Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

I had reason to remember these strange words in after life, as will be seen.

Chapter Three

The Story of a Shipwreck – A Mystery – The Fate of Poor Joe

We all went on that boat cruise – that is, auntie went, and Jill and I. Auntie appeared to take us with her but we were really taking her. That was fun.

There was nothing remarkable about the cruise, except that it was the first of many far more delightful, for Jill and me.

Auntie behaved like an angel all through, if one could conceive of an angel wearing two pairs of spectacles one on top of the other and long black mits. But auntie’s heart contained the angel, and to-day she never once looked over her glasses – always through them.

The fishermen, Bill and Joe, “ma’am”-ed her and “miss”-ed her, and she smiled a deal, and did not get even squeamish, for she was a sailor’s daughter, and knew all about boats and ships.

We sailed straight away out, and tacked round an island, and there was a lumpy bit of a sea on. But auntie steered part of the way, much to her own delight and the admiration of Bill and Joe. Sometimes the boat gave a jump or fell down with a jerk into the trough of a sea, and the sail would tighten and the sheet would strain, and perhaps a feather of a wave would skim across the boat and hit us all; but nothing disturbed the equanimity of our bold Aunt Serapheema.

She shook hands so prettily, too, with the men and with Nancy, who curtseyed so low, that she looked like a brig under full sail settling down by the stern.

The men lifted their hats, and I’m sure each had something in his hand that auntie had left there; then away we came, and Jill and I jumped on lumps of seaweed to crack the little bladders all the way home, and auntie didn’t mind a bit.

“It would do you good, mamma,” she said to mother at dinner that day, “to go out for a sail now and then; I must say it has made me feel quite young again.”

The pointer did not strike one o’clock on Jill’s knuckles or mine all next forenoon, so of course we wished that auntie would always go out a-sailing.

But it was when telling my brother and me stories of a winter’s evening by the fire, or upstairs on the balcony in the sweet summer-time that auntie was at her very very best. Then the angel came out in earnest, and neither Jill nor I were ever a bit afraid of her. We would sit close up by her knee, and even lean across her lap, or toy with her mitted hands as we listened entranced to every word she said.

They were mostly stories of the ocean wave, and of far-away lands and climes beyond the setting sun. Indeed what else could a sailor’s daughter, whose father had gone down with his ship in the stormy Bay, speak to us about, secularly?

But she had the gift of telling Bible stories well also. The wonderful adventures of Joseph and his brethren quite enthralled us, and often after we went to bed I used to try to tell it in the same way and same words to Jill, but never so entrancingly, though he liked it so much that he often went to sleep before I had finished.

I said my mother was delicate, and this is the reason why auntie took such charge of us; but mother invariably came to our room after Sally had done with us, and would sit by our bedside sewing for an hour together sometimes. It was to her we said our prayers. No, we did not say them, for mother taught us to think and pray the prayer – to wish what we said, as it were; and we got into that habit, Jill and I, so that at any time when praying, with our hearts wandering, as it were, we believed the good angels never could hear that prayer, and never bear it away to the good Father on the great white throne of grace.

I dare say few boys love their mother so much as we loved our beautiful mother, but then one always does think just in that way about one’s own love. None other can be like it.

Well, at all events, our childhood, what with one thing or another, was a very happy one, and slipped all too soon away.

Why was it, I wonder, that as far back as I can remember, I always felt myself my brother’s keeper, so to speak? Mind you, though I was the cider, it was only by five minutes. But this five minutes appeared to make me immeasurably wiser than Jill. I was not stronger, nor bigger, nor anything, only just five minutes older, and five years wiser. So I thought, and so Jill thought, and he never failed to consult me in all matters, however trivial.

He would just say, with that simple, innocent smile of his:

“Jack, what would you do now?”

And I would tell him, and he would do it straight away.

Of course Jill was very dear to me. I loved him more than I did myself. Does that seem a strange confession? Well, it is true, though. I think one reason for this great affection was his likeness to papa. I saw that, if others did not. And he even had papa’s way of talking and using little odd words, such as “certainly,” “assuredly,” and so forth.

For example one day in the schoolroom we were among the “ologies” – bother them all.

“Reginald Augustus,” said auntie, and I pulled myself to “attention” and braced sharp up, as Bill would say. “Reginald Augustus, define to us the meanings of the words ‘entomology’ and ‘etymology.’”

Now I would have been all right if I hadn’t started off by putting the cart before the horse.

“Entomology,” I replied, “is the science that treats of word derivations, and etymology describes insects.”

One o’clock struck on my knuckles, loud enough to be heard over all the room.

“Rupert Domville,” said auntie, “is your brother right in saying that etymology describes insects?”

“Certainly, auntie.”

“But suppose I say that entomology, not etymology, is the science descriptive of insect life, would you then say your brother was right?”

“Assuredly, aunt,” said Jill, boldly.

One o’clock rang out sharp and clear on old Jill’s knuckles, and we were both sent to our seats to think.

The cottage we lived in might have just as well been denominated a villa, only Aunt Serapheema, to whom it belonged, rather despised high-flown names. It was a beautiful old house in the suburbs of a romantic wee fisher village, that nestled under high banks and green braes, not far from the great naval seaport of P – .

My father’s duties at the barracks were not very heavy in our childhood, for there was no war, and though the ride home was a long one, every night almost we listened for the clatter of his horse’s hoofs, whether he came or not, and Jill and I bounded to meet him. His coming was the one great event of the day or week to us all, and he never failed to bring light and sunshine to Trafalgar Cottage.

Our mother was very, very beautiful – Jill and I always thought so – and our father was the beau ideal to our young minds of what a hero ought to be. I think I see him now as he used to look standing by his beautiful black horse, before mounting in the morning, one arm thrown carelessly over the mane, with his fair hair and his blue eyes smiling as he blew kisses to the drawing-room window, and had kisses blown back in return.

Of course you will excuse a son speaking thus of his parents. They might not have been much to any one else, but they were all the world to my brother and me.

My father was to be a rich man some day, auntie told us, when he came into his estates in Cornwall. Meanwhile he was simply Captain Jones, and proud and happy to be so.

Ours was not a very large village, though dignified at times by the name of town by the people themselves, only it was quaint and pretty enough in the sweet summer-time, when the sky was blue, and the sea reflected its colour; when the waves sang on the beach, and birds in the hedges and bushes, on the cliffs, and in the glen; when fisher boats were drawn up on the sand, or went lazily out towards the horizon in the evening. Yes, then it was even picturesque, and more than one artist that I remember of lived quite a long time at the Fisherman’s Joy. They would be sketching boats and sails and spars, and the natives themselves, all day, to the great astonishment of the natives.

“He do be uncommon clever-like,” I heard one man say; “but surely he ought to let the loikes of we have our Sunday clothes on afore he paints us.”

The artists thought differently.

Quite a friendship sprang up between our family and the Grays.

But shortly after we made their acquaintance, Bill – who was not a Gray, his name was Moore – went away, having got, at his own request – he being a deserving old coast-guardsman – a post as ship keeper on an old hulk, of which you will hear more soon. Here he lived alone with his old woman, as he called his buxom wife.

Then something else really strange happened. Quite an adventure in a little way. Jill had gone to P – with mamma that day, and I was strolling on the beach, feeling very lonely indeed. The tide was far back, and near the water’s edge I could see a girl gathering shells. Strolling down towards her was a fisher lad, about my own age, and some instinct impelled me to follow. I was just in time to notice him rudely snatch at her basket, and empty all the shells, and presently she passed me crying.

My blood boiled, so I went right on and told the boy he was no gentleman.

He said he didn’t pretend to be, but he could lick me if I wanted him to, gentleman or not gentleman.

I said, “Yes, I wanted him to.”

I never knew I was so strong before. That lad was soon on his back crying for mercy, and next minute I left him.

The girl was about seven, but so beautiful and lady-like.

She thanked me very prettily, and we walked on together, I feeling shy. But I summoned up courage after a time to ask her name.

“Mattie Gray,” she replied; “and yonder comes mother.”

To my surprise, “mother” was Nancy, the fisherman’s wife.

I was invited in, and made a hero of for hours, but somehow I could not keep from wondering about Mattie.

I told auntie the story that evening. Now, if there be anything a woman loves in this world it is a mystery, and auntie was no exception. So she and Jill and I all walked over to the cottage next afternoon.

“What a lovely child you have, Mrs Gray! We have not seen her before.”

“No, ma’am, she’d been to school.”

“Have you only one?”

“My dear lady,” said Nancy, “Mattie isn’t ours. You see, we have only been here for six months, and people don’t know our story. We come from far south in Cornwall, and when a baby, bless her, Mattie, as we call her, came to us in a strange, strange way.”

“Tell us,” said auntie, seating herself in a chair which Nancy had dusted for her.

“Oh, it is soon told, ma’am, all that’s of it. We lived on a wild bit o’ coast, ma’am, and many is the ship that foundered there. Well, one wild afternoon we noticed a barque trying to round the point, and would have rounded it, but missed stays like, struck, and began to break up. We saw her go to pieces before our eyes, for no boat could be lowered.

“At long last, though, my man and his mate determined to venture. It was a terrible risk. But I am a fisherman’s wife, and I never said, ‘Don’t go, Joe.’”

She paused a moment, woman-like, to wipe away a tear.

“And they saved the crew?” asked auntie.

“They came back wi’ four in the boat, ma’am. One was a gentle lady, one was Mattie, and there were two sailors besides. They were all Spanish, Miss. The poor lady never spoke a word we could understand. She wore away next afternoon, but that great box yonder was washed on shore, and when she saw it she pointed to poor baby, then to the chest, and smiled – and died.”

“And the men, could they tell you nothing?”

“They told the parson something in Spanish, but it wasn’t much. Mattie’s mother was a grand dame, and the father had not been on board. They promised to write and tell us more, but ah! Miss, we’ll never hear nor know aught else till the sea gives up its dead.”

“We read of such things in books,” said auntie, “but I never heard so strange a tale from living lips before. Come hither, child.”

Mattie obeyed, and, marvellous to say, was not a bit afraid of auntie. She clambered on to her knee and put an arm round her neck, and auntie looked softened, so much so that for a moment or two I thought I saw a tear in her eye. She sat a long time talking, and orphan Mattie went sound asleep.

After this Mattie came very often to Trafalgar Cottage, and became our playmate all the winter, out of doors when the weather was fine, and in the house when it blew wild across the sea.

Jill and I grew very fond of Mattie, but we used to wonder at her strange beauty. She was so different from other children, with her creamy face, her weird black eyes, and long, long hair. And we used to wonder also at her cleverness. I suppose Spanish people have the gift of tongues, but though Mattie was younger by three years than we, she could talk far better, and to hear her read was like listening to the music of birds.

She used to read to us by the hour, Jill and I lying on the floor on goats’ skins, as was our custom, and feeling all the while in some other world – dreamland, I think they call it.

There were three of us now, for auntie asked permission to teach Mattie with us. But one o’clock was never struck on Mattie’s little knuckles; indeed, she was clever even at “ologies,” and had all the “ographies” by heart, and so did not deserve one o’clock.

There were three of us to play on the beach now, and climb the broomy hills, and gather wild flowers, and look for birds’ nests in the spring, and three of us to go out with Father Gray in his brown-sailed yawl.

There were three of us, never separate all the livelong summer days.

But summer passed away at last, the days shortened in, the sea looked rougher and colder now, and the vessels out on the grey distance went staggering past under shortened sails, or flew like ghosts when the wind blew high.

And then came my first sorrow, the first time that I really knew there was grief and death in the world.

I will not take long to tell it. I am but little likely to linger over so sad and dismal a memory of the past. Yet every incident in that day’s drama is painted on the tablets of memory in colours that will never be effaced while life does last.

Little did big brown-bearded Joe Gray think, when he kissed his wife and Mattie on that bright afternoon, and with his mate put off to sea, that they would never see him alive again.

The moon rose early, and shone red and clear over the water in a triangular path of silver, that went broadening away towards the horizon. And when hours passed by, and the wind came up with cloud banks out of the west, Nancy – fisherman’s wife though she was – grew uneasy, and went very often to the door.

The wind grew wilder and wilder, and the air was filled with rain, and with spray from the waves that broke quick and angrily on the beach.

The big petroleum lamp was lighted and put in the window. That lamp had often guided Joe Gray through darkness and storm to his own cottage door.

They tell me that fisher folks, and toilers by and on the sea have an instinct that is not vouchsafed to dwellers inland. Be that as it may, poor Nancy could rest to-night neither indoors nor out. But hours and hours went by, and still the husband came not. How she strained her ears to catch some sound above the roaring wind and lashing seas, to give her joy, only those who have so waited and so watched can tell.

Her only hope at last was that he might have made some other port or taken shelter under the lee of the island.

The night passed away. Wee Mattie slept, and towards morning even the distracted wife’s sorrows were bathed for an hour in slumber. But she sprang up at last – she thought she heard his voice.

The fire had burned out on the hearth, the lamp was out too, but grey daylight was shimmering through the uncurtained panes.

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “Coming, Joe! Coming, lad!”

And she staggered up and rushed forth.

What was that dark thing on the beach? It was a great boat – it was his yawl, bottom up.

She knew little more for a time after that. She saw people hurrying towards her and towards the wreck; then all was a mist for hours.

But they found poor Joe beneath the yawl, and they bore him in and laid him in the little “best” room. He was dead and stiff, with cold, hard hands half clenched, and in one a morsel of rope. It was the end of the main sheet he had grasped in his hour of agony, and they cut it off and left it there.

Her grief, they say, when she awoke at last, was past describing. With a wail of widowed anguish, that thrilled through the hearts of the sea-hardened listeners she flung herself on the body.

“My Joe, my Joe – my own poor boy!” she moaned. “Oh, why has Heaven deprived me of my man!”

They simply turned away and left her to her grief. They thought it best, but there was not a man among them whose face was not wet with tears.

That was my first sorrow; but, alas! there were more to come.

And it is strange the effect that sorrow has on the young. Before this, all my life had seemed one long happy dream. But all at once I became awake, and I date my real existence from the day they laid poor Joe Gray in the little churchyard, high above the sea, that will sing his requiem for ever and for ay.

Chapter Four

The Sound of War – First Sorrows – A Change in our Lives

Like many other poor folks, to the houses of whom Death comes when least expected, Nancy Gray was left without a penny in the world, and wee Mattie was doubly an orphan since Daddie Gray was drowned.

When then, after a visit or two to the fisherman’s cottage, auntie one morning announced that she had taken Mattie over to be as one of her own kith and kin, and that Nancy herself would have employment at Trafalgar Cottage, none of us was a bit surprised. It was only the angel in auntie’s heart showing a little more.

So Mattie was henceforth styled “sister” by Jill and me.

Then came sorrow the second. War broke out at the Cape, the Caffres were up and killing – butchering, in fact – our poor people at all hands. Father’s regiment was ordered out, and though he himself might have stayed at home, he elected to go.

What a grief this was for us! Jill and I looked upon our dear father as one already dead.

“I’m sure they’ll kill you, father,” Jill sobbed.

“Why me, my boy?”

“Because they kill all the prettiest men,” said the innocent boy.

Then came a few busy days and tearful days, and – then my father was gone. The scene of the departure of the soldiers for the war is something I will never forget. What made it all the worse was, that in returning home our carriage was blocked by a mob, and we had to witness the passing by of a soldier’s funeral. It was inexpressibly sad, and I remember my dear mother wept on auntie’s breast, till I verily believed her heart would break.

From that very date our bed was made up in mother’s own room. We were all she had now. Besides, something must have told her that she would not even have us long.

Children’s sorrows do not last very long, their souls are very resilient, and this is wisely ordered. So by the time we got father’s first letter we had learned to live on in happy hope of soon seeing him back.

Letter after letter came; some that told of the fighting were sad enough, but there was no word of our soldier father returning from the wars.

One day we were all seated at breakfast and talking quite cheerfully, when the postman’s thrilling rat-tat was heard at the door. That knock always did make us start, now that father was away at the wars. And this very morning, too, we had watched the postman till he went past and disappeared round the corner, so he must have forgotten our letter and come with it on his return. Sally came in with it at last, but seemed to take such a long time.

“It’s from the Cape, ma’am,” she said, “and it isn’t in black.”

Girls are so thoughtless.

I cannot tell you how it was, but neither Jill nor I could take our eyes off poor ma’s face when she took the letter, tore it open, and began to read. A glance at the envelope told her it was his dear handwriting, so a gleam of joy came into her eyes, and a fond smile half-played round her lips. Alas! both the gleam and the smile were quickly banished, and were succeeded by a look of utter despair. Oh, my beautiful mother, how dazed and strange she appeared! One glance round the table, then the letter dropped from her fingers, and we rushed to support her.

But the flood of tears came now fast enough, and as she threw herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of grief, we really thought her heart would break.

Speak she could not for a time.

“Oh, mother dear, what is it?”

“Tell us, mother, tell us all.”

“Is father killed?”

The sight of our anguish probably helped to stem for a time the current of her own.

“N-no,” she sobbed. “Father is not killed – but he is wounded – slightly, he says, – and, I must go away to him.”

Here she hugged us to her breast.

“It will not be for long, children – only just a little, little time – and you must both be so good.”

Our turn had come now – our very hearts seemed swamped as the great grief came swelling over them, like the waves of the ocean. She let us weep for a time, she made no attempt either to repress our tears or to stop our senseless, incoherent talk.

“You cannot go. You must not leave us.”

This, and this alone, was the burden of our song. Alas! the fiat had gone forth, and in our very souls we knew and felt it. Once more she kissed us, then auntie led us out, saying we must leave mamma a little while for her good. We would do anything for ma’s good, even to going away into the schoolroom – which never before had looked so grim and cheerless – and squatting on our goatskin to cry. Every now and then poor Jill would say —

“Don’t you cry so, Jack.”

And every now and then I would make the same request to him.

They say there is no love equal to that a mother bears for a child; but tell me this, ye who have known it, what love exceeds that which a fond and sensitive child bears for a mother? and oh, what else on earth can fill the aching void that is left when she is gone?

For a time weeping gave us relief, then even that consolation was taken away. I just felt that my life’s lamp had clean gone out, that there was no more hope —could be no more hope for me.

It was difficult to realise or grasp all the terrible truth at once. Mother going away! Our own dear darling mother, and we, perhaps never, never to see her more! Never listen to her voice again at eventide, singing low to us by the firelight, or telling us tales by our bedside! Never kneel again by her knees to pray! Never feel again her soft good-night kisses, nor the touch of her loving hands! Never – but here the tears returned, and once more Jill and I wept in each other’s arms.

In times of grief like this I think the mind is more highly sensitised, as a photographic artist would say, and takes and retains impressions more quickly. For the minutiae even of that sad eventful morning are still retained in my memory in a remarkable way. I remember the slightest sounds and most trivial sights heard or seen by Jill and me as we sat in our listless grief by the window. I remember the yelp of a little cur we used to pity, because it was always tied up; the laugh of a street carter as he talked to a neighbour; the dreary, intermittent tapping of the twig of a rose-bush against the glass; the low boom of the breaking waves. I remember it was raining; that the wind blew high across the sea; that the sea itself was grey and chafing, and apparently all in motion in one direction, like some mighty river of the new world; I remember the dripping bushes in the front garden, and the extra-green look of the rain-varnished paling around it; and even the little pools of water on the street, and the buffeted appearance of the few passengers striving to hold umbrellas up against the toilsome wind.

Mother came quietly in, and – she was smiling now.

How much that smile cost her, mothers alone may tell, but even we knew it was a smile without, to hide the grief within.

Mother went away.