O'er Many Lands, on Many Seas, Gordon Stables [microsoft ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: Gordon Stables
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moment the whole ship was engulphed by a solid sea that swept over her
bows, and carried away almost everything it reached, bulwarks, boats,
and men.
Then, as if it had done its worst, the gale moderated, the sea became
less furious, the thunder ceased to roll, the lightning to play, and in
half an hour more the grey light of morning spread over the ocean, and
on the eastern horizon a bank of lurid red showed where the sun was
trying to struggle through the clouds.
With bulwarks ripped away and boats gone, the _Niobe_ looked little
better than a wreck, while, sad to relate, when the roll was called five
men failed to answer. Five men swept away during the darkness and
tempest, five brave hearts for ever stilled, five firesides at home in
merrie England made to mourn for those whom their friends would sadly
miss, but never, never see again!
But see: the gale begins once more with redoubled fury, and to the
horror of that unhappy ship, the wind goes round to meet the sun.
"I fear, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain, "that nothing can now
save us. We must die like men."
"That we will, I trust," replied the captain, "but we will die doing our
duty to the very last. Is there any one on board who knows this coast
well?"
"The boatswain, sir, Mr Roberts."
"Send for him."
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Mr Roberts, what think you of the outlook?"
"A very poor one, captain. But I have been looking at the land, sir,
and hazy though it is I find we are right off the bar of Lamoo."
"Why, then, we must have been driven back many many miles; we were off
Brava last night."
"I reckon, sir, we made up our leeway at times like, when there was a
bit of a shift of wind, and lost it again when it veered. But our only
chance now is to head for that bar, sir."
"You've been over it?"
"I have, sir, many is the time; and I'll try to pilot the good _Niobe_
over it now."
"Very well, Mr Roberts, you shall try; if you succeed, you are a made
man, if you fail--"
"All," said the boatswain, "I knows what failure'll mean, sir."
Half an hour afterwards, stripped of nearly every inch of canvas save
what sufficed to steer her, with four men at the wheel, and the sturdy
pilot guiding them with hand movements alone--for his voice could not be
heard amid the raging of the storm and awful roar of the breaking
billows that were everywhere around them--the brave _Niobe_ was rushing
stem on through the mountain seas that rolled shorewards over the most
dreaded bar on all the African coast.
It is impossible to describe the turmoil and strife of the waves when
the vessel was once fairly on the bar; and to add to the terror of the
scene more than once she struck the sandy bottom with a force that made
every timber creak and groan. Next moment she would be swallowed up
apparently in boiling, breaking, swirling water, but rising again on the
crest of a wave, she would shake herself free and rush headlong on once
more.
But look at her now: she is on the very top of a curling avalanche, and
speeding shorewards with it, her jibboom and bowsprit, and even part of
her bows, hang clear over that awful precipice of water, and if the ship
moves faster than the breaker beneath her then her time is come.
It is a moment of awful suspense, but it is only a moment, for in
shorter time than pen takes to describe it, the billow seems to sink and
melt beneath her; again she bumps on the sand, but next minute amidst a
chaos of snowy foam she is hurled into the deep water beyond.
An hour afterwards the _Niobe_ is lying snugly at anchor in a little
wooded bay, with all her sails furled, and nothing to tell of the
dangers she has just come through, save the splintered mast, the ragged
rigging, and sadly-torn bulwarks.
But the wind goes moaning through the mangrove forest, where birds and
beasts are crouching low for shelter among the gnarled boughs and roots,
and although the water around the _Niobe_ is calm enough, the storm
roars through her upper rigging, and she rocks and rolls as if out at
sea.
The youthful sergeant is sitting beside the cot within the screen, but
his head is bowed down with grief, and a sorrow such as men feel but
once in a life-time is rending his heart. The little white hand of his
wife still lies on the coverlet, but it is cold now as well as white.
The heart that loved him had ceased to beat--
"And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on him sae fondly."
All his bright visions of yesterday have fled away, all his hopes are
crushed, his very soul seems dead within him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the very time the gale was raging its fiercest, and the sea
threatening every minute to engulph the ship, the lady's life had passed
away, and he who sits here pen in hand was left without a mother's care.
Born on the stormy ocean, rocked in infancy on the cradle of the deep,
no wonder he loves the sea, and can look back with pleasure even to the
dangers he has encountered and gone through.
As the sea on which he was born, so stormy has been the life of him who
tells this tale.
CHAPTER TWO."Majestic woods of every vigorous green,
Stage above stage, high waving o'er the hills;
Or to the far horizon wide diffused,
A boundless deep immensity of shade."
Thomson's "Seasons."
"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried, "when each gun
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse of the sun."
Campbell.
There are two events in the history of a man, of which he himself in
writing his autobiography can hardly be expected to give any very clear
account, namely, his birth and his death. To describe the former, he
would require to be born with his eyes very wide open indeed, and
instead of a silver spoon in his mouth, which they tell me some children
are born with, a silver pencil-case behind his ear; to describe the
latter, a man would need to be a prophet in reality. How is it then, it
may be asked, that I, Niobe Radnor, am able with truthfulness and
accuracy to give an account of the occurrences that were taking place
around me when I first made my appearance on "the stage of life." For
the ability to do so, I am indebted to the only father I ever knew, my
true and trusty old friend Captain (formerly boatswain) Ben Roberts, who
supplies me with the facts.
Yonder he is, sitting out on the rose lawn there, as I write, book in
hand, his white beard glittering in the spring sunshine, and his jolly
old round red face surmounted by an immensity of straw hat--just as if
_his_ complexion _could_ be spoiled, just as if a complexion that has
borne the brunt of a thousand storms, been scathed and scarred in
battle, blistered by many a fierce and scorching summer sun, and
reddened by the snows of many a hard and stormy winter, _could_ be
spoiled.
Ah! dear old Ben! he is getting old, wearing up towards the threescore
years and ten--
"--That form
That short allotted span.
That binds the few and weary years
Of pilgrimage to man."
Yes, Ben is getting old. As oaks get old, so is my faithful friend
getting old. As oaks in age are hard and tough, and defiant of the
gales that rage through the forest, uprooting mighty trees, so is Ben my
friend; and for all the storms he has weathered, I trust I shall have
him by me yet for years and years to come. Ben is so buoyant and fresh,
it always instils new blood into my veins merely to talk to him. "Ben,
my boy," I often say, "you are, by your own confession, some twenty
years my senior, and yet I believe you feel as young and even younger
than I do."
"Well, Nie," he replies, "I believe it's the heart that does it, you
know.
"For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth.
"Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart for ever young.
"For ever young--though life's old age
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart, is a heritage
That keeps the old man young."
He always calls me "Nie" for short, "because," he added once, by way of
explanation, "your name is a heathenish kind of one at best, but a
person is bound to make the most of it."
I cannot deny that Ben is right; my name is a heathenish one. How did I
come by it? I will tell you. I was born, as you know, at sea, in the
Indian Ocean, in the _Niobe_, whilst she was cruising in that region in
the search of slavers--born not long before the appearance of that
terrible gale of wind described in the first chapter of this story, when
the tempest was at its fiercest, and the stormy waves were doing their
worst; born on board a vessel which seemed doomed to certain
destruction. And it is the custom of the service to call a child by the
name of the ship in which he first sees the light of day.
I never knew a father's love or a mother's tender care, for the gentle
lady who gave me birth lived but a little after that event; but she
bequeathed me all she had--her blessing--and died. In a glade in the
gloomy depths of an African forest my mother is sleeping, in the shade
of a banian tree. I stood by that lonely grave one morning not many
years ago. The ground, I remember, was all chequered with sunshine and
with shade from the tree above; little star-like primulas grew here and
there. Among these and the fallen leaves sea-green lizards were
creeping; high overhead bright-winged birds sang soft lullabies, and
every time the wind moved the boughs a whole shower of sparkling drops
fell down, like tears.
And my father? He never seemed to rally after my mother's death until
one hour before his own, just a fortnight and a day from that on which
he had followed her to her grave in the forest like one dazed. He did
not appear in his mess-place after this. He took no food, he spoke to
no one, he spent his time mostly within the screen by the empty cot
where my mother had been--in grief.
About the tenth day he suffered my friend Roberts (the boatswain) to
lead him like a child to the spare cabin where his baby boy was
sleeping; and in a daze he had seen her loved remains laid to rest
beneath the tree. He bent over the grave for a moment, and then for the
first time he burst into tears.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The _Niobe_ remained for ten days where she had cast anchor, in order to
make good repairs.
It was a very quiet spot in which she lay, a kind of bay or bight, as
the sailors called it, with mangrove trees growing all around it close
down to the water's edge, except at the one side where the great river
stole silently away seaward, its current seeming hardly to affect in any
degree the waters in the bay itself.
At last all repairs were finished, and the "clang, clang, clang" of the
carpenters' hammers, that had been till now incessant all day long, and
far into the night, was hushed, sails were shaken half loose, and the
_Niobe_ only waited for a breeze to bear her down the river and across
the great and dreaded bar, where, even in the calmest weather, the
breakers rolled and tumbled
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