you think I would have any chance of getting something to do on a steamer going to New Zealand and back, sir?” Kit asked. “Say as supercargo, or purser, or something of that kind?”
“Not the least in the world!” the Captain answered emphatically; “not from New York. All of our American trade with New Zealand you might put in your vest pocket, and you wouldn’t find a steamer going there in six months. But if you were to say Australia, now, that would be easy enough. There are plenty of steamers going from New York to Australia, and when you get there you are not far from New Zealand; you know you could do that part of the journey on your own hook. Indeed, I know two or three masters myself engaged in that trade; and if you make up your mind to go, you let me know and I’ll help you along. Clark here tells me he’s got the best young assistant in the country, though I suppose he’s mistaken about that, for all the good pursers die very young. But this is a case that would be easy to manage, because your father was a sea-faring man and you’re a sea-faring man yourself going after him, and most any good-hearted master would lend a hand. It’s all in the family, you know; we help one another.”
This conversation seemed to Kit to make things look a little brighter. If he could get to New Zealand and back without the great expense of paying his passage, half the difficulties would be removed—yes, nine-tenths of them.
“What are you doing so much with that sailor I see you talking to on deck when you’re off duty, Silburn?” Mr. Clark asked him one day before the first land was sighted. “You and he are not hatching a plot to wreck the ship, are you?”
“No, sir,” Kit laughed; “though we say some very mysterious things. The last thing I said to him yesterday was ‘my aunt has two apples, and my uncle has two pears.’ It does sound a little like a plot, doesn’t it? But the fact is the man is a Frenchman, Mr. Clark, and I have employed him to teach me a little French in my spare moments. I made up my mind in Marseilles that a sea-going man ought to know some languages beside his own, so I bought two primary French books in New York; and this man, who is quite an intelligent fellow, teaches me the pronunciation. It may come of use in Martinique when I am able to speak a little, for I have heard you say they speak nothing but French there.”
“It’s a capital idea,” the purser agreed. “I’ve always had hard sailing in Martinique because I couldn’t jabber their miserable language. I’m glad you’ve taken it up. And you’ll be remarkably glad yourself, some day, if you stick to it.”
Kit was not destined to use any of his newly acquired French in Martinique on that first outward voyage, however; for when they reached the roadstead in front of St. Pierre, the chief city, where they were to land both passengers and freight, they found danger signals flying from the top of the light-house, and all the lighters and smaller boats drawn far up on the beach. There had been enough of a storm in those waters to stir up a heavy sea, and more wind was threatened, so the cautious Frenchmen would allow no boats to go out. The passengers for Martinique could look right up the hilly streets of their chief city, almost into some of the windows, but there was no possible way for them to get ashore.
“It is all small freight we have for here, Mr. Clark. Couldn’t we land it and the passengers in our own boats?” Kit asked.
“Ah, my boy, the authorities on shore would fine us if we tried it while they have the danger signals set,” the purser answered. “Besides, we should lose the insurance if anything happened to the cargo. There’s nothing for it but to wait till the signals come down.”
Captain Fraser evidently thought differently, however. After trying for five or six hours in the roadstead he gave the order to go ahead.