stories of the sea have in my humble opinion been quite unfairly dealt with by the majority of their narrators. told for the benefit of non-seafaring folk by writers, who, however great their literary gifts, have had merely a nodding acquaintance with the everyday doings on board ship, they generally lack proportion, and fail to convey to shore folk an intimate sense of the sea-atmosphere. especially has this been so with books for young people, as was no doubt to be expected. so much has this been the case that sailors generally despise sea-stories, finding them utterly unlike anything they have ever experienced themselves. of late years there have been some notable exceptions among sea story writers, most of them happily still living and doing splendid service. one cunning hand is still, that of james runciman, whose yarns are salt as the ocean, and have most truly held the mirror up to nature in a manner unexcelled by any other marine writer living or dead. freedom from exaggeration, clarity of expression, and sympathetic insight into sea-life were his main features, and no one hated more than he the utterly impossible beings and doings common to the bulk of sea-fiction.
whether it be from lack of imaginative power or118 an unfertile inventiveness i cannot say, but it has always appeared to me as if one need never travel outside the actual facts of his experience, however humdrum it may appear to the casual observer, to find matters sufficiently interesting to hold any intelligent reader enthralled, always providing that matter be well presented. and in that belief i venture to tell a plain tale here, into which no fiction enters except proper names.
drifting about the world, as the great fucus wanders from shore to shore, having once been dislodged from its parent rock, i one day found myself ashore at quilimane, desperately anxious to get a berth in any capacity on board ship for the sole purpose of getting away. my prospects were not very rosy, for the only vessels in the hateful place were two or three crazy country craft with arab crews, that looked exceedingly like slavers to me. at last, to my intense relief, a smart looking barquentine entered the port and anchored. i was, as usual, lounging about the beach (it seemed the healthiest place i could find) and my longing eyes followed every move of the crew as they busied themselves in getting the boat out. when the captain stepped ashore i was waiting to meet him, and the first words he heard were—
“do you want a hand, cap’n?”
taking keen stock of me, he said, “what sort of a berth do you want?”
“well, sir,” i replied, “i’ve got a second-mate’s ticket, but i’ll go as boy for the chance of getting away from here, if necessary.”
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“i want a cook-and-steward,” he murmured dubiously, “and as i’ve got my wife aboard the cooking’s rather important.”
“i’m your man, sir,” i cried, “if i can’t cook you can dump me overboard. i never shipped as cook yet, but i’ve had to teach a good few cooks how to boil salt water without burning it.”
he smiled pleasantly at this, and said, “i must say i like your looks and—well there, jump into the boat. i’ll be back directly.”
sure enough, in a couple of hours i was busy in her cosy galley, while the chaps were rattling the windlass round with a will, anxious enough to get clear of that sweltering coast. from the first my relations with all hands were of the pleasantest kind. they had suffered many things at the hands of several so-called cooks during the eighteen months they had been away from home, each dirty destroyer of provisions being worse than his predecessor. but especially were my efforts appreciated in the cabin. the skipper had with him his wife and two little girls, aged four and five respectively, who made that little corner of the ship seem to a homeless, friendless wanderer like myself a small heaven. mrs. brunton was a sweet-faced grey-eyed woman of about thirty, with a quiet tenderness of manner and speech that made a peaceful atmosphere about her like that of a summer sunday evening in some tiny english village. her husband was a grand specimen of a british seaman, stalwart and fair-haired, with a great sweeping beard and bright blue eyes that always had a lurking smile in their depths. the pair120 appeared to have but one mind. their chief joy seemed to be in the silent watching of their children’s gambols, as, like two young lambs, they galloped round the decks or wriggled about the cramped fittings of the small saloon. the charm of that happy home-circle was over all hands. you might say that the ship worked herself, there was so little sign of the usual machinery of sea-life.
so the days slipped away as we crept down towards the cape, bound round to barbadoes, of all places in the world. then in the ordinary course of events the weather got gradually worse, until one night it culminated in a following gale of hurricane fierceness, thundering down out of an ebony sky that almost rested on the mastheads. by-and-by the swart dungeon about us became shot with glowing filaments that quivered on the sight like pain-racked nerves, and the bass of the storm fell two octaves. sail had been reduced to the fore lower topsail and the fore-topmast staysail, which had the sheet hauled flat aft in case of her broaching-to. even under those tiny rags she flew before the hungering blast like a hare when the hounds are only her own length behind. the black masses of water gradually rose higher alongside as they bellowed past until their terrible heads peered inboard as if seeking the weakest spot. they began to break over all, easily at first, but presently with a sickening crash that made itself felt in one’s very bowels. at last two menacing giants rose at once on either side, curving their huge heads until they overhung the waist. thus, for an appreciable fraction of time, they stood, then fell—121on the main-hatch. it cracked—sagged downward—and every man on deck knew that the foot-thick greenheart fore-and-after was broken, and that another sea like that would sink us like a saucer. hitherto the skipper had been standing near the cuddy scuttle, in which his wife crouched, her eyes dim with watching her husband. now he stooped and whispered three words in her ear. with one more glance up into his face she crept down into their berth, and over to where the two little ones were sleeping soundly. gently, but with an untrembling hand, she covered their ruddy faces with a folded mosquito net and turned out the light. then she swiftly returned to her self-chosen post in the scuttle, just reaching up a hand to touch her husband’s arm, and let him know that she was near. the quiver that responded was answer enough. he was looking astern, and all his soul was in his eyes. for there was a streak of kindly light, a line of hope on the murky heaven. it broadened to a rift, the blue shone through, and stooping he lifted his wife’s head above the hatch, turning her face so that she too might see and rejoice. she lifted her face, with streaming eyes, to his for a kiss, then fled below, turned up the light again, and uncovered the children’s faces. five minutes later she heard his step coming down, and devoured him with her eyes as he walked to the barometer, peered into it and muttered “thank god.”
a fortnight later i was prowling up and down the cabin outside their closed state-room door, my fingers twitching with nervousness, and a lump continually rising in my throat that threatened to choke me; for within that tiny space, the captain, all unaided except by his great love and quiet common sense, was elbowing a grim shadow that seemed to envy him his treasure. now and then a faint moan curdled round my heart, making it ache as if with cold. beyond that there was no sign from within, and the suspense fretted me till i felt like a bundle of bare nerves. overhead i could hear the barefooted step of the mate, as he wandered with uncertain gait about the lee side of the poop under the full glow of the passionless moon. at last, when i felt as worn as if i had been swimming for hours, there came a thin, gurgling little wail—a new voice that sent a thrill through the curves of my brain with a sharp pang. and then i felt the hot tears running down my face—why, i did not know. a minute later the door swung open, and the skipper said, in a thick, strange tone, “it’s all right, peter; i’ve a son. and she’s grand, my boy, she’s grand.” i mumbled out something; i meant well, i’m sure, but no one could have understood me. he knew, and shook hands with me heartily. and presently i was nursing the bonny mite as if i had never done aught else—me that never had held a baby before. it was good, too; it lay in my arms on a pillow, and looked up at me with bright, unwinking eyes.
then came three weeks of unalloyed delight. overhead the skies were serene—that deep, fathomless blue, that belongs of right to the wide, shoreless seas of the tropics, where the constant winds blow unfalteringly to a mellow harmony of love. on board, every thought was drawn magnet-wise to the tiny babe who had come among us like a messenger from another sphere, and the glances cast at the tender mother as she sat under the little awning, like a queen holding her court, were almost reverential. never a man of us will forget that peaceful time. few words were spoken, but none of them were angry, for every one felt an influence at work on him that, while it almost bewildered him, made him feel gentle and kind. but into the midst of this peaceful time came that envious shadow again. how it happened no man could tell; what malign seed had suddenly germinated, after so long lying dormant, was past all speculation of ours. the skipper himself fell sick. for a few days he fought man-fashion against a strange lassitude that sapped all his great strength and overcame even his bright cheery temper until he became fretful as a sickly babe. at last there came a day when he could not rise from his cot. with a beseeching look in his eyes he lay, his fine voice sunk to a whisper and his sunny smile gone. his wife hovered about him continually, unsparing of herself, and almost forgetting the first claim of the babe. the children, with the happy thoughtlessness of their age, could not be kept quiet, so, for the most part, they played forward with the crew, where they were as happy as the day was long. every man did his best to entertain them; and when sailors make pets of children, those children are favoured by fortune. meanwhile, in the cabin, we fought inch by inch with death for our friend. but our hands were tied by ignorance, for the rough directions of the book in the medicine chest gave us no help in dealing with this strange disease. gradually the fine frame of the skipper dwindled and shrank, larger and more wistful grew his eyes, but after the first appalling discovery of his weakness he never uttered a complaining word. he lay motionless, unnoticing, except that into the deep wells of his eyes there came an expression of great content and peace whenever his wife bent over him. she scarcely ever spoke, for he had apparently lost all power of comprehension as well as speech, except that which entered his mind by sight. thus he sank, as lulls the sea-breeze on a tropical shore when twilight comes. and one morning at four, as i lay coiled in a fantastic heap upon one of the settees near his door, sleeping lightly as a watch-dog, a long, low moan tugged at my heart-strings, and i sat up shivering like one in an ague-fit, although we were on the line. swiftly i stepped into his room, where i saw his wife with one arm across his breast and her face beside his on the pillow. she had fainted, and so was mercifully spared for a little while the agony of that parting—for he was dead.
up till that time every device that seamanship could suggest had been put into practice to hurry the ship on, so that she was a perfect pyramid of canvas rigged wherever it would catch a wasting air. but all was of little use, for the wind had fallen lighter and lighter each day until, at the time of the skipper’s passing, it was a stark calm. then, as if some invisible restraint had been suddenly removed, up sprang the wind, strong and steady, necessitating the instant removal of all those fragile adjuncts to her speed that had been rigged everywhere possible aloft. so that no one had at first any leisure to brood over our great loss but myself, and i could only watch with almost breathless anxiety for the return of that sorely-tried, heroic woman to a life from which her chief joy had been taken away. she remained so long in that death-like trance that again and again i was compelled to reassure myself, by touching her arms and face, that she was still alive, and yet i dreaded her re-awakening. at last, with a long-drawn sigh, she lifted her head, looked steadfastly for a while at the calm face of her dead husband, then stooped and kissed him once. then she turned to me as i stood at the door, with the silent tears streaming down my face, and said, in a perfectly steady voice (i can hear it now), “are my children well?” “yes, ma’am,” i answered, “they are all asleep.” “thank you,” she murmured; “i will go and lie down with them a little while. i feel so tired. no” (seeing i was about to offer), “i want nothing just now but rest.” so she turned into their little cabin and shut the door. i went on deck and waited until the mate (now skipper) was free, and then told him how she was. he immediately made preparations for the burial, for we were still a week’s sail from port. in an hour all was ready, and silently we awaited the re-appearance of the chief mourner. she came out at breakfast-time, looking like a woman of marble. quietly thanking the new skipper for what he had done, she resumed her motherly duties, saying no word and showing no sign of the ordeal she was enduring.
all through the last solemn scene, except for a convulsive shudder as the sullen plunge alongside closed the service, she preserved the same tearless calm, and afterwards, while she remained on board—which was only until we arrived at barbadoes—she preserved the same automaton-like demeanour. the mail steamer arrived the day after we anchored, and we took her on board for the passage to england; her bitter tragedy moving most of the passengers to tears as the history of it spread like wildfire among them. and as the medway steamed out of the harbour, we all stood on the poop of our own vessel, with bared heads, in respectful farewell to, and deepest sympathy for, our late captain’s wife.
