Chapter IV: The Danger and Difficulty Was to Come

The _Boo-boo-boo_ was a crack Aberdeen clipper barque, of large dimensions, and though not in the habit of carrying passengers, beautifully fitted aft, with a saloon like a marble hall, and splendid well-fitted state-rooms off it.

She was in the Australian trade. Her cargo might best be described by the American term “notions,” for she carried anything and everything by which she was likely to turn an honest penny.

The barque was nearly new, having only made three voyages, and always with pecuniary success to her owners.

She lay in Aberdeen harbour, and was nearly ready for sea.

* * * * *

Now partings and all that are not nice things to write about. So I shall skip them, and reintroduce Sandie to you on a bright moonlit evening, as the good barque goes bounding away on the wings of a twelve-knot breeze, well to the outside of the Bay of Biscay.

Both Sandie and Willie--yes, Willie had won his father round to let him accompany his friend on his long, long voyage. Both Sandie and Willie, I was going to say, have got over their little experience of _mal de mer_, and have also acquired their sea-legs.

So, although the ship bobs and curtsies and coquettes with each advancing wave, it does not annoy our heroes in the least.

And although Sandie is wrapped in a warm Highland plaid, and looks in the moon’s pale rays somewhat of an invalid, he seems already to have regained much of his former heartiness and spirit.

The men forward are lazily leaning over the bows smoking and yarning; the midshipman of the watch paces rapidly up and down, watching sail and sky, now and then admonishing the man at the wheel to keep her full. He really seems speaking for speaking’s sake, as middies sometimes do.

Presently Sandie stoops down to pat and pet a dog, who has been following up and down, close at their heels.

“Dear old Tyro!” he says; “what a happy thought it was to take you, and what a delightful sailor-dog you do make!”

And now the lid of the after companion is pushed open, and, just like a jack-in-the-box, up pop a head and shoulders.

The rest of the body follows, and next minute the captain himself approaches the spot where our heroes are standing together, holding on to the mizzen rigging.

“And how are you by this time, Sandie, man?” he says right cheerily.

Sandie answers quite as cheerily, and conversation becomes general.

The captain is a short, stoutish individual, very rosy and jolly as to face, very white as to whiskers and hair. His age might be sixty-and-five, but he has all the activity of a youth of twenty.

It seems to me, to put it parenthetically, that a life on the ocean wave really tends to keep people young. Somehow, it makes men brave, because they are always face to face with danger, till in course of time they become so inured to its presence that they can afford to despise it. The sea gives health and strength too, and these in turn give contentment and jollity; and if a man has this, he is bound to feel young, and look young also. There is some truth, therefore, in the term “A jolly tar.”

“And now, boys,” says the captain, “come down to supper. I promised to look after you, and faith I’m going to do my duty.”

The table was already laid, with plenty of delicious cold meat and vegetables, to say nothing of pudding and sweets.

The first mate sat at one end of this table, a tall, brown-faced, swarthy individual, with shoulders of wondrous breadth, and hands as big as spades, more or less. But he had a right merry twinkle in his eye, especially when the captain asked him to join him in a glass of rosy wine. The rosy wine, I may inform you, was nothing more nor less than rum.

After supper the midshipman came down, having been relieved for a spell by the second mate, who lived forward with other petty officers and an apprentice or two.

Then Robins, the mate, got out his Cremona. He was a truly beautiful performer. His magic shifting and his weird tremolo made you imagine you were in a dream, a dream from which you hoped never to be awakened.

Even his playing of so simple an air as “Black-eyed Susan” transformed the whole melody, and caused one to think the composer must really have been a genius.

Willie, who was no mean player on the piano, used often to accompany the mate. He did so to-night.

The captain seated himself in his easy-chair to listen, folding his hands in front of him, after putting his red silk handkerchief over the bald spot on the top of his head.

But seven bells rang out at last, and saying “good-night,” Sandie and Willie retired to their state-room, and were soon snug in the arms of Morpheus. As he lay down, that old hymn-song that Willie and the mate had played kept ringing in Sandie’s head--

ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.

Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.

I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
Then calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

In the next verse Sandie got mixed.

The first thing he was conscious or semi-conscious of was a dream, that seemed very real, of wandering by the side of the romantic Don, fishing-rod in hand, sweet Maggie by his side.

“You laziest of lazy lads, can’t you wake? Bath’s all ready, and I can smell breakfast. Turn out. What are you talking about? There is no Maggie May here.”

It was Willie who was shaking his friend by the shoulder.

That plunge in the marble cauldron of cool sea water was glorious, and by the time he had finished towelling, Sandie felt downright hungry.

Willie had already had his plunge, and so both were soon dressed and on deck.

“Ha! good morning, lads. I declare you both look as healthy and happy as a couple of skip-jacks.”

It was the captain who spoke.

They had ten minutes walking on the weather side. She was on the port tack, the wind well a-beam. Not a deal of it, but quite enough to make that bonnie clipper barque dance and bound over the rippling water as if she really were a thing of life. The sun was already pretty high in the heavens, and every wavelet sparkled so brightly in his beams that it dazzled the eyes to gaze eastwards.

“Look there!” cried Captain D’Acre, pointing away aloft. “Ever see such a sight? Got ’em all on, eh!”

And the good captain rubbed his hands and chuckled with glee.

Certainly our heroes had never seen such a spread before.

Sail after sail towering skywards, the highest seemingly no bigger than a baby’s bib.

“Why,” said Sandie, “I couldn’t even name them; I could go no farther than the royals.”

“Oh, but we have got moon-rakers, and star-gazers, and sky-scrapers above them, and----”

Ring--ding, ding, ding, ding.

It was the steward’s breakfast-bell.

“Ah! what a glorious sound,” said the good skipper. “Come on, boys, and see me make the fish fly.”

* * * * *

It appeared that this would be an idyllic voyage all through. The good old skipper himself averred that our heroes had brought him good luck, for a fair wind held until the barque got into the trades; and although the vessel was becalmed for about three weeks near the tropics, lying like a log on the water, with idle flapping sails, rolling from side to side on the glassy mountain waves with a motion that was terribly tiresome, this was only what was to be expected. Everybody was rejoiced, nevertheless, when the trades were once more made, and the _Boo-boo-boo_ shook herself, as it were, and prepared for solid sailing after her long and irksome inactivity.

There is no doubt that before he left home Sandie had been threatened with that scourge of our islands, phthisis or consumption, and that had he remained in our fog-girt island another winter, he might have succumbed. But the balmy ozonic breath of the ocean had already done wonders for him. His cheeks had filled out, his voice was so far from weak that he could sing old-fashioned Scotch songs, like “Annie Laurie” and “Afton Water,” to Willie’s accompaniment. He slept sound at night, and was calm and contented by day.

There was no lack of recreation or enjoyment on board, independent of music. The saloon library was really a very excellent one, and contained the best novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Bulwer, besides a score of volumes of Blackwood’s Magazine, and nearly all the standard poets.

There were games--chess, draughts, &c.--below for evening enjoyment, and there were games for daytime also on the upper deck, peg on the ring, sea-quoits, and several others that helped to while away the time.

The first mate, second mate, Willie, and Midshipman Murray played at leap-frog. Sandie, too, would fain have given a back, and taken one also, but the skipper would not permit him.

Nor did he allow him to engage in a mad harum-scarum game of football, that young Murray had invented, and which really caused no end of fun and amusement, to say nothing of barked shins and a sprained ankle or two.

Sandie used to delight to watch the sea-birds that, the ship being well on towards the east shores of America, came floating or hovering round the ship. The two most remarkable were the frigate-bird and the albatross. It is supposed that either bird can fly hundreds of miles an hour. The frigate-bird really can go to sleep in the air, and for days and weeks it never alights. Far away on some solitary rock or island, in the spring season, the female bird, and at times the male, sits on their single egg, and at this time they are so tame that the natives can catch them with the hand.

But what shall we say about the albatross, or how describe that great eagle of the sea? The powers of flight of this wondrous bird are marvellous in the extreme. No golden eagle in Scotland ever swept down from the sky with more arrow-like speed than does the albatross on a ship; then he goes sailing round it and round it, apparently without effort, hardly a wing moving, hardly a feather, but the great head, with its weird wild eye, keenly alert all the time. Next moment, in the very teeth of the wind, he goes dashing off, and is seen like a lark against the clouds miles and miles astern. The wind is this bird’s slave; it obeys him, carries him hither and thither with lightning speed, and seems ever ready at his beck and call. Truly a marvellous bird is the albatross!

But there were strange fishes and creatures in the sea that Sandie delighted to watch as well. Sometimes they saw a great lonesome whale ploughing his way through the vastness of the mighty deep, going straight as an arrow, but whither and how guided no one ever could tell. At other times and frequently a shoal of dolphins would cross bows or stern. They took no notice of the brave barque; they had their own life and business to attend to. But surely a right merry life it was, seeing the way they jumped and plunged, even cooing in their glee, and turning somersaults in the air.

Then there was the barracuta, a fish of immense size, not unfrequently observed. He too used to leap out of the water, but with no apparent sense of enjoyment.

The skip-jack leapt from wave-top to wave-top, as if he was learning to fly, and might in course of time become a bird.

The flying gurnet had already learned to fly, and could support himself quite a long time in the air.

At night the men hung lights about the bows, and these flying-fish flew on board and flopped about the decks in desperation, till caught and killed. The wings were kept by the men as souvenirs of the voyage, but the fish was always fried for the saloon breakfast; and very delicious eating they were, in flavour not unlike herring, or even salmon trout, but much more delicate than either.

The _Boo-boo-boo_ touched at Rio, to land some cargo and take in fresh meat.

Sandie and Willie marvelled much at the romantic beauty of the bay or harbour, with its surroundings of green and rugged mountains. But when they landed they marvelled more. Everything strange, everything wonderful, oceans of fruit and flowers, and the people, whether inky-black or nearly white, all as contented with their lot as doves in a tree, and all chattering away as merry as monkeys.

The next halting-place was Sandy Point, inside the Straits of Magellan, through which they meant to pass.

But now the weather had got black and stormy; the idyllic portion of the voyage was over; all the danger and difficulty was to come.

People cannot tell what is before them. This is a merciful dispensation of Providence.