The Island of Gold: A Sailor's Yarn

No wonder, poor bird; the truth is, he was glued to the deck with melted pitch.

What a job it was getting him clear too – or “easing him off,” as Chips called it.

But with the help of putty knives the ’Ral got free at last, though it took a deal of orange-peel to clean his poor feet. Then they were found to be so red and swollen that a hammock was slung for him forthwith atween decks, and the Admiral was laid at full length in it – his head on a pillow at one end, his feet away down at the other, his body covered with the carpenter’s lightest jacket.

Very funny he did appear stretched like that, but he himself appreciated, not the joke, but the comfort. He lay there for days, only getting up a little in the cool of the evening, if there was any cool in it.

Ransey fed him, and attended to his feet twice a day, so he was soon on deck again, as right as a trivet.

But the Admiral had learned a lesson, and ever after this, on hot days, to have seen the bird coming along the deck, you would have sworn he was playing at hop-Scotch, so careful was he to hop over the seams where the pitch was soft, his long neck bent down, and one eye curiously examining the planks.

Yes, the ’Ral was a caution, as old Canvas said.

But one of the bird’s drollest adventures occurred one day when the ship was lying becalmed in the Indian Ocean, or rather in the Mozambique Channel.

The Sea Flower was within a measurable distance of land; for though none was in sight, birds of the gull species flew around the ship, tack and half-tack, or floated lazily on the smooth surface of the sea.

The ’Ral slowly left his sentry-box, stretched his wings a bit, uttered a mild scray – scray – ay or two, then did a hop-Scotch till he got abreast of the man at the wheel. This particular sailor was somewhat of a dandy, and had a morsel of red silk handkerchief peeping prettily out from his jacket pocket.

The ’Ral eyed it curiously for a moment, then cleverly plucked it out and jumped away with it. He dropped it on a portion of the quarterdeck where the pitch was oozing, kicked it about with his feet to spread it out, as a man does with a handful of straw, and stood upon it.

“Well, I do call that cheek! My best silk handkerchief, too,” cried the man at the wheel.

The crane only looked at him wonderingly with one eye.

“You’ve no idea,” he told this man, “how soft and nice it feels. I – I – yes, I verily believe I shall dance. Craik – craik – cray – ay – y!”

And dance he did, Nelda and half the crew at least clapping their hands and cheering with delight.

The ’Ral was just in the very midst of his merriment, when the man, after giving the wheel an angry turn or two to port, made a dart to recover his favourite bandana. With such a rush did he come that the ’Ral took fright, and flew to the top of the bulwark. There was some oiled canvas here, and this was so hot that the bird had to keep lifting one foot and putting down the other all the time, just like a hen on a hot griddle.

“How delightfully sweet it must be up there,” he said to himself, gazing at the gulls that were screaming with joy as they swept round and round in the blue sky. “I think I’ll have a fly myself. Scray – ay!”

And greatly to every one’s astonishment away he flew high into the air.

Alarmed at first, the gulls soon regained courage, and made a daring attack on the ’Ral. But he speedily vanquished the foe, and one or two fell bleeding into the water.

A gull was perched on the back fin of a shark. The ’Ral flew down.

“It’s nice and snug you look,” said the ’Ral. “Get off at once, the king’s come. Get off, I say, or I’ll dig both your impudent eyes out.”

And next moment the Admiral was perched there, as coolly as if he had been used to riding on sharks ever since his babyhood.

But Nelda was in tears. She would never see the ’Ral again, and the awful beast would eat him, sea-legs and all. So a boat was called away to save him.

None too soon either. For the ’Ral had commenced to investigate that fin with his long beak. No respectable basking shark could be expected to stand that, so down he dived, leaving the bird screaming and swaying and scrambling on the top of the water. “Scray – scray – craik – craik – cray!”

But for the timely aid of the boat, the Admiral would have met with a terrible fate, for his screaming and struggling brought around him three sharks at least, all eager to find out what a long-legged bird like this tasted like.

Every fine day the crane now indulged himself in the pleasure of flight, but he never evinced the slightest inclination to perch again on the back of a basking shark. It wasn’t good enough, he would have told you, had you asked him. “As regards the backs of basking sharks,” he might have said, “I’m going to be a total abstainer.”

Up the east coast of Africa went the bonnie barque Sea Flower.

Tandy knew almost every yard of the ground he was now covering, and could pilot the vessel into creeks and over sand-banks or bars with very little danger indeed.

But still the coast here is so treacherous, and the sands and bottom change so frequently, that, night and day, men had to be in the chains heaving the lead.

The natives, also, across the line in Somaliland, are as treacherous as the coral rocks that guard their clay-built towns, and more treacherous than either are the semi-white, slave-dealing Arabs.

Book Two – Chapter Ten.

A Brush with the Somalis – the Derelict

All along the Somali coast was Tandy’s “chief market ground,” as he called it. Here he knew he could drive precisely the kind of bargains he wished to make; and as for the Somalis, with their shields, spears, ugly broad knives, and grinning sinister faces, this bold seaman did not care anything. Nor for the Arabs either. He soon gave both to understand that he was a man of the wide, wide world, and was not afraid of any one.

He had come to trade and barter, he told the Arabs, and not to study their slave-hunting habits; so if they would deal, they had only to trot out their wares —he was ready. And if they didn’t want to deal, there was no harm done. He even took Ransey with him sometimes, and once he took Nelda as well.

The savages just here were a bad, bloodthirsty lot, and he knew it, but he had with him five trusty men. Not armed – that is, not visibly so.

But on this particular day there was blood in those natives’ eyes. Tall, lithe, and black-brown were they, their skins oiled and shining in the sun. But smiling. Oh, yes, these fiends will smile while they cut a white man’s throat.

Every eye was fixed hungrily on the beautiful child. What a present she would be for a great chief who dwelt far away in the interior and high among the mountains!

The bartering went on as usual, but Tandy kept his weather eye lifting.

Leopards’ skins, lions’ skins and heads, ostrich feathers, gum-copal, ivory tusks, and gold-dust. The boat was already well filled, Nelda was on board, so was Tandy himself, and his crew, all save one man, who was just shoving her off when the rush was made. The prow of the boat was instantly seized, and the man thrown down.

Pop – pop – pop – pop – rang Tandy’s revolver, and the yelling crowd grew thinner, and finally fled.

A spear or two was thrown, but these went wide of the mark.

Human blood looks ghastly on white coral sands, but was Tandy to blame?

Nelda was safe, and in his arms.

“O daddy,” she cried, kissing his weather-beaten face, “are we safe?”

“Yes, darling; but I mustn’t land here again.”

Salook was the village king here, a big, burly brute of an Arab, with a white, gilded turban and a yellow, greasy face beneath it. Tandy had known some of his tricks and manners in days gone by.

At sunset that very same evening Salook was surrounded by his warriors.

“Everything yonder,” he said in Swahili, as he pointed to the Sea Flower, “is yours. The little maiden shall be my slave. Get ready your boats, and sharpen your spears. Even were the ship a British man-of-war I’d board her.”

At sunset that evening Tandy was surrounded by his men, and pistols and cutlasses were served out to all.

“We’ll have trouble to-night, men,” he said, “as soon as the moon rises. If there was a breath of wind off-shore I’d slip. We can’t slip – but we’ll fight.”

A cheer rose from the seamen, which Tandy quickly suppressed.

“Hush! Let us make them believe we suspect no treachery. But get up steam in the donkey engine, and connect the pipes.”

This is a plan of defence that acts splendidly and effectively against all kinds and conditions of savages.

Boiling water on bare skins causes squirming, so Tandy felt safe.

The ship carried but one big gun, and this was now loaded with grape.

There wasn’t a sound of life to be heard on board the barque, when about seven bells that night a flood of moonlight, shining softly o’er the sea, revealed the dark boats of the Somalis speeding out to the attack.

But every man on board was at his station.

This was to be a fight to the very death, and all hands knew it.

Nearer and nearer they come – those demon boats. The biggest boat of all is leading, and, sword in hand, Salook stands in the prow. It is crowded with savages, their spear-heads glittering in the moonbeams. On this boat the gun is trained.

The rocks re-echo the crash five seconds after, but the echo is mingled with the yelling of the wounded and the drowning.

Ah! a right merry feast for the sharks, and Salook goes down with the bottomless boat.

The fight does not end with this advantage. Those Somalis are like fiends incarnate. Not even the rifles and revolvers can repel their attack. See, they swarm on the bulwarks round the bows, for the ship has swung head on to the shore with the out-flowing tide.

“Give it to them. The water now, boys. Warm them well!”

Oh, horror! The shrieking is too terrible to be described.

In their boats the unwounded try to reach the shore; but the rifles play on these, and they are quickly abandoned, for the Somalis can swim like eels.

“Now for loot, lads,” cries Tandy. “They began the row. Man and arm the boats.”

When the Sea Flower’s men landed on the white sands, led on by Tandy and Ransey, the conquest was easy. A few volleys secured victory, and the savages were driven to their crags and hills.

“Let us spoil the Egyptians,” said Tandy, “then we shall return and splice the main-brace.”

The loot obtained was far more valuable than the cargoes they had obtained by barter, and I need hardly say that the main-brace was spliced.

Towards morning the wind came puffing off the land. It ought to have died away at sunrise, but did not. So the Sea Flower soon made good her offing, and before long the land lay like a long blue cloud far away on the weather-beam.

The ship was reprovisioned at Zanzibar, and one or two sick hands were allowed to land to be attended to at the French hospital.

In less than a fortnight she once more set sail, and in two months’ time, everything having gone well and cheerily, despite a storm or two, the Sea Flower was very far at sea indeed, steering south-west, and away towards the wild and stormy Cape Horn.

On going on deck one morning, Halcott found Tandy forward, glass in hand, steadying himself against the foremast, while he swept the sea ahead.

“Hallo! Tandy. Land, eh?”

“No, it isn’t land, Halcott. A precious small island it would be. But we’re a long way to the west’ard of the Tristan da Cunha, and won’t see land again till we hail the Falklands. Have a squint, sir.”

“What do you make of her, sir?” asked Tandy.

“Why, a ship; but she’s a hulk, Tandy, a mere hulk or derelict.”

“There might be some poor soul alive there notwithstanding.”

“I agree with you. Suppose we overhaul her,” said Halcott, “and set her on fire. She’s a danger to commerce, anyhow, and I’ll go myself, I think.”

So the whaler was called away, and in a few minutes the boat was speeding over the water towards the dismantled ship, while the Sea Flower, with her foreyard aback, lay floating idly on the heaving sea.

It was early summer just than, in these regions – that is, December was well advanced, and the crew were looking forward to having a real good time of it when Christmas came.

Alas! little did they know what was before them, or how sad and terrible their Christmas would be.

“Pull easy for a bit, men,” cried Halcott; “she is a floating horror! Easy, starboard! give way, port! We’ll get the weather gauge on her, for she doesn’t smell sweet.”

Not a living creature was there to answer the hail given by Halcott. Abandoned she evidently had been by the survivors of her crew, for the starboard boats still hung from her davits, while the ports were gone, and at this side a rope ladder depended.

The boat-hook caught on; with strange misgivings Halcott scrambled on board followed by two men.

He staggered and almost fell against the bulwark, and no wonder, for the sight that met his eyes was indeed a fearful one.

On the lower deck was a great pile of wood, and near it stood a big can of petroleum. It was evident that the crew had intended firing the ship before leaving her, but had for some reason or other abandoned the idea.

Halcott, however, felt that he had a duty to perform, so he gave orders for the paraffin to be emptied over the pile and over the deck. As soon as this was done lighted matches were thrown down, and hardly had they time to regain the boat and push off, ere columns of dark smoke came spewing up the hatchways, followed high into the air by tongues and streams of fire.

Before noon the derelict sank spluttering into the summer sea, and only a few blackened timbers were left to mark the spot where she had gone down.

A few days after this the wind fell and fell, until it was a dead calm.

Once more the sea was like molten lead, and its surface glazed and glassy, but never a bird was to be seen, and for more than a week not a cloud was in the sky as big as a man’s hand. Nor was the motion of the ship appreciable. By day the sun shone warm enough, but at night the stars far in the southern sky shone green and yellow through a strange, dry haze.

On Saturday night Tandy as usual gave orders to splice the main-brace. He, and Halcott also, loved the real old Saturday nights at sea, of the poet Dibdin’s days. And hitherto, in fair weather or in foul, these had been kept up with truly British mirth and glee.

There was no rejoicing, however, on this particular evening, for two of the hands lay prostrate on deck. Halcott himself ministered to them, sailor fashion. First he got them placed in hammocks swung under a screen-berth on deck. This was for the sake of the fresh air, and herein he showed his wisdom.

Then he took a camp-stool and sat down near them to consider their symptoms. But these puzzled him; for while one complained of fierce heat, with headache, and his eyes were glazed and sparkling, the other was shivering and blue with cold. He had no pain except cramps in his legs and back, which caused him an agony so acute that he screamed aloud every time they came on.

Halcott went aft to study. He studied best when walking on his quarterdeck. Hardly knowing what he did, he picked up a bone that honest Bob had been dining off, and threw it into the sea. There was still light enough to see, and the man at the wheel looked languidly astern. When three monster sharks dived, nose on, towards the bone, he looked up into the captain’s face.

“Seen them before?” said Halcott, who was himself superstitious.

“Bless ye, yes, sir. It’s just four days since they began to keep watch, and there they be again. Ah, sir! it ain’t ham-bones they’s a-lookin’ arter. They’ll soon get the kind o’ meat they likes best.”

“What mean you, Durdley?”

“I means the chaps you ’as in the ’ammocks. Listen, sir. There’s no deceivin’ Jim Durdley. We’ve got the plague aboard! I’ve been shipmate with she afore to-day.”

Halcott staggered as if shot.

“Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed.

No one on board cared much for this man Durdley. Nor is this to be wondered at. In his own mess he was quarrelsome to a degree. Poor little Fitz fled when he came near him, and many a brutal blow he received, which at times caused fierce fights, for every one fore and aft loved the nigger boy.

Durdley was almost always boding ill. His only friends were the foreigners of the crew, men that to make a complement of five-and-twenty Tandy had hired in a hurry.

Mostly Finns they were, and bad at that, and if there was ever any grumbling to be done on board the Sea Flower these were the fellows to begin it.

Halcott recovered himself quickly, gave just one glance at Durdley’s dark, forbidding countenance – the man was really ugly enough to stop a church clock – and went below.

He met Tandy at the saloon door, and told him his worst fears.

Alas! these fears were fated to be realised all too soon.

The men now stricken down were those who had boarded the derelict with Halcott. One died next evening, and was lashed in his hammock and dropped over the bows a few hours afterwards.

No doubt, seeing his fellow taken away, the other, who was one of the best of the crew, lost heart.

“I’m dying, sir,” he told Halcott. “No use swallowing physic, the others’ll want it soon.”

By-and-by he began to rave. He was on board ship no longer, but walking through the meadows and fields far away in England with his sister by his side.

“I’ll help you over the old-fashioned stile,” Fitz, who was nursing him, heard him say – “yes, the old-fashioned stile, Lizzie. Oh, don’t I love it! And we’ll walk up and away through the corn-field, by the little, winding path, to the churchyard where mother sleeps. Look, look at the crimson poppies, dear siss. How bonnie they are among the green. Ah-h!”

That was a scream which frightened poor Fitz.

“Go not there, sister. See, see, the monster has killed her! Ah, me!”

Fitz rushed aft to seek for assistance, for the captain had told him to call him if Corrie got worse.

Alas! when the two returned together, Corrie’s hammock was empty.

No one had heard even a plash, so gently had he lowered himself over the side, and sunk to rise no more.

Book Two – Chapter Eleven.

Mutiny on Board – Far to the South’ard

“Nothing certain at sea except the unexpected.” The truth of this was sadly exemplified by the terrible calamity which had befallen the Sea Flower– and befallen her so suddenly, too!

Only one week ago she was sailing over a rippling sea on the wings of a favouring breeze, every wavelet dancing joyously in the sunlight. On board, whether fore or aft, there was nothing but hope, happiness, and contentment. Till —

“The angel of death spread his wings on the blast.”

Now all is terror and gloom – a gloom and a terror that have struck deep into the heart of every one who knows what death and sorrow mean.

A breeze has sprung up at last, and both Halcott and Tandy have reluctantly come to the conclusion that it will be better to steer for colder weather. So southward the Sea Flower flies, under every stitch of canvas, with studding-sails low and aloft. Shall the plague be stayed? Heaven alone can tell!

As it is, the depression hangs like a dark, foreboding cloud over the ship.

No one cares to talk much by day or by night. The men sit silently at their meals, with lowered brows and frightened looks. They eye each other askance; they know not who may be the next. They even avoid each other as much as possible while walking the decks. Hardly will a man volunteer to nurse the sick. The hammocks containing these hang on the lee side, and the crew keep far away indeed.

But they smoke from morn till night.

Halcott himself and little Fitz are the only nurses, and both are worn out for want of rest. With their own hands they sew up the hammock of the dead, unhook it, lift the gruesome burden on to the top of the bulwark, and, while the captain with uncovered head raises his eyes to heaven and utters a prayer, the body is committed to the deep, to be torn in pieces next minute by the tigers of the sea.

Poor little Nelda! She is as merry as ever, playing with Bob or the ’Ral on the quarterdeck, and it is strange, in this ship of death, to hear her musical voice raised in song or laughter in the midst of silence and gloom!

No wonder that, hearing this, the delirious or the dying fancy themselves back once more in their village homes in England.

Nelda wonders why the captain, who used to romp and play with her, tries all he can now to avoid her; and why little Fitz, the curious, round-faced, laughing, black boy, with the two rows of alabaster teeth, never comes aft.

Halcott himself never goes below either. He insists upon taking his meals on deck. Nor will he permit Tandy or Ransey to come forward. If he can, he means to confine the awful plague to the fore part of the ship.

They say that in a case of this kind it is always the good who go first. In this instance the adage spoke truly.

Terrible to say, in less than a fortnight no less than thirteen fell victims to the scourge. But still more, more awful, the crew now became mutinous.

Luckily, all arms, and ammunition as well, were safely stored aft.

Durdley was chief mutineer – chief scoundrel! Out of the fourteen men left alive, only four were true to the captain, the others were ready to follow Durdley.

This fellow became a demon now – a demon in command of demons; for they had found some grog which had been in charge of the second mate – who was dead – and excited themselves into fury with it.

Durdley, the dark and ugly man, rushed to the screen-berth where Halcott was trying to ease the sufferings of a poor dying man.

He was as white as a ghost; even his lips were pale.

Beware of men, reader, who get white when angry. They are dangerous!

“Here, Halcott,” cried Durdley, “drop your confounded mummery, and listen to me. Lay aft here, my merry men, lay aft.”

Nine men, chiefly Finns and other foreigners, armed with ugly knives and iron marline-spikes, quickly stationed themselves behind him.

“Now, Halcott, your game’s up. You brought this plague into the ship yourself. By rights you should die. But I depose you. I am captain now, and my brave boys will obey me, and me alone.

“You hear?” he shouted, for Halcott stood a few paces from him, calmly looking him in the face.

“I hear.”

“Then, cusses on you, why don’t ye speak? You’ll be allowed to live, I say, both you and Tandy, on one condition.”

“And that is – ?”

“That you alter your course, and steer straight away to the nearest land – the Falkland Isles – at once.”

“I refuse. Back, you mutinous dog! back! I say. Would you dare to stab your captain? Your blood be,” – here the captain’s revolver rang sharp and clear, and Durdley fell to the deck – “on your own cowardly head.”

There was a wild yell and a rush now, and though the captain fired again and again, he was speedily overpowered.

The revolver was snatched from his hand, and he was borne down by force of numbers.

But assistance was at hand.

“Now, lads, give it to them! Hurrah!”

It was Tandy himself, with the four good men and true, who had run aft between decks to inform the mate of the mutiny.

All were armed with rifles, but these they only clubbed. So fiercely did they fight, that the mutineers speedily dropped their knives and iron marline-spikes, and were driven below, yelling for mercy like the cowards they were.

The captain, though bruised, was otherwise intact. Nor was Durdley dead, though he had lost much blood from a wound – the revolver bullet having crashed through the arm above the elbow, and through the outside of the chest as well. But two Finns lay stark and stiff beside the winch.

Even to tragedy there is always a ridiculous side or aspect, and on the present occasion this was afforded by the strange behaviour of Bob and the Admiral during the terrible mêlée. It is not to be supposed that Bob would be far away from his master when danger threatened him.

Seeing Ransey Tansey, rifle in hand, follow his father to join in repelling the mutineers, it occurred to him at once that two might be of some assistance. It did not take the faithful tyke a moment to make up his mind, but he thought he might be of more use behind the mutineers than in front of them. So he outflanked the whole fighting party, and the attack he made upon the rear of Durdley’s following was very effective.