The Red Eric, R. M. Ballantyne [popular e readers txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Having delivered himself of these opinions in an extremely vigorous manner, and announced the fact that he was about to begin, Gurney cleared his throat and drew a number of violent puffs from his pipe in quick succession, in order to kindle that instrument into a glow which would last through the first verse and the commencement of the chorus. This he knew was sufficient, for the men, when once fairly started on the chorus, would infallibly go on to the end with or without his assistance, and would therefore afford him time for a few restorative whiffs.
“It hain’t got no name, lads.”
“Never mind, Gurney—all right—fire away.”
“Oh, I once know’d a man as hadn’t got a nose,
An’ this is how he come to hadn’t—
One cold winter night he went and got it froze—
By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.
(Chorus.) Well-nigh madden’d,
By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.
“Next day it swoll up as big as my head,
An’ it turn’d like a piece of putty;
It kivered up his mouth, oh, yes, so it did,
So he could not smoke his cutty.
(Chorus.) Smoke his cutty,
So he could not smoke his cutty.
“Next day it grew black, and the next day blue,
An’ tough as a junk of leather;
(Oh! he yelled, so he did, fit to pierce ye through)—
An’ then it fell off altogether!
(Chorus.) Fell off altogether,
An’ then it fell off altogether!
“But the morial is wot you’ve now got to hear,
An’ it’s good—as sure as a gun;
An’ you’ll never forget it, my messmates dear,
For this song it hain’t got none!
(Chorus.) Hain’t got none,
For this song it hain’t got none!”
The applause that followed this song was most enthusiastic, and evidently gratifying to Gurney, who assumed a modest deprecatory air as he proceeded to light his pipe, which had been allowed to go out at the third verse, the performer having become so engrossed in his subject as to have forgotten the interlude of puffs at that point.
“Well sung, Gurney. Who made it?” inquired Phil Briant, an Irishman, who, besides being a jack-of-all-trades and an able-bodied seaman, was at that time acting-assistant to the cook and steward, the latter—a half Spaniard and half negro, of Californian extraction—being unwell.
“I’m bound not to tell,” replied Gurney, with a conscious air.
“Ah, then, yer right, my boy, for it’s below the average entirely.”
“Come, Phil, none o’ yer chaff,” cried Dick Barnes, “that song desarves somethin’ arter it. Suppose now, Phil, that you wos to go below and fetch the bread-kid.”
“Couldn’t do it,” replied Phil, looking solemn, “on no account wotiver.”
“Oh, nonsense, why not?”
“’Cause its unpossible. Why, if I did, sure that surly compound o’ all sorts o’ human blood would pitch into me with the carvin’-knife.”
“Who? Tarquin?” cried Dick Barnes, naming the steward.
“Ay, sure enough that same—Tarquin’s his name, an it’s kuriously befittin’ the haythen, for of all the cross-grained mixtures o’ buffalo, bear, bandicoot, and crackadile I iver seed, he’s out o’ sight—”
“Did I hear any one mention my name?” inquired the steward himself who came aft at that moment. He was a wild Spanish-like fellow, with a handsome-enough figure, and a swart countenance that might have been good-looking but for the thickish lips and nose and the bad temper that marked it. Since getting into the tropics, the sailors had modified their costumes considerably, and as each man had in some particular allowed himself a slight play of fancy, their appearance, when grouped together, was varied and picturesque. Most of them wore no shoes, and the caps of some were, to say the least, peculiar. Tarquin wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a conical crown, and a red silk sash tied round his waist.
“Yes, Tarquin,” replied Barnes, “we wos engaged in makin’ free-an’-easy remarks on you; and Phil Briant there gave us to understand that you wouldn’t let us have the bread—kid up. Now, it’s my opinion you ain’t goin’ to be so hard on us as that; you will let us have it up to comfort our hearts on this fine night, won’t you?”
The steward, whose green visage showed that he was too ill to enter into a dispute at that time, turned on his heel and walked aft, remarking that they might eat the bottom out o’ the ship, for all he cared.
“There now, you misbemannered Patlander, go and get it, or we’ll throw you overboard,” cried Scroggles, twisting his long limbs awkwardly as he shifted his position on the windlass.
“Now, then, shipmates, don’t go for to ax it,” said Briant, remaining immovable. “Don’t I know wot’s best for ye? Let me spaake to ye now. Did any of ye iver study midsin?”
“No!” cried several with a laugh.
“Sure I thought not,” continued Phil, with a patronising air, “or ye’d niver ask for the bread—kid out o’ saisin. Now I was in the medical way meself wance—ay, ye may laugh, but it’s thrue—I wos ’prentice to a ’pothecary, an’ I’ve mixed up more midsins than would pisen the whole popilation of owld Ireland—barrin’ the praists, av coorse. And didn’t I hear the convarse o’ all the doctors in the place? And wasn’t the word always—‘Be rigglar with yer mails—don’t ait, avic, more nor three times a day, and not too much, now. Be sparin’.’”
“Hah! ye long-winded grampus,” interrupted Dick Barnes, impatiently. “An’ warn’t the doctors right? Three times a day for sick folk, and six times—or more—for them wot’s well.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the others, while two of them seized Briant by the neck, and thrust him forcibly towards the after-hatch. “Bring up the kid, now; an’ if ye come without it, look out for squalls.”
“Och! worse luck,” sighed the misused assistant, as he disappeared.
In a few minutes Phil returned with the kid, which was a species of tray filled with broken sea-biscuit, which, when afloat, goes by the name of “bread.”
This was eagerly seized, for the appetites of sailors are always sharp, except immediately after meals. A quantity of the broken biscuit was put into a strainer, and fried in whale-oil, and the men sat round the kid to enjoy their luxurious feast, and relate their adventures—all of which were more or less marvellous, and many of them undoubtedly true.
The more one travels in this world of ours, and the more one reads of the adventures of travellers upon whose narratives we can place implicit confidence, the more we find that men do not now require, as they did of old, to draw upon their imaginations for marvellous tales of wild, romantic adventure, in days gone by, travellers were few; foreign lands were almost unknown. Not many books were written; and of the few that were, very few were believed. In the present day men of undoubted truthfulness have roamed far and wide over the whole world, their books are numbered by hundreds, and much that was related by ancient travellers, but not believed, has now been fully corroborated. More than that, it is now known that men have every where received, as true, statements which modern discovery has proved to be false, and on the other hand they have often refused to believe what is now ascertained to be literally true.
We would suggest, in passing, that a lesson might be learned from this fact—namely, that we ought to receive a statement in regard to a foreign land, not according to the probability or the improbability of the statement itself, but according to the credibility of him who makes it. Ailie Dunning had a trustful disposition; she acted on neither of the above principles. She believed all she heard, poor thing, and therefore had a head pretty well stored with mingled fact and nonsense.
While the men were engaged with their meal, Dr Hopley came on deck and found her leaning over the stern, looking down at the waves which shone with sparkling phosphorescent light. An almost imperceptible breeze had sprung up, and the way made by the vessel as she passed through the water was indicated by a stream of what appeared lambent blue flame.
“Looking at the fish, Ailie, as usual?” said the doctor as he came up. “What are they saying to you to-night?”
“I’m not looking at the fish,” answered Ailie; “I’m looking at the fire—no, not the fire; papa said it wasn’t fire, but it’s so like it, I can scarcely call it anything else. What is it, doctor?”
“It is called phosphorescence,” replied the doctor, leaning over the bulwarks, and looking down at the fiery serpent that seemed as if it clung to the ship’s rudder. “But I dare say you don’t know what that means. You know what fire-flies and glow-worms are?”
“Oh! yes; I’ve often caught them.”
“Well, there are immense numbers of very small and very thin jelly-like creatures in the sea, so thin and so transparent that they can scarcely be observed in the water. These Medusae, as they are called, possess the power of emitting light similar to that of the fire-fly. In short, Ailie, they are the fire-flies and glow-worms of the ocean.”
The child listened with wonder, and for some minutes remained silent. Before she could again speak, there occurred one of those incidents which are generally spoken of as “most unexpected” and sudden, but which, nevertheless, are the result of natural causes, and might have been prevented by means of a little care.
The wind, as we have said, was light, so light that it did not distend the sails; the boom of the spanker-sail hung over the stern, and the spanker-braces lay slack along the seat on which Ailie and the doctor knelt. A little gust of wind came: it was not strong—a mere puff; but the man at the wheel was not attending to his duty: the puff, light as it was, caused the spanker to jibe—that is to fly over from one side of the ship to the other—the heavy boom passed close over the steersman’s head as he cried, “Look out!” The braces tautened, and in so doing they hurled Dr Hopley violently to the deck, and tossed Ailie Dunning over the bulwarks into the sea.
It happened at that moment that Glynn Proctor chanced to step on deck.
“Hallo! what’s wrong?” cried the youth, springing forward, catching the doctor by the coat, as he was about to spring overboard, and pulling him violently back, under the impression that he was deranged.
The doctor pointed to the sea, and, with a look of horror, gasped the word “Ailie.”
In an instant Glynn released his hold, plunged over the stern of the ship, and disappeared in the waves.
It is impossible to convey by means of words an adequate idea of the terrible excitement and uproar that ensued on board the Red Eric after the events narrated in the last chapter. From those on deck who witnessed the accident there arose a cry so sharp, that it brought the whole crew from below in an instant. But there was no confusion. The men were well trained. Each individual knew his post, and whale-men are accustomed to a sudden and hasty summons. The peculiarity of the present one, it is true, told every man in an instant that something was wrong, but each mechanically sprang to his post, while one or two shouted to ascertain what had happened, or to explain.
But the moment Captain Dunning’s voice was heard there was perfect silence.
“Clear away the starboard-quarter-boat,” he cried, in a deep, firm tone.
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Stand-by the falls—lower away!”
There was no occasion to urge the sailors; they sprang to the work with the fervid celerity of men who knew that life or death depended on their speed. In less time than it takes to relate, the boat was leaping over the long ocean swell, as it had never yet done in
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