Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  Her name, for I love to be particular, was the Dragonfly; she was painted out and in of a bright red, amounting to a flame colour—oars red—the men wearing trousers and shirts of red flannel, and red net nightcaps—which common uniform the captain himself wore. I think I have said before that he was a very handsome man, but if I have not, I say so now; and when he had taken his seat, and the gigs—all fine men—were seated each with his oar held upright upon his knees ready to be dropped into the water at the same instant, the craft and her crew formed, to my eye, as pretty a plaything for grown children as ever was seen. “Give way, men;” the oars dipped as clean as so many knives, without a sparkle, the gallant fellows stretched out, and away shot the Dragonfly, like an arrow—the green water foaming into white smoke at the bows and hissing away in her wake.

  She disappeared in a twinkling round the reach of the canal where we were anchored, and we, the officers—for we must needs have our boat also—were making ready to be off, to have a shot at some beautiful cranes, that, floating on their large pinions, slowly passed us with their long legs stuck straight out astern, and their longer necks gathered into their crops, when we heard a loud shouting in the direction where the captain’s boat had vanished. Presently the Devil’s Darning-Needle, as the Scotch part of the crew loved to call the Dragonfly, stuck her long snout round the headland, and came spinning along with a Spanish canoe manned by four negroes, and steered by an elderly gentleman, a sharp acute-looking little man, in a gingham coat, in her wake, also pulling very fast; however, the Don seemed dead beat, and the captain was in great glee. By this time both boats were alongside, and the old Spaniard, Don Ricardo Campana, addressed the captain, judging that he was one of the seamen. “Is the captain on board?” said he in Spanish. The captain, who understood the language, but did not speak it, answered him in French, which Don Ricardo seemed to speak fluently, “No, sir, the captain is not on board; but there is Mr Yerk, the first-lieutenant, at the gangway.” He had come for the letter-bag, he said, and if we had any newspapers, and could spare them, it would be conferring a great favour on him.

  He got his letters and newspapers handed down, and very civilly gave the captain a dollar, who touched his cap, tipped the money to the men, and, winking slightly to old Yerk and the rest of us, addressed himself to shove off. The old Don, drawing up his eyebrows a little (I guess he rather saw who was who, for all his make-believe innocence), bowed to the officers at the gangway, sat down, and, desiring his people to use their broad-bladed, clumsy-looking oars or paddles, began to move awkwardly away. We—that is, the gunroom officers, all except the second-lieutenant, who had the watch, and the master—now got into our own gig also, rowed by ourselves, and away we all went in a covey; the purser and doctor and three of the middies forward, Thomas Cringle, gent., pulling the stroke-oar, with old Moses Yerk as coxswain; and as the Dragonflies were all red, so we were all sea-green—boats, oars, trousers, shirts, and nightcaps. We soon distanced the cumbrous-looking Don, and the strain was between the Devil’s Darning-Needle and our boat, the Watersprite, which was making capital play; for although we had not the bottom of the topmen, yet we had more blood, so to speak, and we had already beaten them, in their last gig, all to sticks. But Dragonfly was a new boat, and now in the water for the first time.

  We were both of us so intent on our own match that we lost sight of the Spaniard altogether, and the captain and the first-lieutenant were bobbing in the stern-sheets of their respective gigs like a couple of souple Tams, as intent on the game as if all our lives had depended on it, when in an instant the long black dirty prow of the canoe was thrust in between us, the old Don singing out, “Dexa mi lugar, paysanos—dexa mi lugar, mis hijos.”* We kept away right and left to look at the miracle; and there lay the canoe, rumbling and splashing, with her crew walloping about, and grinning and yelling like incarnate fiends, and as naked as the day they were born, and the old Don himself, so staid and so sedate and drawley as he was a minute before, now all alive, shouting “Tira, diablitos, tira!”† flourishing a small paddle, with which he steered about his head like a wheel, and dancing and jumping about in his seat, as if his bottom had been a haggis with quicksilver in it.

  “Zounds,” roared the skipper,—”why, topmen—why, gentlemen, give way for the honour of the ship—Gentlemen, stretch out—Men, pull like devils; twenty pounds if you beat him.”

  We pulled, and they pulled, and the water roared, and the men strained their muscles and sinews to cracking; and all was splash, splash, and whiz, whiz, and pech, pech, about us; but it would not do; the canoe headed us like a shot, and in passing, the cool old Don again subsided into a calm as suddenly as he had been roused from it, and sitting once more, stiff as a poker, turned round and touched his sombrero, “I will tell that you are coming, gentlemen.”

  It was now the evening, near nightfall, and we had been so intent on beating our awkward-looking opponent, that we had none of us had time to look at the splendid scene that burst upon our view, on rounding a precipitous rock, from the crevices of which some magnificent trees shot up—their gnarled trunks and twisted branches overhanging, the canal where we were pulling, and anticipating the fast-falling darkness that was creeping over the fair face of nature; and there we floated, in the deep shadow of the cliff and trees—Dragonflies and Water-sprites, motionless and silent, the boats floating so lightly that they scarcely seemed to touch the water, the men resting on their oars, and all of us rapt with the magnificence of the scenery around us, beneath us, and above us.

  The left or western bank of the narrow entrance to the harbour, from which we were now debouching, ran out in all its precipitousness and beauty (with its dark evergreen bushes over-shadowing the deep blue waters, and its gigantic trees shooting forth high into the glowing western sky, their topmost branches gold-tipped in the flood of radiance shed by the rapidly sinking sun, while all below where we lay was grey cold shade), until it joined the northern shore, when it sloped away gradually towards the east; the higher parts of the town sparkled in the evening sun, on this dun ridge, like golden turrets on the back of an elephant, while the houses that were in the shade covered the declivity with their dark masses, until it sank down to the water’s edge. On the right hand the haven opened boldly out into a basin about four miles broad by seven long, in which the placid waters spread out beyond the shadow of the western bank into one vast sheet of molten gold, with the canoe tearing along the shining surface, her side glancing in the sun, and her paddles flashing back his rays, and leaving a long train of living fire sparkling in her wake.

  It was now about six o’clock in the evening; the sun had set to us, as we pulled along under the frowning brow of the cliff, where the birds were fast settling on their nightly perches with small happy twitterings, and the lizards and numberless other chirping things began to send forth their evening hymn to the great Being who made them and us, and a solitary white-sailing owl would every now and then flit spectre-like from one green tuft, across the bald face of the cliff, to another, and the small divers around us were breaking up the black surface of the waters into little sparkling circles as they fished for their suppers. All was becoming brown and indistinct near us; but the level beams of the setting sun still lingered with a golden radiance upon the lovely city, and the shipping at anchor before it, making their sails, where loosed to dry, glance like leaves of gold, and their spars and masts and rigging like wires of gold, and gilding their flags, which were waving majestically and slow from the peaks in the evening breeze; and the Moorish-looking steeples of the churches were yet sparkling in the glorious blaze, which was gradually deepening into gorgeous crimson, while the large pillars of the cathedral, then building on the highest part of the ridge, stood out like brazen monuments, softening even as we looked into a Stonehenge of amethysts. One-half of every object—shipping, houses, trees, and hills—was gloriously illuminated; but, even as we looked, the lower part of the town gradually sank into darkness, and faded from our sight; the d
eepening gloom cast by the high bank above us, like the dark shadow of a bad spirit, gradually crept on, and on, and extended farther and farther; the sailing water-fowl, in regular lines, no longer made the water flash up like flame; the russet mantle of eve was fast extending over the entire hemisphere; the glancing minarets, and the tallest trees, and the topgallant-yards and masts of the shipping, alone flashed back the dying effulgence of the glorious orb, which every moment grew fainter and fainter, and redder and redder, until it shaded into purple, and the loud deep bell of the convent of La Merced swung over the still waters, announcing the arrival of even-song and the departure of day.

  “Had we not better pull back to supper, sir?” quoth Moses Yerk to the captain. We all started, the men dipped their oars, our dreams were dispelled, the charm was broken!—”Confound the matter-of-fact blockhead,” or something very like it, grumbled the captain—”but give way, men,” fast followed, and we returned towards the ship. We had not pulled fifty yards when we heard the distant rattle of the muskets of the sentries at the gangways as they discharged them at sundown, and were remarking, as we were rowing leisurely along, upon the strange effects produced by the reports, as they were frittered away amongst the overhanging cliffs in chattering reverberations, when the captain suddenly sang out, “Oars!” All hands lay on them. “Look there,” he continued— “there—between the gigs—saw you ever anything like that, gentlemen?” We all leant over; and although the boats, from the way they had, were skimming along nearer seven than five knots—there lay a large shark—he must have been twelve feet long at the shortest—swimming right in the middle, and equidistant from both, and keeping way with us most accurately.

  He was distinctly visible, from the strong and vivid phosphorescence excited by his rapid motion through the sleeping waters of the dark creek, which lit up his jaws, and head, and whole body; his eyes were especially luminous, while a long wake of sparkles streamed away astern of him from the lashing of his tail. As the boats lost their speed the luminousness of his appearance faded gradually as he shortened sail also, until he disappeared altogether. He was then at rest, and suspended motionless in the water; and the only thing that indicated his proximity was an occasional sparkle from the motion of a fin. We brought the boats nearer together, after pulling a stroke or two, but he seemed to sink as we closed, until at last we could merely perceive an indistinct halo far down in the clear black profound. But as we separated, and resumed our original position, he again rose near the surface, and although the ripple and dip of the oars rendered him invisible while we were pulling, yet the moment we again rested on them, there was the monster, like a persecuting fiend, once more right between us, glaring on us, and apparently watching every motion. It was a terrible spectacle, and rendered still more striking by the melancholy occurrence of the forenoon.

  “That’s the very identical, damnable baste himself, as murthered poor little Louis this morning, yeer honour; I knows him from the torn flesh of him under his larboard blinker, sir,—just where Wiggens’s boathook punished him,” quoth the Irish captain of the mizentop.

  “A water-kelpie,” murmured another of the captain’s gigs—a Scotchman.

  The men were evidently alarmed. “Stretch out, men; never mind the shark—he can’t jump into the boat, surely,” said the skipper. “What the deuce are you afraid of?”

  We arrived within pistol-shot of the ship. As we approached, the sentry hailed, “Boat, ahoy!”

  “Firebrand,” sang out the skipper, in reply.

  “Man the side—gangway lanterns there,” quoth the officer on duty; and by the time we were close to there were two sidesmen over the side with the man-ropes ready stuck out to our grasp, and two boys with lanterns above them. We got on deck, the officers touching their hats, and speedily the captain dived down the ladder, saying, as he descended, “Mr Yerk, I shall be happy to see you and your boat’s crew at supper, or rather to a late dinner, at eight o’clock, but come down a moment as you are. Tailtackle, bring the gigs into the cabin to get a glass of grog, will you?”

  “Ay, ay, sir,” responded Timothy. “Down with you, you flaming thieves, and see you don’t snort and sniffle in your grog, as if you were in your own mess, like so many pigs slushing at the same trough.”

  “Lord love you, Tim,” rejoined one of the topmen, “who made you master of the ceremonies, old Ironfist, eh? Where learnt you your breeding?—Among the cockatoos up yonder?”

  Tim laughed, who, although he ought to have been in his bed, had taken his seat in the Dragonfly when her crew were piped over the side in the evening, and thereby subjected himself to a rap over the knuckles from the captain; but, where the offence might be said to consist in a too assiduous discharge of his duty, it was easily forgiven, unfortunate as the issue of the race had been. So down we all trundled into the cabin, masters and men. It was brilliantly lighted up—the table sparkling with crystal and wine, and glancing with silver plate; and there on a sofa lay Aaron Bang, in all his pristine beauty, and fresh from his toilet, for he had just got out of his cot after an eight-and-forty hours’ sojourn therein—nice white neckcloth—white jean waistcoat and trousers, and span-new blue coat. He was reading when we entered; and the captain, in his flame-coloured costume, was close aboard of him before he raised his eyes, and rather staggered him a bit; but when seven sea-green spirits followed, he was exceedingly nonplussed, and then came the six red Dragonflies, who ranged themselves three on each side of the door, with their net-bags in their hands, smoothing down their hair, and sidling and fidgetting about at finding themselves so far out of their element as the cabin.

  “Mafame,” said the captain, “a glass of grog a-piece to the Dragonflies,” and a tumbler of liquid amber (to borrow from my old friend Cooper) sparkled in the large bony claw of each of them. “Now, drink Mr Bang’s health.” They, as in duty bound, let fly at our amigo in a volley.

  “Your health, Mr Bang.”

  Aaron sprang from his seat, and made his salaam, and the Dragonflies bundled out of the cabin again.

  “I say, Transom, John Canoeing still—always some frolic in the wind.”

  We, the Watersprites, had shifted and rigged, and were all mustered aft on the poop, enjoying the little air there was, as it fanned us gently, and waiting for the announcement of supper. It was a pitch-dark night, neither moon nor stars. The murky clouds seemed to have settled down on the mastheads, shrouding every object in the thickest gloom.

  “Ready with the gun forward there, Mr Catwell?” said Yerk.

  “All ready, sir.”

  “Fire!”

  Pent up as we were in a narrow channel, walled in on each side with towering precipitous rocks, the explosion, multiplied by the echoes into a whole broadside, was tremendous, and absolutely deafening.

  The cold, grey, threatening rocks and the large overhanging twisted branches of the trees, and the clear black water, and the white Moro in the distance, glanced for an instant, and then all was again veiled in utter darkness, and down came a rattling shower of sand and stones from the cliffs, and of rotten branches and heavy dew from the trees, sparkling in the water like a shower of diamonds; and the birds of the air screamed, and, frightened from their nests and perches in crevices, and on the boughs of the trees, took flight with a strong rushing noise, that put one in mind of the rising of the fallen angels from the infernal council in Paradise Lost; and the cattle on the mountain-side lowed, and the fish, large and small, like darts and arrows of fire, sparkled up from the black abyss of waters, and swam in haloes of flame round the ship in every direction, as if they had been the ghosts of a shipwrecked crew, haunting the scene of their destruction; and the guanas and large lizards, which had been shaken from the trees, skimmed and struggled on the surface in glances of fire, like evil spirits watching to seize them as their prey. At length the screaming and shrieking of the birds, the clang of their wings, and the bellowing of the cattle ceased, and the startled fish subsided slowly down into the oozy caverns at the bot
tom of the sea, and becoming motionless, disappeared and all was again black and undistinguishable—the deathlike silence being only broken by the hoarse murmuring of the distant surf.

  “Magnificent!” burst from the captain. “Messenger, send Mr Portfire here.” The gunpowder functionary—he of the flannel cartridge—appeared. “Gunner, send one of your mates into the maintop, and let him burn a blue light.”

  The lurid glare blazed up balefully amongst the spars and rigging, lighting up the decks, and blasting the crew into the likeness of the host of Sennacherib, when the day broke on them and they were all dead corpses. Astern of us, indistinct from the distance, the white Moro Castle reappeared, and rose frowning, tier above tier, like a Tower of Babel, with its summit veiled in the clouds, and the startled sea-fowl wheeling above the higher batteries, like snow-flakes blown about in a storm; while, near at hand, the rocks on each side of us looked as if fresh splintered asunder, with the sulphureous flames which had split them still burning; the trees looked no longer green, but were sicklied o’er with a pale ashy colour, as if sheeted ghosts were holding their midnight orgies amongst their branches; cranes and water-fowl and birds of many kinds, and all the insect and reptile tribes—their gaudy noontide colours merged into one and the same fearful deathlike sameness—flitted and sailed and circled above us, and chattered and screamed and shrieked; and the unearthly-looking guanas, and numberless creeping things, ran out on the boughs to peer at us; and a large snake twined itself up a scathed stump that shot out from a shattered pinnacle of rock that overhung us, with its glossy skin, glancing like the brazen serpent set up by Moses in the camp of the Israelites; and the cattle on the beetling summit of the cliff craned over the precipitous ledge to look down upon us; and, while everything around us and above us was thus glancing in the blue and ghastly radiance, the band struck up a low moaning air; the light burnt out, and once more we were cast, by the contrast, into even more palpable darkness than before. I was entranced, and stood with folded arms, looking forth into the night, and musing intensely on the appalling scene which had just vanished like a feverish dream—”Dinner waits, sir,” quoth Mafame.