Chapter VIII: At the Mercy of the Waves

“All ready, Pandoo?”

“All ready, sah,” shouted Pandoo, aloft on the bulwark, his long dark-brown ringlets streaming out before the wind, and half hiding his handsome face.

“Heave ho, my lad. Cheerily ho!”

Bang, bang. Both axes fell almost at the same moment.

Antonio’s had buried itself in the sturdy mast; Pandoo’s had cut a shroud almost in two.

It was dangerous work, for Pandoo especially. But for the rope he had made fast in a bight around his body, one end firmly belayed to a pin below, he would undoubtedly have fallen into the sea.

Hack, hack; chop, chop.

Three shrouds are severed. The mast wavers, staggers, and finally goes down by the board, smashing in its fall the starboard bulwarks. Down leaps Pandoo now, and throwing the bight of the rope off over his head, lays lustily on at the other shrouds, and soon the mast, which was acting as a battering-ram, and might easily have stove the little craft, was now free, and floated away to windward.

The vessel had slowly righted; but deprived of all sail save the storm-jib, she was but a mere rolling log in the billowy ocean.

The position of the vessel was now dangerous in the extreme.

And yet in the midst of all the danger something had occurred which caused both the captain and trusty Pandoo to laugh most heartily.

“Oh, look--look, sah, look,” cried Pandoo, pointing aft with his brown hand.

Antonio did look, and lo! there on the weather side of the wheel, holding the spokes as naturally as any old sailor could have done, stood Teenie, the wee fisher lassie, with her short red frock, bare feet, and hair floating free on the wind.

A most beautiful picture she looked, as contrasted with the stern-set features and form of the sturdy Dane.

But even he could not help smiling.

Antonio ran aft.

“O my dearie, dearie,” he cried, “you must go below.”

Her red lips parted in a bonnie smile, while her blue eyes danced with fun and merriment.

“Oh,” she answered, “it is nothing. I only came up to help poor Pete. I often and often steer my daddy’s boat.”

Antonio stooped down and kissed her hair, then led her gently below.

Here he found Barclay busy restoring things to order. They had been in a state of chaos, but no one was hurt.

Not even Muffie the honest cat, who was sitting on the top of the table singing, and apparently as happy as a viking of old.

* * * * *

The danger of broaching to was now very great, and it took a load off the little captain’s mind when he at last discovered a French tug-boat bearing down to their assistance.

In half-an-hour more they were safe and sound in Dieppe harbour.

No sooner had Antonio landed the girls and seen them safely to a good hotel under Pandoo’s charge, than he hastened to cable to Fisherton.

What a relief these cablegrams were to Parson Grahame, Mrs. Stuart, and Teenie’s father I need hardly say. Teenie’s father--Norton by name--was a simple, but sturdy fisherman. He and his wife had knelt down before retiring, and prayed earnestly for the safety of the _Grebe_.

“They are in Thy hands, O Father in heaven. Thou who canst hold the ocean in the hollow of Thy hand, will protect and save the _Grebe_, and watch over the life of our little Teenie. Have we not always trusted Thee, our Heavenly Father, and Thou hast never deserted us? Nor wilt Thou now, for our Saviour’s sake. Amen! and Amen!”

Then they arose from their knees, happy and trusting, even cheerful.

“Shall we sing a hymn, Peter?”

“Ay! that we will. You begin it, lass. You sings like an angel. I’ve but a poor voice, hoarse with roarin’ high above the stormy wind.”

“Ay, Peter, ay.”

The grey-haired old body chose that loveliest hymn that e’er was penned, and as she came to the most beautiful of all the verses in it, for just a moment her voice broke and trembled, and the tears came dropping from her eyes.

“O spread thy covering wings around,
Till all our wanderings cease,
And at our Father’s loved abode
Our souls arrive in peace.”

* * * * *

But Parson Grahame had gone to Mrs. Stuart’s house to comfort her.

All comfort seemed useless. She hardly ever seated herself, but paced the room, up and down, up and down, all the livelong night, and till morn dawned bleak and grey over the bleak and stormy ocean.

“Something tells me they are safe,” said the good parson.

But she only wrung her hands.

The cablegram came at last by special messenger.

Mrs. Stuart dared not open it. She stood like a ghost in front of Mr. Grahame as he tore it open. Weary, grey, and haggard she was, but strangely enough, when she heard the joyful tidings of the safety of the _Grebe_ she fainted dead away.

When she recovered she cried a little, then happiness was restored.

* * * * *

Antonio made up his mind to give the children what the Yankees call a real good time of it while the damages to the _Grebe_ were being repaired and a new, strong mast stepped.

The men hurried on with their work, and were finished therewith in a few days.

There wasn’t a show nor a play in the place that Antonio did not take the children to. He had bought a dress for little Teenie, and boots and shoes, with all of which she was immensely taken, and pleased.

“I’se a lady now,” she said, smiling her prettiest as she surveyed herself in the glass.

Ah! she did not know yet that it takes more than dress to make a lady.

Barclay Stuart looked at her with real admiration; but I think the boy after all would have preferred to have seen her on the sandy beach at Fisherton, in her bare feet, and with basket and fishing bag, ready to accompany him to the foot of the wild cliffs.

The _Grebe_ was ready for sea once more, and the children’s holiday, which had really in one way been idyllic, was at an end.

Softly blew the southern wind, and light and gentle were the sparkling wavelets as the sails of the _Grebe_ were once more shaken out, and she went dancing and curtseying over the sea, bound for the shores of bonnie Devon.

One long day and night at sea--a happy day and night the children were never likely to forget--and they once more made Fisherton Bay and its tiny pier.

And happy, too, was the meeting ’twixt the parents and the lost children! I can’t describe that.

“Oh,” said old Norton, “I knew they would be safe, because somehow He"--Norton’s finger pointed to the blue sky--“He always hears our prayers like, that is, mother’s and mine.”

But the children had many more cruises in the _Grebe_ after this, though they did not go quite so far to sea.

Their parents had the greatest faith in Antonio, and in Pandoo also.

Only somehow no one seemed to like or trust Petersen the Dane. His brows were always lowered. He appeared to shun conversation, and, as I said before, he never looked any one in the face.

Yet was he a brave and truly excellent sailor.

Sometimes Antonio dined at Parson Grahame’s house, and the good man was astonished at the amount of the captain’s knowledge, of not only the arts and sciences, especially electricity, but of astronomy also.

Grahame could have sat and listened to his conversation for a week and not felt tired. It must be confessed, however, that he would have listened with more pleasure had it not been for that uncanny eye of Antonio’s.

Often while talking he would put his fingers over it, as if quite conscious of the disagreeable effect it had on those who beheld it.

Time rolled on.

Antonio seemed to have no other desire save that of studying and preparing, as he told young Drake and Barclay, for a long, long voyage to sea.

Both boys had made great progress in their knowledge of seamanship, and before mellow autumn came on they could not only splice, steer, reef a topsail, and box the compass, but had a fairly good knowledge of plain sailing.

When autumn clothed the far-off moors and hills in purple and crimson, a grand picnic was arranged.

Pandoo was the caterer. A great waggon was specially chartered for the occasion. Mrs. Stuart and Parson Grahame both were among the passengers, and so away and away they drove up hills and down dells, but especially up, till high above the ocean they found themselves among scenery as charming, as one can find anywhere in the south of Merrie England.

Lonesome enough, though!

Great birds that the children had never seen before sailed round and round in the air, uttering strange, wild screams; others sat on stones and rocks, eyeing the intruders with curiosity.

But there were beautiful gulls as well.

“I wonder,” said Antonio, “if these are any of my windmill friends? Sit still, dearies, and I will soon find out.”

He had brought the wings with him. And now he filled his pocket with biscuit and pie crust, and walking some distance off, sat down on a stone.

He uttered his peculiar cry, and waved the wings.

Tack and half tack, nearer and nearer came the lovely gulls, some black-headed, some black-backed, some nearly white.

At last they alighted around him, ay, and on him. They fed from his hand, and one bolder than the rest actually took crumbs from his mouth.

“Mrs. Stuart,” said Parson Grahame, “that is a truly wonderful man. Do you know that I am sometimes actually afraid of him? Especially does that uncanny eye of his make my flesh creep at times, when it fixes me. And I dare not run away.”

“I like him,” said Mrs. Stuart, with a quiet smile.

“Well, I am glad; I must say that his conversation is very delightful. He is quite a _savant_, and he is also a hypnotist.”

Back came Antonio. His birds had been kissed and blest, and had flown away.

Then at Mrs. Stuart’s request, backed up by the voices of the happy children, Antonio produced his guitar, and never did he play more sweetly--sometimes sadly even to pathos--nor sing more clearly.

His voice and the breaking music of the sad guitar died away in softest cadence at last, and for a few seconds no one spoke, so full were their hearts. When they did speak, it was only to say, “Oh, thank you, captain, thank you.”

But Antonio knew children well, and knew therefore that very sad music hardly accorded with their hearts.

So he seized the guitar once again.

“Dance, dearies, dance,” he cried merrily, as he struck up a beautiful Italian waltz.

It was a charming and delightful sight to see those children dancing in their gleefulness on the smooth green sward. Davie Drake chose Phœbe for his partner, and Barclay had little Teenie.

But Pandoo went gallantly to Maud’s rescue, and so the dancing was kept up, until the bairns were fain to throw themselves on the sward through sheer fatigue.

Then Antonio stowed away the guitar, and shortly after this, and just as the sun began to wester, preparations for the return voyage, as Antonio called it, were made and completed.

But even as they came down the long hill that leads into Fisherton the weird wee man played and sang again, and Maud and Phœbe joined in with their sweet, though childish treble.

Everybody admitted to-night and for many a day afterwards that they had never enjoyed so delightful an outing.

* * * * *

And now the weather began to get dull and gloomy. The clouds every day banked high above the horizon, and arched the very heavens with their grey-black rolling _cumulus_. As far as could be seen southwards the ocean was dull and troubled. The sea-birds screamed their loudest, and, caught by the wind at times while high in air, appeared to be whirled away at its mercy, and _nolens volens_.

Winter was coming on apace!

But the boys appeared regularly every day notwithstanding, and often Antonio took them far to sea, even when it was blowing half a gale.

He told the lads that he wished them to become real sailors, and not feather-bed, long-shore chaps, who didn’t know how to handle even a dinghy in a puff of wind.

By this time Davie Drake himself had found his sea-legs, and Antonio was pleased, not only with his general knowledge of seamanship, but of navigation as well.

Davie went home every night; Barclay of course remained with his captain, and slept in his little bedroom, high aloft above the beautifully furnished drawing-room.

Sometimes--just when she thought of it--bare-headed, bare-footed little Teenie came toddling over to the windmill.

“Just to hear Mr. ’Tonio sing--sing and play,” she explained.

And ’Tonio, as she always called him, never disappointed her.

Then Barclay himself would take her home. She refused point-blank to have the escort of Davie Drake, though she was far indeed from disliking the boy.

“I _likes_ you, Davie,” she would say, slipping one wee hand softly into Barclay’s, “but I loves Barclay.”

This was spoken with all the innocence and frankness of childhood.

But it was no wonder that these children loved each other so well; were they not constantly together? And there was a third little person always with them. This was poor Muffie. She had not the slightest fear of dogs of her own size, and if they were saucy, she had a quick and simple method of putting them to rout. Up went her hair from crown to tail; for just a moment she did an attitude that was certainly more determined than graceful.

Then if the doggie did not at once beat a retreat, she struck out straight from the shoulder, and ten to one the enemy ran off howling with a breaking heart and a bleeding eye.

But if a collie or retriever appeared she sprang at once into Barclay’s arms, and spat defiance at the foe from this safe encampment.

* * * * *

The hermit of the old windmill did not mind the advance of winter; the stormier seas, the moan and the sough of the wilder winds, the shrieks of the birds--all seemed to appeal to his soul, and he might have said with Burns:

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May.
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine.”

* * * * *

Captain Antonio seemed to have completed his studies in electricity. Week after week huge strange-shaped parcels had been brought to him from the distant railway station, and busy indeed had been his hammer, his chisel, and many strange tools that the boys who assisted him did not even know the names of.

But in one huge parcel Barclay marvelled to see two complete suits of diver’s dresses and armour.

There was some mystery in this, which Antonio promised he would explain when they were once well out to sea.

Another mystery was a kind of diving-box; almost, if not quite, as large was this as the lifts used at hotels.

The weird little man had taken infinite pains with this. It was not round, but square, with a kind of cutwater roof, which would enable it to rise at once to the surface of the water. Through the bottom ran a rope, to which ballast could be attached in sinking this curious house. The aperture was water-tight. When it was desired to ascend, the rope, which was very long, and belayed inside, could be let go. The house would then speedily ascend, and the ballast could be hauled up afterwards.

I may add that the whole apparatus was detachable for packing. It was caulked, as it were, with indiarubber, and could be so firmly screwed together, that not a drop of water could find its way inside.

Air could be pumped in from above. True, but Antonio did not depend wholly upon this, for he possessed the means of generating oxygen, so that two people might live comfortably at the sea-bottom for many hours at a time.

Finally, the whole was lit up with electricity. On one side was a search-light of enormous power, and this side was a solid sheet of the thickest glass.

* * * * *

The winter passed away, and sweet spring began to paint the ground with the greenery of grass, and the many and varied colours of beautiful wild-flowers.

Barclay was not sorry, for often in the dreary winter nights he used to lie in his little bed, finding it impossible to sleep while the storm-winds howled and “howthered” around his strange dwelling, and often shook it to its very foundations.

Barclay was a trifle superstitious, and the most appalling noises used to be heard aloft--shrieks and groans and moans.

He could not explain the nature of them. It might really be ghosts, he thought, and trembled a little. But on calmer nights nothing was heard except the mournful cry of the great white owl, who had not given up her abode, seeming to have perfect confidence in Antonio as well as in Barclay Stuart.

One fine day, when the buds were green on the trees, and bird-song was heard in every bush, Antonio told Barclay that he was going on a little cruise as far as London, and that he might not be back for a day or two.

The old windmill was locked up therefore, and for a whole week nothing was heard of the mysterious and weird little captain.

But behold one fine morning----

No, on second thoughts, I’ll tell you what _did_ happen in next chapter.