“Keep her so;” and having bore up, we rapidly widened our distance from the commodore and the fleet.
All men know, or should know, that on board of a man-of-war there is never any “yo-heave-oh-ing.” That is confined to merchant vessels. But when the crew are having a strong pull of any rope, it is allowable for the man next the belaying-pin to sing out, in order to give unity to the drag, “one—two—three,” the strain of the other men increasing with the figure. The tack of the mainsail had got jammed somehow, and on my desiring it to be hauled up, the men, whose province it was, were unable to start it.
“Something foul aloft,” said I.
Tailtackle came up. “What are you fiddling at, men? Give me here—one— two—three.”
Crack went the strands of the rope under the paws of the Titan, whereby the head of the outermost sailor pitched right into Gelid’s stomach, knocked him over, and capsized him headforemost into the windsail which was let down through the skylight into the little well-cabin of the schooner. It so happened that there was a bucket fall of Spanish brown paint standing on the table in the cabin, right below the hoop of the canvass funnel, and into it popped the august pate of Paul Gelid, Esquire. Bang had, in the mean time, caught him by the heels, and with the assistance of Pearl, the handsome negro formerly noticed, who, from his steadiness, had been spared to me as quartermaster, the Conch was once more hoisted on deck, with a scalp of red paint, reaching down over his eyes.
“I say,” quoth Bang, “Gelid, my darling, not quite so smooth as the real Macassar, eh? Shall I try my hand—can shave beautifully—eh?”
“Ah,” drawled Gelid, “don’t require it—lucky my head was shaved in that last fever, Aaron dear. Ah—let me think—you tall man—you sailor fellow— ah—do me the favour to scrape me with your knife—ah—and pray call my servant.”
Timothy, to whom he had addressed himself, set to, and scraped the red paint off his poll; and having called his servant, Chew Chew, handed him over to the negro, who, giving his arm to him, helped him below, and with the assistance of Cologne water, contrived to scrub him decently clean.
As the evening fell, the breeze freshened; and during the night it blew strong, so that from the time we bore up, and parted company with the Firebrand, until day-dawn next morning, we had ran 130 miles or thereby to the northward and westward, and were then on the edge of the Great Bahama Bank. The breeze now failed us, and we lay roasting in the sun until mid-day, the current sweeping us to the northward, and still farther on to the bank, until the water shoaled to three fathoms. At this time the sun was blazing fiercely right overhead; and from the shallowness of the water, there was not the smallest swell or undulation of the surface. The sea, as far as the eye could reach, was a sparkling light green, from the snow-white sand at the bottom, as if a level desert had been suddenly submerged under a few feet of crystal clear water, which formed a cheery spectacle when compared with the customary leaden or dark-blue colour of the rolling fathomless ocean. It was now dead calm. “Fishing lines there—Idlers, fishing lines,” said I; and in a minute there were forty of them down over the side.
In Europe, fish in their shapes partake of the sedate character of the people who inhabit the coasts of the seas or rivers in which they swim—at least I think so. The salmon, the trout, the cod, and all the other tribes of the finny people, are reputable in their shapes, and altogether respectable-looking creatures. But within the tropics, Dame Nature plays strange vagaries; and here, on the Great Bahama Bank, every new customer, as he floundered in on deck—no joke to him, poor fellow—elicited shouts of laughter from the crew. They were in no respect shaped like fish of our cold climates; some were all head—others all tail—some, so far as shape went, had their heads where, with submission, I conceived their tails should have been; and then the colours, the intense brilliancy of the scales of these monstrous-looking animals! We hooked up a lot of bonitos, ten pounds apiece, at the least. But Wagtail took small account of them.
“Here,” said Bang, at this moment, “by all that is wonderful, look here!” And he drew up a fish about a foot long, with a crop like a pigeon of the tumbler kind, which began to make a loud snorting noise.
“Ah,” drawled Gelid, “good fish, with claret sauce.”
“Daresay,” rejoined Aaron; “but do your Bahama fish speak, Paul, eh? Balaam’s ass was a joke to this fellow.”
I have already said that the water was not quite three fathoms deep, and it was so clear that I could see down to the very sand, and there were the fish cruising about in great numbers.
“Haul in, Wagtail—you have hooked him,” and up came a beautiful black grouper, about four pounds weight.
“Ah, there is the regular jiggery-jiggery,” sang out little Reefpoint at the same moment, as he in turn began to pull up his line. “Stand by to land him,” and a red snapper, for all the world like a gigantic gold-fish, was hauled on board; and so we carried on, black snappers, red snappers, and rock fish, and a vast variety, for all of which, however, Wagtail had names pat, until at length I caught a most lovely dolphin—a beauty to look at—but dry, terribly dry to eat. I cast it on the deck, and the cameleon tints of the dying fish, about which so many lies have been said and sung, were just beginning to fade, and wax pale, and ashy, and death-like, when I felt another strong jiggery-jiggery at my line, which little Reefpoint had, in the mean time, baited afresh. “Zounds! I have caught a whale—a shark at the very least”—and I pulled him in, hand over hand.
“A most noble Jew fish,” said I.
“A Jew fish!” responded Wagtail.
“A Jew fish!” said Aaron Bang.
“A Jew fish!” said Paul Gelid.
“My dear Cringle,” continued Wagtail, “when do you dine?”
“At three, as usual.”
“Then, Mr Reefpoint, will you have the great kindness to cast off your sink, and hook that splendid fellow by the tail—only through the gristle—don’t prick him in the flesh—and let him meander about till half-past two?”
Reefy was half inclined to be angry at the idea of his Majesty’s officer being converted into a cook’s mate.
“Why,” said I, “we shall put him in a tub of water here on deck, Mr Wagtail, if you please.”
“God bless me, no!” quoth the gastronome. “Why, he is strong as an eagle, and will smash himself to mummy in half an hour in a tub. No—no; see, he weighs twelve pounds at the very lightest. Lord! Mr Cringle, I am surprised at you.”
The fish was let overboard again, according to his desire, and hauled in at the very moment he indicated by his watch, when, having seen him cut up and cleaned, with his own eyes—I believe I may say with his own hand—he betook himself to his small crib to dress.
At dinner our Creole friend was very entertaining. Bang drew him out, and had him to talk on all his favourite topics, in a most amusing manner. All at once Gelid lay back on his chair.
“My God,” said he, “I have broken my tooth with that confounded hard biscuit—terrible—really; ah!”—and be screwed up his face, as if he had been eating sour-crout, or had heard of the death of a dear friend.
“Poo,” quoth Aaron, “any combmaker will furnish you forth as good as new; those grinders you brag of are not your own, Gelid, you know that.”
“Indeed, Aaron, my dear, I know nothing of the kind; but this I know, that I have broken a most lovely white front tooth—ah!”
“Oh, you be hanged,” said Aaron; “why, you have been be-chopped any time these ten years, I know.”
The time wore on, and it might have been half-past seven when we went on deck.
It was a very dark night—Tailtackle had the watch. “Anything in sight, Mr Tailtackle?”
“Why, no, sir; but I have just asked your steward for your night-glass, as, once or twice—but it is so thick—Pray, sir, how far are we off the Hole in the Wall?”
“Why, sixty miles at the least.”
The Hole in the Wall is a very remarkable rock in the Crooked
Island Passage, greatly resembling, as the name betokens, a wall breached by the sea or by battering cannon, which rises abruptly out of the water, to a height of forty feet.
“Then,” quoth Tailtackle sharply, “there must be a sail close aboard of us, to windward there.”
“Where?” said I. “Quick, send for my night-glass.”
“I have it here in my hand, sir.”
“Let me see;” and I peered through it until my eyes ached again. I could see nothing, and resumed my walk on the quarterdeck. Tailtackle, in the mean time, continued to look through the telescope, and as I turned from aft to walk forward, a few minutes after this—”Why, sir,” said he, “it clears a bit, and I see the object that has puzzled me again.”
“Eh? give me the glass”—in a second I caught it. “By Jupiter, you say true, Tailtackle! beat to quarters—quick—clear away the long gun forward there!”
All was bustle for a minute. I kept my eye on the object, but I could not make out more than that it was a strange sail; I could neither judge of her size nor her rig, from the distance and the extreme darkness of the night. At length I handed the glass to Tailtackle again. We were at this time standing in towards the Cuba shore, with a fine breeze, and going along seven knots, as near as could be.
“Give the glass to Mr Jigmaree, Mr Tailtackle, and come forward here, and see all snug.”
The long gun was slewed round, both carronades were run out, all three being loaded, double-shotted, and carefully primed the whole crew, with our black supernumeraries, being at quarters.
“I see her quite distinct now, sir,” sang out Timotheus.
“Well, what looks she like?”
“A large brig, sir, by the wind on the same tack—you can see her now without the glass—there—with the naked eye.”
I looked, and certainly fancied I saw some towering object rising high and dark to windward, like some mighty spectre walking the deep, but I could discern nothing more.
“She is a large vessel, sure enough, sir,” said Timothy once more—”now she is hauling up her courses, sir—she takes in topgallant sails—why, she is bearing up across our bows, sir—mind she don’t rake us.”
“The deuce!” said I. I now saw the chase very distinctly bear up. “Put the helm up—keep her away a bit—steady—that will do—fire a shot across her bows, Mr Tailtackle—and, Mr Reefpoint, show the private signal.” The gun was fired, and the lights shown, but our spectral friend was all darkness and silence. “Mr Scarfemwell,” said I to the carpenter, “stand by the long gun. Tailtackle, I don’t like that chap—open the magazine.” By this time the strange sail was on our quarter—we shortened sail, while he, finding that his manoeuvre of crossing our bows had been foiled by our bearing up also, got the foretack on board again, and set his topgallant sails, all very cleverly. He was not far out of pistol-shot. Tailtackle, in his shirt and trousers and felt shoes, now stuck his head up the main hatchway.
“I would recommend your getting the hatches on, sir—that fellow is not honest, sir, take my word for it.”
“Never mind, Mr Tailtackle, never mind. Forward, there; Mr Jigmaree, slap a round shot into him, since he won’t speak or heave-to—right between his masts, do you hear—are you ready?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Fire!” The gun was fired, and simultaneously we heard a crash on board the strange sail, followed by a piercing yell, similar to what the negroes raise over a dead comrade, and then a long melancholy howl.
“A slaver, and the shot has told, sir,” said Mr Handland, the master.
“Then we shall have some fun for it,” thought I. I had scarcely spoken, when the brig once more shortened sail; and the instant that the foresail rose, he let fly his bow gun at us—then another, another, and another.
“Nine guns of a side, as I am a sinner,” quoth Jigmaree; and three of the shot struck us, mortally wounded one poor fellow, and damaged poor little Reefy by a splinter in the side.
“Standby, men—take good aim—fire!” and we again let drive the long gun and carronade; but our friend was too quick for us, for by this time he had once more hauled his wind, and made sail as close to it as he could stagger. We crowded everything in chase, but he had the heels of us, and in an hour he was once more nearly out of sight in the dark night, right to windward.
“Keep at him, Mr Jigmaree;” and as I feared he was running us in under the land, I dived to consult the chart. There, in the cabin, I found Wagtail, Gelid, and Bang, sitting smoking on each side of the small table, with some brandy-and-water before them.
“Ah,” quoth Gelid, “ah! fighting a little? Not pleasant in the evening, certainly.”
“Confound you!” said Aaron; “why will you bother at this awkward moment?”
Meanwhile Wagtail was a good deal discomposed.
“My dear fellow, hand me over that devilled biscuit.”
Bang handed him over the dish, slipping into it some fragments of ship biscuit, as hard as flint. All this time I was busy poring over the chart. Wagtail took up a piece and popped it into his mouth.
“Zounds, Bang!—my clear Aaron, what dentist are you in league with?— Gelid first breaks his pet fang, and now you—”
“Poo, Poo,” quoth his friend, “don’t bother now—hillo—what the deuce—I say, Wagtail—Gelid, my lad, look there”—as one of the seamen, with another following him, brought down on his back the poor fellow who had been wounded, and laid his bloody load on the table. To those who are unacquainted with these matters, it may be right to say that the captain’s cabin, in a small vessel like the Wave, is often in an emergency used as a cockpit—and so it was in the present instance.
“Beg pardon, captain and gentlemen,” said the surgeon, “but I must, I fear, perform an ugly operation on this poor fellow. I fancy you had better go on deck, gentlemen.”
Now I had an opportunity to see of what sterling metal my friends were at bottom made. Mr Bang in a twinkling had his coat off.
“Doctor, I can be of use, I know it—no skill, but steady nerves,”—although he had reckoned a leetle without his host here. “And I can swathe a bandage too, although no surgeon,” said Wagtail.
Gelid said nothing, but he was in the end the best surgeon’s mate amongst them. The poor fellow, Wiggins, one of the captain’s gigs, and a most excellent man in quarterdeck parlance, was now laid on the table—a fine handsome young fellow, faint and pale,—very pale, but courageous as a lion, even in his extremity. It appeared that a round shot had shattered his leg above the knee. A tourniquet had been applied on his thigh, and there was not much bleeding.
“Captain,” said the poor fellow, while Bang supported him in his arms, “I shall do yet, sir; indeed I have no great pain.”
All this time the surgeon was cutting off his trousers, and then, to be sure, a terrible spectacle presented itself. The foot and leg, blue and shrunk, were connected with the thigh by a band of muscle about two inches wide and an inch thick; that fined away to a bunch of white tendons or sinews at the knee, which again swelled out as they melted into the muscles of the calf of the leg; but as for the kneebone, it was smashed to pieces, leaving white spikes protruding from the shattered limb above, as well as from the shank beneath. The doctor gave the poor fellow a large dose of laudanum in a glass of brandy, and then proceeded to amputate the limb, high up on the thigh. Bang stood the knife part of it very steadily, but the instant the saw rasped against the shattered bone he shuddered.
“I am going, Cringle—can’t stand that—sick as a dog;” and he was so faint that I had to relieve him in supporting the poor fellow. Wagtail had also to go on deck, but Paul Gelid remained firm as a rock. The limb was cut off, the arteries taken up very cleverly, and the surgeon was in the act of slackening the tourniquet a little, when the thread that fastened the largest or femoral artery suddenly gave way—a gush like the jet from a fire-engine took place. The poor fellow had just time to cry out, “Take that cold hand off my heart!” when his chest collapsed,
his jaw fell, and in an instant his pulse stopped.
“Dead as Julius Caesar, captain,” said Gelid, with his usual deliberation. Dead enough, thought I; and I was leaving the cabin to resume my post on deck, when I stumbled against something, at the ladder foot.
“Why, what is that?” grumbled I.
“It is me, sir,” said a small faint voice.
“You! who are you?”
“Reefpoint, sir.”
“Bless me, boy, what are you doing here? Not hurt, I hope?”
“A little, sir—a graze from a splinter, sir—the same shot that struck poor Wiggins knocked it off, sir.”
“Why did you not go to the doctor, then, Mr Reefpoint?”
“I waited till he was done with Wiggins, sir; but now, since it is all over with him, I will go and be dressed.”
His voice grew fainter and fainter, until I could scarcely hear him. I got him in my arms, and helped him into the cabin, where, on stripping the poor little fellow, it was found that he was much hurt on the right side, just above the hip. Bang’s kind heart—for by this time a glass of water had cured him of his faintness—shone conspicuous on this occasion.
“Why, Reefy—little Reefy—you are not hurt, my man—surely you are not wounded—such a little fellow—I should have as soon thought of firing at a musquito.”
“Indeed, sir, but I am; see here.” Bang looked at the hurt as he supported the wounded midshipman in his arms.
“God help me?” said the excellent fellow; “you seem to me fitter for your mother’s nursery, my poor dear boy, than to be knocked about in this coarse way here.”
Reefy at this moment fell over into his arms in a dead faint.
“You must take my berth, with the captain’s permission,” said Aaron, while he and Wagtail undressed him with the greatest care, and placed him in the narrow crib.
“Thank you, my dear sir,” moaned little Reefpoint; “were my mother here, sir, she would thank you too.”
Stern duty now called me on deck, and I heard no more. The night was still very dark, and I could see nothing of the chase, but I made all the sail I could in the direction which I calculated she would steer, trusting that before morning we might get another glimpse of her. In a little while Bang came on deck.
Tom Cringle's Log Page 47