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

For many a long month now there was a blank, a void in our hearts and in our home that nothing could fill.

Except Hope.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” Truer words were never spoken. When Hope dies, Life itself is soon extinct.

Auntie Serapheema did all she could now to cheer us. She was far less prim and stern with Jill and me. One o’clock struck no more on his knuckles nor on mine. She even shortened our school hours, and was easier with us in the matter of “ologies” and “ographies.” Letters came frequently and with great regularity, and they were always cheerful. Father was better, and mother would be happy if they could both get home, and they hoped to. Yes, they hoped to, but no letter said when, or how soon that hope might be realised.

But one of the most cheerful letters was from father himself, in which he said he trusted to be able to send us both into the Royal Navy as cadets. To be naval officers had always been our dream of dreams, Jill’s and mine. To wear the grand old uniform of blue and gold, to tread the snowy quarter-deck with swords by our side, and the white flag fluttering in the sunshine overhead —

“The flag that braved a thousand years,The battle and the breeze – ”

to sail the seas, to hear great guns firing, to attack ships and forts, and do all kinds of gallant deeds for our own glory and our country’s good – this constituted our notions of life as it ought to be led.

We would have to pass, though. The examination, however, was not a stiff one. Jill and I were but little over ten, but thanks to auntie we knew most of the subjects already well, if not thoroughly.

Would we pass the doctor with flying colours? Well, we were hardy and healthy, though at that time of no extra physique. We must get stronger somehow. Auntie consulted the family doctor, she herself suggesting “dumb-bells.” The doctor’s reply was – “Fiddlesticks, madam, fiddlesticks,” – for doctors do not like other people, especially female-people, to put words in their mouths. But auntie was a little discomposed at the brusque mention of “fiddlesticks.”

“What then would you suggest, sir?” she said, pompously.

The doctor simply pointed with his forefinger first at the green hills and cliffs, then at the sea, took up his hat and marched out of the room, curtly bowing her “good morning” as he turned in the doorway.

Now, whom should we find in earnest confab with auntie next forenoon but Bill Moore, the ship keeper.

Jill and I at once beat a discreet retreat.

I must tell you a little more about Bill. He had not always been simply Bill Moore, but Mr Moore. He had, first and foremost as a young man, taken honours in classics and mathematics at a northern university, then gone straight “to the dogs” – so they said. When he in some measure recovered himself – war being then going on – he had joined the service (Royal Navy) as a man ready and willing to turn his hand to anything. Well, they were not so particular in those days; they would not refuse bone and muscle in whatever shape it came, and Bill had been a handsome fellow in his day. He got on in the service, and though he soon became an A.B., and really preferred to be before the mast, he was rated schoolmaster for many years, but finally received an appointment as coast-guardsman, and latterly, as we know, keeper of the hulk, with a fairly good pension.

He took a great fancy for us, and as somehow or other auntie had an acute and undying aversion to public schools, when Mr Bill Moore proposed we should come to the hulk and be drilled by him physically and mentally, she felt greatly inclined to accede. Hence the present interview.

“Perhaps they might do better at a public school, Miss, than with me, but – ”

“I won’t hear of a public school,” auntie cut in with, curtly.

“Well, Miss, we have a mast and ratlins on my old tub; I would take care they were well drilled and had plenty of exercise, my wife will look after their internal comforts, and I can insure their passing their examinations in a year or two.”

“And they would be out of harm’s way,” mused my aunt.

“We’ll have strict discipline, Miss. They must not leave the ship without my permission.”

“There would be no objection to your having the boys, I suppose?”

“I know the old admiral well, Miss; sailed with him for five long years, and blew the Russians about a bit. No, I went straight to him before I wrote to you.”

“And what did he say?”

“‘Do what you please with the old Thunderbolt,’ he said, ‘only don’t set her on fire.’ These are his words, Miss.”

“Well, then, Mr Moore, I think you may consider the matter as settled. The boys will not be far away, they will be under control and discipline, they will know something beforehand about ships, and they can come home, I suppose, now and then to go to church on a Sunday?”

“Oh yes, Miss, and I’m sure my wife and I will be delighted if you and dear Mattie will come and see us all regularly. We’ll always call these our red-letter days.”

Auntie smiled and promised. There is no doubt about it. Mr Bill Moore knew what ladies’ hearts are made of.

So it was all arranged that very day, and in a fortnight after we started and took up our quarters on board the saucy Thunderbolt.

Chapter Five

The Gallant “Thunderbolt” – Tom Morley, Bo’s’n’s Mate – A Strange Dream

It would be hard to say, perhaps, why the gallant old Thunderbolt was laid up as a hulk. She looked a fine old wooden frigate, and had seen a lot of service in her time. But the engines had been taken out of her, and away up the water she lay like a good many more, moored by the head to swing with the tide, or with any extra strong wind that blew. She was evidently considered too good to break up, and she might, the Admiralty thought, come in handy some day, and even require to be fitted out for sea again.

Meanwhile she would do as a store, or rather lumber ship. But at this time neither stores nor lumber either worth speaking about was on board of her.

She hardly made any water, though occasionally some hands came off from the dockyard and pumped her dry, with a deal of din and noise and no end of talking and chaffing. In fact the Thunderbolt seemed to have been forgotten by the big human guns at Somerset House, and for that matter there was no real use in the bit stump of a lower mast that stuck out of her forward, nor the morsel of ratlin that led to it, unless to dry clothes upon. Her crew, all told, were an old bo’s’n’s mate and Mr Moore. We must call him Mr Moore now, and forget the Bill.

Tom Morley was the bo’s’n’s name, a rugged old son of a gun as ever any one clapped eyes upon, with a face as rough and red as a boiled lobster, and a voice that would have brought down birds out of the air had he used it to its full extent. It was a harsh voice, however, and gave you the idea his air-tubes had been originally lined with emery paper, which had never worn quite smooth.

Such was Tom, a good-hearted old soul nevertheless, though with a sad predilection for tossing off cans. It will be seen, therefore, that he was a seaman of the old school – one that Dibdin would have delighted to portray. Yes, and he often made the decks of the saucy old Thunderbolt ring with Dibdin’s heroic ditties.

Although it might have been difficult to define which was the superior officer of this hulk, owing to the peculiar rating of Mr Moore, when he had served afloat, neither was jealous of the other: when Moore was out of the ship Morley was captain, and vice versa; when both were on board, why then both were captains. But, between ourselves, I do think Mrs Moore herself was what the Yankees call “boss of the whole concarn.” Anyhow, she did just as she pleased, and cooked and washed for the crew all-told, and hung up the clothes wherever she liked.

Attached to the hulk was a morsel of a dinghy boat not much bigger than Mrs Moore’s washing tub, only differently shaped, in some slight degree at least.

We youngsters received a hearty welcome when we came off. Tom had put on his best coat for the occasion, and much to our delight met us in the gangway, saluting us in true naval fashion with as much dignity as if we had been admirals.

“Very glad to see you, young gentlemen,” said Tom. “You are truly welcome on board the saucy Thunderbolt. And I assure you the sight of your youthful faces makes me think the old times has all come back again. I’d like to be taking up anchor now with a Yee-ho and Heave-O!”

Jill and I laughed and thought Tom very jolly.

“But I say, Captain Moore,” he continued, turning to his shipmate, “how ever are we to tell these youngsters apart? Why, bother my old wig, if they ain’t as like as two whalers, same rig, too, from top to bottom, same cut from jib to binnacle. I say, messmate, if I’d never seen ’em before and met ’em as I was coming out of the ‘Jolly Tapsters’ I’d think – I was only seein’ one, though there appeared to be two.”

“I’ll make that all right, Tom,” said Mrs Moore, coming up from below and taking charge of us right away.

And she did too, for when we appeared on deck an hour after, I wore a red ribbon round my straw hat, and Jill wore a blue, and Tom doffed his cap, and giving a shout that must have been heard on shore, hailed us at once as “Admiral Jack of the Red,” and “Admiral Jill of the Blue.”

We were simply delighted with our accommodation on board, and with everything on the old hulk fore and aft.

Of course we all lived aft, and dined in state together in the great cabin, where once a post captain had sat at meals or in council of war, and in which, probably, before now court-martials had been assembled and men tried for life itself.

Jill and I had a large cabin to ourselves on the starboard side of the “saloon,” as it would be called in the merchant service, the Moorcs had theirs on the port side, and the bo’s’n’s mate occupied quarters in the ward-room on the deck beneath. Our cabin was furnished charmingly, but we each had a swinging cot, though they were in close juxtaposition. There were curtains to the windows and doorways, and a carpet and pictures and all complete.

All day long we had different views of our surroundings from the ports below in our cabin, or from the ward-room. For according to the tide the old ship swung; now we would be looking down the harbour among ships, noble men-of-war and others, and away out seaward, again it would be the town or dockyard, and at other times the green country. Oh, it was very charming and so romantic, I can tell you.

In a day or two we commenced our studies in downright earnest, and a very pleasant and thorough teacher Mr Moore proved. But it was all forenoon work, and not all book work either. For twice a week or oftener we were told off to go round the ship with Tom, and he gave us the name of every part of her hull, and examined us on his lectures afterwards.

One day a shore boat brought alongside a full rigged ship nearly as long as a sofa, and this was hoisted carefully on deck and lowered below. It was, of course, a model man-o’-war, and old Tom set about next day putting it “ship-shape and Bristol fashion,” as he called it. He thoroughly overhauled it, altering here, and adding there, cutting and criticising all the time. While he was doing this we were with him, listening to every word, and gained quite a deal of information about rigging, etc, in this way. It took Tom three weeks to refit his model ship and make her ready for sea, as he called it. Then – still having us alongside of him – he manned and provisioned her, taking in stores from little boats that he brought alongside on the deck. And though this was to a large degree dummy work, he would have the thing rightly done. No lugger or officer’s boat either must come alongside in any save an orthodox fashion, and if in hauling up stores any hitch happened to the gearing, he would have it all put carefully to rights before another cask, or box, or shot, or shell was taken on board.

I think we worked with Tom in this way for three or four months, by which time we really began to consider ourselves proficient seamen and officers.

Nor was our exercise forgotten. This was also Tom’s department, and he would have Jill and I squirming up and down the ratlins and over the top for an hour at a time. Or standing face to face with sword-sticks, going through, at the word of command, each cut and guard and quirk of the sword exercise. This we considered grand fun, but it was serious earnest with honest Tom.

“There ain’t no nonsense about this sort of thing, young gentlemen,” he would say. “I saw you laughing, Admiral Jack, and whatever you does Admiral Jill does too. Now if it occurs again on duty I’ll mast-head ye, so look out for squalls. ’Ttention! On guard! Point o’ your sword a leetle higher, Admiral Jill. Shoulders more square, Admiral Jack. That’s better. Right toe a trifle more fore-and-aft. So. Steady as you go.”

But as soon as duty, as Tom called it, was done, we were all as merry as Eton boys off on a summer holiday. We had all kinds of games on board, and plenty of rowing about on the water in that morsel of a dinghy, and were allowed to go on shore at any reasonable hour and for any reasonable time.

Tom had always gone in for growing mustard and cress on board, and a bit o’ sea-kale in a flower-pot, but the idea struck Jill and me that we might carry garden operations out to even greater perfection, and having asked and obtained permission of Mr Moore, we set to work and soon arranged in different parts of the deck a series of little flower gardens made from orange boxes. And very charming and beautiful they looked.

So that when auntie came with Mattie one summer’s morning, they were both astonished at our horticultural skill and contrivances.

Tom and Mr Moore always dressed in their best when the ladies were coming, and a bit of bunting was even hoisted on the top of the mast, and no clothes permitted to be hung up to air or dry for that day.

Auntie used to make a pic-nic of these visits. Mrs Moore had the table-cloth laid with spotless linen and adorned with gay flowers, and Mummy Gray, as Mattie called her foster-mother, invariably brought a basket of such good things, that the very thoughts of them beforehand used to make my mouth water, and of course Jill’s as well.

“I’m really delighted, Mr Moore,” said Aunt Serapheema, on the quarter-deck one day, “to see the boys looking so well and happy. It was really an excellent thought of yours to have them here, and I have not the slightest doubt they will prove a credit to your tuition, and pass their examination with flying colours.”

“Bravo! Miss,” cried Tom Morley. “In my time, Miss, I’ve heard many’s the little speech on a quarter-deck, but I declare to you, on the honour of an old sailor, I never heard a neater than that.”

“To my mate Tom, here,” replied Mr Moore, “belongs the credit more than to me and my wife, of making the young gentlemen what you see them.”

Old Tom Morley scraped and bowed in the most orthodox fashion, and Mr Moore continued:

“He does keep them at it, Miss. Why, it’s drill, drill, drill, all day long, and the boys like it, too. Then he reads to them and tells them stories in the evening.”

“Good books, I hope?”

“Not bad ’uns, Miss, I can assure you. We’ve Dickens and Scott, and that lot, but what we’re doin’ principally at present is a thorough overhaul o’ Marryat. He is the chap, Miss, to give a man, or boy either, a right taste o’ the crust o’ the service.”

Dear Mattie was listening to all this while she stood close by me, with one wee arm round my wrist, all eyes and smiles.

“What a perfect picture those two little ones look!” said Mrs Moore. “You are very fond of your little sailor brothers, aren’t you, dear? Which do you like best?”

Mattie’s eye wandered from Jill to me, then she dropped her head smiling on my shoulder.

“I love them both,” she said, “but Jack saved my life.”

That was only Mattie’s romantic way of alluding to our introduction, when I punched the rude fisher-boy’s head on her account.

But there was never a bit of jealousy about Jill.

There was one other thing that Tom taught us, and it is a branch of such pleasant education that I advise all boys to go in for it, viz, joiner’s and carpenter’s work. We had a regular bench on board and all sorts of tools, so that we could make almost any sort of article.

We spent the greater part of every evening on board ship, and as Tom was generally on board also, and had a wealth of wonderful tales to tell, the time passed very quickly indeed.

We did not forget to read and pray as dear mother told us to, and this we did every night whether sleepy or not. Mind, I am not telling this part of our story for the sake of showing we were good boys. We were no better, perhaps no worse, than other lads of our age, but we had then, as I have had all my life, unbounded faith in prayer, and in the goodness of the Father who made us. Besides, there was so much to thank Him for and to ask Him for, and while on our knees we somehow seemed always close to our absent mother. That alone made prayer so sweet.

Like most boys, we rather liked ghost stories, and though I do not believe it now, we had an idea then, that the old Thunderbolt was haunted. You see so many men had been killed on her battle-decks, and there were so many ugly dark stains about the parts where the guns had been, that it is no wonder lads so full of romance as we were, manufactured a ghost or two.

The decks did seem very gloomy and empty just after nightfall, so much so that, I do not mind confessing, when Jill and I had to go forward, we walked very closely together indeed, and gave many a fearful quick glance round, lest we should see a strange light or something even more startling.

But we never saw anything fearsome, though more than once, after we had been talking about mysterious things just before getting into our cots, we did have ugly dreams, and were glad when we saw daylight shimmering on the water alongside.

Now, all along my influence over Jill had been something quite marvellous. It really was as if his soul and mine were linked together in bonds that nothing could sever. Our very thoughts and imaginings were often precisely similar at the same time or times.

Well, knowing this, I should have been most careful in all I did and in all I said, and I will never, never forgive myself for not being so. For as you will presently see, my giving way to romantic imaginings and thoughts, that however pleasant they might be for the present, were really silly, had terrible results.

Tom Morley used to tell us tales of the pirates of the olden times, a race of marauders that I need hardly say have been long since swept from the face of the great deep.

Well, we liked ghosts best, perhaps, but next to them came pirates.

Being older than Jill – by five minutes – I really ought to have known better, yet one day I proposed playing at pirates. And soon this became a regular game of ours. Tom did not seem to mind it much, though he himself did not play, but he lent us a couple of old-fashioned horse pistols, and taught us to load and fire them – one lesson was enough. Of course we did not use anything more deadly than a little blotting-paper to keep the powder in.

Jill was always the pirate. He used to hail and board the ship from the bows in fine form, while I represented the crew. The battle would rage with pistols and sword-sticks, the former being dispensed with after the first discharge, and the fight then continued all over the deck, breast to breast, the excitement increasing every minute.

Sometimes the ship was captured, and I had to represent the crew to the bitter end, and walk the plank a dozen times.

What we did miss more than anything else was a black flag with skull and cross-bones.

Happy thought, we would make one!

We worked unknown to Tom at this, however. I bought the stuff, white and black, and it cost us a whole week or more to finish the job, but it was certainly a very creditable piece of work when finished. Quite a big thing too, and all complete, and ready to be run up to the halyards on which Tom hoisted a bit of bunting on high-days and holidays.

We never really thought of running it up, of course, but it was nice to have it. We felt then we w’ere pirates, in imagination at all events.

Now here is a singular thing which I must relate. One morning after being called by Tom – this was a regular part of Tom’s duty – I looked round to Jill’s cot, and there he was sitting bolt upright in it, with that sunny smile on his innocent sleepy face.

“What’s up, Jill?” I asked.

“You’re not,” said Jill, “though I heard Tom sing out, ‘Five bells, young gentlemen, please,’ more than half an hour ago.”

Then the next words spoken were said by both at precisely the same time, syllabic by syllable as if we had been wound up to it.

“I’ve had such a funny dream.”

We looked at each other, then I said:

“What was yours, Jill?”

“Nay,” said Jill, “you tell me yours first, because you know you are the eldest.”

“Well, I dreamt we had captured the Thunderbolt, hoisted the black flag and run off to sea with her.”

“That was exactly my dream,” said Jill.

“Did you make Mr Moore and the rest walk the plank?”

“Oh no, Jack, I wouldn’t dream of anything so very dreadful. I didn’t see them anywhere about.”

“Neither did I in mine. But my dream was altogether jolly fun.”

“So was mine and – ”

“Gone six bells, young gentlemen. Really if this sort o’ thing goes on, I’ll take the number o’ your hammocks, and report ye on the quarter-deck next time your aunt comes on board.”

“All right, Captain Tom, we’ll be out in five minutes.”

And up we jumped, and were speedily dressed, and on deck for our morning walk.

But we thought no more of the dream.

It went as completely out of our minds as if we had never dreamed it at all.

But it was brought to our minds about a month afterwards in a way I am never likely to forget.

Meanwhile we still kept up our game of playing at being pirates.

It was summer now, and dear sister Mattie came often to see us, more often with her Mummy Gray than with Aunt Serapheema.

Of course we initiated her into the mystery of the pirate-game, and she took a most active part in it too. She acted the rich old dowager who had bags of gold and treasures untold, diamonds and all the rest of it, and who was eventually captured, and made to walk the plank with the rest of the unhappy crew.

I never saw any game take such complete possession of a child, as that pirate-play did of Mattie. She came oftener on board now than she might otherwise have done; she entered into the thing heart and soul, suggesting many improvements we never should have thought about, and acting her part as if to the manner born.

Of course she was told of the black flag, and must see it, and her eyes actually sparkled as they fell on the weird white skull and bleached cross-bones.

Things went on thus for some weeks longer, the pirate-play never losing interest, and each of us being thorough masters of his or her part.

But one day Mr Moore with his wife were invited to Trafalgar Cottage and Tom Morley was left in charge of the ship, while at her own special request Mattie was also left on board.

We could play now to our hearts’ content.

But we little knew what was before us.

Chapter Six

An Appalling Adventure – “We must Prepare for Instant Flight.”

Just after tea, and while Tom was telling some of his most fascinating stories, and we three children were listening with dilated eyes and bated breath, we were hailed by a boatman.

“Thunderbolt ahoy!”

“Ay, ay,” cried Tom, jumping up and rushing to the gangway – we had been having tea on the upper deck.

Then up sprang an old shipmate of Tom’s, and we heard them talking earnestly together and looking towards us. At last Tom advanced almost shyly. “I dunno really,” he said, “if one o’ you young gentlemen would like to be left in charge of the old Thunderbolt for an hour or so. Yonder’s an old shipmate o’ mine, and I’d dearly like to run on shore for maybe an hour.”

“Oh, we’d like it immensely.” We spoke these words both at the same time, as strangely enough we always did speak brief sentences, when excited.