Wild Life in the Land of the Giants Part 15

"Jack," she told us that evening, "is every inch a sailor. Oh, it is fine to hear him carrying on when we're shortening sail in front of a puff. And all the men obey him, too."

Captain Coates laughed aloud--rather a pleasant, hearty laugh it was.

"Obey me, do they! Quite an exceptional thing on board a ship.

Thunder! Miss Domville, the man who didn't obey me would soon be scratching an ailing head."

"That's just his way," Mrs Coates whispered to me. "Jack is such a fellow.--Oh, by the way, you're called Jack. We'll have two?"

"Oh, it won't matter much," I said, "I've a whole barrowful of names besides to pick and choose from."

"I'm sure you'll like the sea and Captain Coates, and that we shall all pull together famously. By the way, Miss Domville, I'm taking a maid again."

"You had one last time."

"Yes, and a nice handful she was. Ill for weeks, and I had to attend upon her. This is a black girl, so humorous, kindly, and good, and been to sea quite a long time."

We were very happy that evening, especially when aunt told us that we were going to India, and that we should call at the Cape and probably see mamma.

"Oh," I shouted, "I'm so glad that we played pirates."

"So am I," cried Jill, and began to dance.

"Auntie," I said, "promise me one thing. Oh, you must promise."

"Well, well, if I must promise, what is it?"

"You'll write and tell mamma we've gone to sea. But don't say _where_.

We want to pop in on her unawares. Don't we, Jill?"

"Certainly."

"Well," said auntie, "I'll humour you for once."

There is always something in this life happening to mar one's joy, just when it is at its height. That is my experience. But things are wisely ordered. Heaven does not desire us to get too fond of this world. If it were all sunshine we would be sure to, and forget there is a happier land beyond the grave.

But before we went to bed, auntie told us about the sad fate of poor Tom Morley.

She seemed unwilling at first to tell us anything to damp our spirits, but as we had mentioned Tom, and saw there was something behind her first simple statement that Tom was dead, we pressed her and she withheld nothing.

The brief narrative of his latter end was related to her by Tom's own quondam shipmate, the man who had come on board for him on that unfortunate evening before our final foolish adventure on the _Thunderbolt_; and when we heard it from auntie's lips it made an impression on us I am never likely to forget.

Boys do take fancies for persons, whether men or women, whom they get in tow with--to use a sea phrase--when young, and I think they are more likely to be lasting ones if these persons have any memorable oddity about them. Tom had several, his hoa.r.s.e but not unpleasant voice, his flower-pot coloured face, and his exceeding good nature when off duty.

To put it in few words, he then used to let us do as we liked. I think I see Jill yet jumping round him and singing--

"Dear old Tom Morley, Come tell us a storley."

Then we would catch him and "lug him below" (the phrase is Tom's) and seat him in his armchair, and even light his pipe for him, and then sit down to listen.

Tom's stories nearly always had much about the same plan of commencement, which was somewhat as follows:--

"When I was in the old _Semiramis_, young gentlemen, ah! ships were ships in them days, and officers and men _were_ officers and men, I can tell you, and knowed their duty, and did it too, no matter what stood in their way. Well, one day we were a-cruisin' off a bit o' land,"--and so on and so forth.

Yes, we did like Tom. But sad was the pity he had that predilection for "tossing cans" with friends, else he might have gone aloft in a different fashion and his body filled an honoured grave.

But Tom met his old messmate that day, and went off with him, and they must have a can together for old times, and many more than one perhaps.

The evening probably pa.s.sed away quickly enough, what with talking of the dear old days "when ships were ships and you I were young, lad."

But, according to his friend, Tom pulled himself up with a round turn at last, and as he pulled out his big, old-fashioned silver watch.

"Oh dear," he cried, "I'd no idea how the time was flyin'; and those dear children on board, too, all by their dear little selves. Now, old chummy, I'm off. Duty's duty, and we may meet again another day."

"I don't think you can get off to-night to the _Thunderbolt_," replied his friend.

"What d'ye mean?" said Tom.

"Why I mean that it's blowin' big guns."

"No matter if it blows fifty-sixes or Armstrongs, Tom's goin' off if birds can fly."

"There won't be a boat'll take you off to-night, Tom," said the landlord.

"Then I'll swim," said Tom Morley, doggedly. "I've done that afore, when duty was duty."

"I know you has, Tom; but take my advice, don't try any such foolish game on a night like this, or you'll get left."

"Good-night, landlord.--Come on," cried Tom to his friend.

Away they went together.

It was past ten by the time they reached the usual steps. No boatman was there.

"Tom, come on back. Sleep on sh.o.r.e to-night, old man."

"What," cried Tom, "and those three darlings on board! Don't ye try to persuade me, Bill. You knows Tom o' the old. Duty is duty, and Tom'll face it."

The moon was shining quite brightly, and though the water was rough, the wind was favourable.

"D'ye see the dear old _Thunderbolt_ yonder, Bill? Well, Tom'll sleep there to-night or--in a sailor's grave. I think I see the anxious wee faces at the port yonder watching for me. Coming, darlings Tom's a-coming."

Tom had kicked off his boots as he spoke; then he relieved himself of what he called his top hamper. But even now his old shipmate could not believe him in earnest. He did, though, when Tom darted from his side and took a header into the tide.

He swam up close in sh.o.r.e first for a good distance, then struck out across, but still heading up. For a time his messmate could even hear him singing a stave of that charming old song--

"Good-night--all's well."

"The last long notes," said his mate, "rang down the wind like a death-knell."

And death-knell it was to poor Tom. If ever he reached the ship's longitude, he must have been carried past her with fearful speed, and-- the curtain drops.