The sailor pulled out a horn snuff box and presented a small pinch to Robinson, who wrapped it up in a little bit of paper, intending to give it to Aunt Dorcas. Then, not to be outdone in politeness, he offered the sailor-man some barley sugar.
If Robinson was not fond of snuff, at all events his new acquaintance had no objection to candy. He ate an alarming quantity. Then he pulled Robinson’s ear and complimented him, and said he had five chins. He promised to take Robinson to the cabbage seed shop; and, finally, he begged to have the honour of showing him over a ship engaged in the ginger trade, commanded by Captain Barnabas Butcher, and named the “Pound of Candles”.
Robinson did not very much like the name. It reminded him of tallow, of lard, of crackle and trimmings of bacon. But he allowed himself to be led away, smiling shyly, and walking on his toes. If Robinson had only known … that man was a ship’s cook!
As they turned down the steep narrow lane, out of High Street, leading to the harbour, old Mr. Mumby at his shop door called out anxiously, “Robinson! Robinson!” But there was too much noise of carts. And a customer coming into the shop at that moment distracted his attention, and he forgot the suspicious behaviour of the sailor. Otherwise, out of regard for the family, he would undoubtedly have ordered his dog, Tipkins, to go and fetch Robinson back. As it was, he was the first person to give useful information to the police, when Robinson had been missed. But it was then too late.
Robinson and his new friend went down the long flight of steps to the harbour basin — very high steps, steep and slippery. The little pig was obliged to jump from step to step until the sailor kindly took hold of him. They walked along the quay hand in hand; their appearance seemed to cause unbounded amusement.
Robinson looked about him with much interest. He had peeped over those steps before when he had come into Stymouth in the donkey cart, but he had never ventured to go down, because the sailors are rather rough, and because they frequently have little snarling terriers on guard about their vessels.
There were ever so many ships in the harbour; the noise and bustle was almost as loud as it had been up above in the market square. A big three-masted ship called the “Goldielocks” was discharging a cargo of oranges; and farther along the quay, a small coasting brig called “Little Bo Peep” of Bristol was loading up with bales of wool belonging to the sheep of Ewehampton and Lambworthy.
Old Sim Ram, with a sheepbell and big curly horns, stood by the gangway keeping count of the bales. Every time the crane swung round and let down another bale of wool into the hold, with a scuffle of rope through the pulley, Simon Ram nodded his old head, and the bell went “tinkle tinkle, tong”, and he gave a gruff bleat.
He was a person who knew Robinson by sight and ought to have warned him. He had often passed Piggery Porcombe when he drove down the lane in his gig. But his blind eye was turned towards the quay; and he had been flustered and confused by an argument with the pursers as to whether thirty-five bales of wool had been hoisted on board already or only thirty-four.
So he kept his one useful eye carefully on the wool, and counted it by the notches on his tally stick — another bale — another notch — thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven; he hoped the number would come right at the finish.
His bob-tailed sheepdog, Timothy Gyp, was also acquainted with Robinson, but he was busy superintending a dog fight between an Airedale terrier belonging to the collier “Margery Dawe” and a Spanish dog belonging to the “Goldielocks”. No one took any notice of their growling and snarling, which ended in both rolling over the side of the quay and falling into the water. Robinson kept close to the sailor and held his hand very tight.
The “Pound of Candles” proved to be a good-sized schooner, newly painted and decorated with certain flags, whose significance was not understood by Robinson. She lay near the outer end of the jetty. The tide was running up fast, lapping against the ship’s sides and straining the thick hawsers by which she was moored to the quay.
The crew were stowing goods on board and doing things with ropes under the direction of Captain Barnabas Butcher; a lean, brown, nautical person with a rasping voice. He banged things about and grumbled; parts of his remarks were audible on the quay. He was speaking about the tug “Sea-horse” — and about the spring tide, with a north-east wind behind it — and the baker’s man and fresh vegetables — “to be shipped at eleven sharp; likewise a joint of…” He stopped short suddenly, and his eye lighted upon the cook and Robinson.
Robinson and the cook went on board across a shaky plank. When Robinson stepped on to the deck, he found himself face to face with a large yellow cat who was blacking boots.
The cat gave a start of surprise and dropped its blacking brush. It then began to wink and make extraordinary faces at Robinson. He had never seen a cat behave in that way before. He inquired whether it was ill. Whereupon the cook threw a boot at it, and it rushed up into the rigging. But Robinson he invited most affably to descend into the cabin, to partake of muffins and crumpets.
I do not know how many muffins Robinson consumed. He went on eating them until he fell asleep; and he went on sleeping until his stool gave a lurch, and he fell off and rolled under the table. One side of the cabin floor swung up to the ceiling; and the other side of the ceiling swung down to the floor. Plates danced about; and there were shoutings and thumpings and rattling of chains and other bad sounds.
Robinson picked himself up, feeling bumped. He scrambled up a sort of a ladder-staircase on to the deck. Then he gave squeal upon squeal of horror! All round the ship there were great big green waves; the houses on the quay were like dolls’ houses; and high up inland, above the red cliffs and green fields, he could see the farm of Piggery Porcombe looking no bigger than a postage stamp. A little white patch in the orchard was Aunt Porcas’s washing, spread out to bleach upon the grass. Near at hand the black tug “Sea-horse” smoked and plunged and rolled. They were winding in the tow rope which had just been cast loose from the “Pound of Candles”.
Captain Barnabas stood up in the bows of his schooner; he yelled and shouted to the master of the tug. The sailors shouted also, and pulled with a will, and hoisted the sails. The ship heeled over and rushed through the waves, and there was a smell of the sea.
As for Robinson — he tore round and round the deck like one distracted, shrieking very shrill and loud. Once or twice he slipped down; for the deck was extremely sideways; but still he ran and he ran. Gradually his squeals subsided into singing, but still he kept on running, and this is what he sang —
“Poor Pig Robinson Crusoe!
Oh, how in the world could they do so?
They have set him afloat, in a horrible boat,
Oh, poor pig Robinson Crusoe!”
The sailors laughed until they cried; but when Robinson had sung that same verse about fifty times, and upset several sailors by rushing between their legs, they began to get angry. Even the ship’s cook was no longer civil to Robinson. On the contrary, he was very rude indeed. He said that if Robinson did not leave off singing through his nose, he would make him into pork chops.
Then Robinson fainted, and fell flat upon the deck of the “Pound of Candles”.
Chapter Seven
It must not be supposed for one moment that Robinson was ill-treated on board ship. Quite the contrary. He was even better fed and more petted on the “Pound of Candles” than he had been at Piggery Porcombe. So, after a few days’ fretting for his kind old aunts (especially while he was seasick), Robinson became perfectly contented and happy. He found what is called his “sea legs”; and he scampered about the deck until the time when he became too fat and lazy to scamper.
The cook was never tired of boiling porridge for him. A whole sack full of meal and a sack of potatoes appeared to have been provided especially for his benefit and pleasure. He could eat as much as he pleased. It pleased him to eat a great deal and to lie on the warm boards of the deck. He got lazier and lazier as the ship sailed south into warmer weather.
The mate made a pet of him; the crew gave him tit-bits. The cook rubbed his back and scratched his sides — his ribs could not be tickled, because he had laid so much fat on. The only persons who refused to treat him as a joke were the yellow tom-cat and Captain Barnabas Butcher, who was of a sour disposition.
The attitude of the cat was perplexing to Robinson. Obviously it disapproved of the maize meal porridge business, and it spoke mysteriously about the impropriety of greediness, and about the disastrous results of over-indulgence. But it did not explain what those results might be, and as the cat itself cared neither for yellow meal nor ’taties, Robinson thought that its warnings might arise from prejudice. It was not unfriendly. It was mournful and foreboding.
The cat itself was crossed in love. Its morose and gloomy outlook upon life was partly the result of separation from the owl. That sweet hen-bird, a snowy owl of Lapland, had sailed upon a northern whaler, bound for Greenland. Whereas the “Pound of Candles” was heading for the tropic seas.
Therefore the cat neglected its duties, and was upon the worst of terms with the cook. Instead of blacking boots and valeting the Captain, it spent days and nights in the rigging, serenading the moon. Between times it came down on deck, and remonstrated with Robinson.
It never told him plainly why he ought not to eat so much; but it referred frequently to a mysterious date (which Robinson could never remember) — the date of Captain Butcher’s birthday, which he celebrated annually by an extra good dinner.
“That’s what they are saving up apples for. The onions are done — sprouted with the heat. I heard Captain Barnabas tell the cook that onions were of no consequence as long as there were apples for sauce.”
Robinson paid no attention. In fact, he and the cat were both on the side of the ship, watching a shoal of silvery fishes. The ship was completely becalmed. The cook strolled across the deck to see what the cat was looking at and exclaimed joyfully at sight of fresh fish. Presently half the crew were fishing. They baited their lines with bits of scarlet wool and bits of biscuit; and the boatswain had a successful catch on a line baited with a shiny button.
The worst of button fishing was that so many fish dropped off while being hauled on deck. Consequently Captain Butcher allowed the crew to launch the jolly boat, which was let down from some iron contraption called “the davits” on to the glassy surface of the sea. Five sailors got into the boat; the cat jumped in also. They fished for hours. There was not a breath of wind.
In the absence of the cat, Robinson fell asleep peacefully upon the warm deck. Later he was disturbed by the voices of the mate and the cook, who had not gone fishing. The former was saying:
“I don’t fancy loin of pork with sunstroke, Cooky. Stir him up; or else throw a piece of sail cloth over him. I was bred on a farm myself. Pigs should never be let sleep in a hot sun.”
“As why?” inquired the cook.
“Sunstroke,” replied the mate. “Likewise it scorches the skin; makes it peely like; spoils the look of the crackling.”
At this point a rather heavy dirty piece of sail cloth was flung over Robinson, who struggled and kicked with sudden grunts.
“Did he hear you, Matey?” asked the cook in a lower voice.
“Don’t know; don’t matter; he can’t get off the ship,” replied the mate, lighting his pipe.
“Might upset his appetite; he’s feeding beautiful,” said the cook.
Presently the voice of Captain Barnabas Butcher was heard. He had come up on deck after a siesta below in his cabin.
“Proceed to the crow’s nest on the main mast; observe the horizon through a telescope according to latitude and longitude. We ought to be amongst the archipelago by the chart and compass,” said the voice of Captain Butcher.
It reached the ears of Robinson through the sail cloth in muffled tones, but peremptory; although it was not so received by the mate, who occasionally contradicted the Captain when no one else was listening.
“My corns are very painful,” said the mate.
“Send the cat up,” ordered Captain Barnabas briefly.
“The cat is out in the boat fishing.”
“Fetch him in then,” said Captain Barnabas, losing his temper. “He has not blacked my boots for a fortnight.” He went below; that is, down a stepladder into his cabin, where he proceeded to work out the latitude and longitude again, in search of the archipelago.
“It’s to be hoped that he mends his temper before next Thursday, or he won’t enjoy roast pork!” said the mate to the cook.
They strolled to the other end of the deck to see what fish had been caught; the boat was coming back.
As the weather was perfectly calm, it was left over night upon the glassy sea, tied below a port-hole (or ship’s window) at the stern of the “Pound of Candles”.
The cat was sent up the mast with a telescope; it remained there for some time. When it came down it reported quite untruthfully that there was nothing in sight. No particular watch or look-out was kept that night upon the “Pound of Candles” because the ocean was so calm. The cat was supposed to watch — if anybody did. All the rest of the ship’s company played cards.
Not so the cat or Robinson. The cat had noticed a slight movement under the sail cloth. It found Robinson shivering with fright and in floods of tears. He had overheard the conversation about pork.
“I’m sure I have given you enough hints,” said the cat to Robinson. “What do you suppose they were feeding you up for? Now don’t start squealing, you little fool! It’s as easy as snuff, if you will listen and stop crying. You can row, after a fashion.” (Robinson had been out fishing occasionally and caught several crabs.) “Well, you have not far to go; I could see the top of the Bong tree on an island N.N.E., when I was up the mast. The straits of the archipelago are too shallow for the “Pound of Candles”, and I’ll scuttle all the other boats. Come along, and do what I tell you!” said the cat.
The cat, actuated partly by unselfish friendship, and partly by a grudge against the cook and Captain Barnabas Butcher, assisted Robinson to collect a varied assortment of necessaries. Shoes, sealing-wax, a knife, an armchair, fishing tackle, a straw hat, a saw, fly papers, a potato pot, a telescope, a kettle, a compass, a hammer, a barrel of flour, another of meal, a keg of fresh water, a tumbler, a teapot, nails, a bucket, a screwdriver —
“That reminds me,” said the cat, and what did it do but go round the deck with a gimlet and bore large holes in the three boats that remained on board the “Pound of Candles”.
By this time there began to be ominous sounds below; those of the sailors who had had bad hands were beginning to be tired of carding. So the cat took a hasty farewell of Robinson, pushed him over the ship’s side, and he slid down the rope into the boat.
The cat unfastened the upper end of the rope and threw it after him. Then it ascended the rigging and pretended to sleep upon its watch.
Robinson stumbled somewhat in taking his seat at the oars. His legs were short for rowing. Captain Barnabas in the cabin suspended his deal, a card in his hand, listening (the cook took the opportunity to look under the card), then he went on slapping down the cards, which drowned the sound of oars upon the placid sea.
After another hand, two sailors left the cabin and went on deck. They noticed something having the appearance of a large black beetle in the distance. One of them said it was an enormous cockroach, swimming with its hind legs. The other said it was a dolphinium. They disputed, rather loudly. Captain Barnabas, who had had a hand with no trumps at all after the cook dealing — Captain Barnabas came on deck and said:
“Bring me my telescope.”
The telescope had disappeared; likewise the shoes, the sealing-wax, the compass, the potato pot, the straw hat, the hammer, the nails, the bucket, the screwdriver, and the armchair.
“Take the jolly boat and see what it is,” ordered Captain Butcher.
“All jolly fine, but suppose it is a dolphinium?” said the mate mutinously.
“Why, bl
ess my life, the jolly boat is gone!” exclaimed a sailor.
“Take another boat, take all the three other boats; it’s that pig and that cat!” roared the Captain.
“Nay, sir, the cat’s up the rigging asleep.”
“Bother the cat! Get the pig back! The apple sauce will be wasted!” shrieked the cook, dancing about and brandishing a knife and fork.
The davits were swung out, the boats were let down with a swish and a splash, all the sailors tumbled in, and rowed frantically. And most of them were glad to row frantically back to the “Pound of Candles”. For every boat leaked badly, thanks to the cat.
Chapter Eight
Robinson rowed away from the “Pound of Candles”. He tugged steadily at the oars. They were heavy for him. The sun had set, but I understand that in the tropics — I have never been there — there is a phosphorescent light upon the sea. When Robinson lifted his oars, the sparkling water dripped from the blades like diamonds. And presently the moon began to rise above the horizon — rising like half a great silver plate.
Robinson rested on his oars and gazed at the ship, motionless in the moonlight, on a sea without a ripple.
It was at this moment — he being a quarter of a mile away — that the two sailors came on deck, and thought his boat was a swimming beetle.
Robinson was too far away to see or hear the uproar on board the “Pound of Candles”; but he did presently perceive that three boats were starting in pursuit. Involuntarily he commenced to squeal, and rowed frantically. But before he had time to exhaust himself by racing, the ship’s boats turned back. Then Robinson remembered the cat’s work with the gimlet, and he knew that the boats were leaking. For the rest of the night he rowed quietly, without haste. He was not inclined to sleep, and the air was pleasantly cool. Next day it was hot, but Robinson slept soundly under the sail cloth, which the cat had been careful to send with him, in case he wished to rig up a tent.
The Tale of Little Pig Robinson Page 3