Philosopher Jack, R. M. Ballantyne [mobi reader android TXT] 📗

captain stooped, received a stiff nor’-wester, and the two went off together.

The following night, as the party were seated round the fire finishing supper, Watty Wilkins surprised his friends by rising, clearing his throat, extending his right arm, after the manner of an orator, and delivering himself of the following speech:—

“Lady and gentlemen,—I rise on the present occasion, with or without your leave (‘Order,’ from Ben Trench), to make a few pertinent remarks (‘Impertinent,’ from Philosopher Jack) regarding our present strange and felicitous circumstances. (Hear, hear.) Our community is a republic—a glorious republic! Having constituted Captain Samson our governor, pastor, and lawgiver, it has occurred to me that we might, with great advantage to ourselves, institute a college of learning, and, without delay, elect professors. As a stowaway, I would not have presumed to make such a proposal, but, as a free and independent citizen of this republic, I claim the right to be heard; and I now move that we proceed to elect a professor of natural philosophy, natural history, and any other natural or unnatural science that any of us may happen to remember or invent. (Hear, hear, and laughter.) As a student is naturally allied to a professor, and somewhat resembles him—the only difference being that the one knows mostly everything, and the other next to nothing—I further propose that we appoint to this professorship Philosopher Jack, with a salary of gratitude depending on merit, and the duty of lecturing to us every night after supper for our entertainment.”

Watty Wilkins sat down amid great applause, and Ben Trench seconded the motion, which was of course carried unanimously.

Philosopher Jack at once accepted the professorship, and proceeded then and there to deliver his inaugural address, in which he philosophised of things past, present, and to come, both seriously and humorously, in a way that filled his favourite pupil, Baldwin Burr, with inexpressible delight.

When he had finished, Bob Corkey rose, and with an air of intense solemnity said—

“Messmates, my lady, fathers, and brethren,—I begs to offer a observation or two. It seems to me that a college with only one professor ain’t quite the thing for this great and enlightened republic. Seems to me; therefore, that we should appint a professor who could spin yarns for our amusement, not to say edification. And, for this end, I moves that we appint Simon O’Rook (great applause), whose gifts in the way o’ story-tellin’, or nat’ral lyin’, so to speak, is unequalled by any nat’ral philosopher on the island.” (Hear, hear, and cheers, mingled with laughter.)

This motion was seconded by Bounce, and the appointment was gracefully accepted by O’Rook, who, however, declined taking office till the following night as it was getting late, and he required time to compose his professional lies; but he ventured, as a free citizen of the “noo” republic, to move that the house should adjourn to bed.

The idea thus jestingly introduced was so far carried into effect in earnest, that Philosopher Jack did, on many evenings thereafter, amuse and interest his comrades round the camp-fire, by relating many a tale from history, both ancient and modern, with which his memory was well stored. He also proved to himself, as well as to others, the great value of even a small amount of scientific knowledge, by being able to comment on the objects of surrounding nature in a way that invested them with an interest which, to absolutely ignorant men, they could not have possessed.

O’Rook also fulfilled his engagements to some extent, being not only able, but willing, to spin long-winded yarns, which, when genuine material failed, he could invent with facility.

Thus the time passed pleasantly enough for several weeks, and the shipwrecked crew succeeded in keeping up their spirits, despite the undercurrent of heavy anxiety with which they were oppressed,—as indeed they could scarcely fail to be, when they reflected on the fact that the island, on which they had been cast, lay far out of the ordinary track of ships. This had been ascertained by the captain, who, it may be remembered, had taken his sextant from the ship, and who, the day before the destruction of the raft on the coral reef, had obtained a reliable observation, and fixed their position.

But this anxiety was deepened, and a darker gloom was cast over the party, by an incident which happened soon afterwards.

It has been said that Watty Wilkins was passionately fond of fishing. This business he prosecuted by means of a small raft, made from the remnants of the old one, which he pushed about with a long pole. But the raft was inconvenient; moreover, it had been more than once nearly upset by a shark. Watty therefore resolved to make a small boat out of the remains of the old boat beside which the skeleton had been found. In this he was so ably assisted by his friends Jack and Ben, that the boat—which was a very small one—was launched in the course of two weeks. A pair of light oars was also made, and in this boat the fishing was prosecuted with redoubled vigour. Sometimes the three friends went off in company; more frequently little Wilkins went out alone.

One day he pushed off by himself, and pulled to different parts of the lagoon, casting his line now and then with varying success. The day happened to be unusually calm and bright. When he passed the opening in the reef, the surf appeared less violent than usual, so that he was tempted to pull though it. The breakers were passed in safety, and he soon found himself with a sensation of great delight, floating on the gentle swell of the open sea. He pulled out for a considerable distance, and then cast his lines. So intent was he on these, that he did not observe the approach of a squall till it was almost upon him. Seizing the oars, he pulled towards the island, but he had drifted off shore a considerable distance. The wind, also, was against him. His efforts were vain. In short he was blown out to sea.

The desperate anxiety of the poor boy was changed to despair when the island gradually receded and finally disappeared. At first the little boat was nearly swamped, but by clever management of the oars Watty saved it. The squall was short-lived. Before long it again fell calm, and the sky cleared, but nothing was now to be seen save the unbroken circle of the horizon.

Who can tell the feelings of the poor youth when night descended on the sea? For hours he sat in the stern-sheets quite motionless, as if stunned. (Note: see frontispiece.) Rowing, he knew, would be of no use, as he might be pulling away from the island instead of towards it. Fastening his jacket to an oar, he set it up as a signal, and sat down helpless and inactive, but his mind was busy as he gazed into the depths of the moonlit sky. He thought of home, of the father whom he had so deeply injured, of the prospects that he had unwittingly blighted, of his comrade Ben Trench, and his other friends on the Coral Island. As he continued to think, conscience rose up and condemned him sternly. Wilkins bowed his head to the condemnation, and admitted that it was just.

“Oh!” he cried, in a passion of sudden remorse, “O God! spare me to return home and be a comfort to my father,—my dear, dear father!”

He put his face in his hands and wept bitterly. Sitting thus, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, he gradually sank lower and lower, until he slid to the bottom of the boat, and lay at last with his head on the thwart, in profound slumber. He dreamed of home and forgiveness as he floated there, the one solitary black spot on the dark breast of the solemn sea.