shelidonDecember 31, 2024Leave a Comment

Fourth and last part of a Christmas ghost story by James Hume Nisbet. First part here. Second part here. Third part here.

Chapter IV. The End of the Voyage

The skipper of the Nancy Jane was a splendid hero, in spite of appearances being sadly against him. He was a little man, and about as broad as he was long, with an ignoble nose and small, red-rimmed blue eyes and uncouth hair and beard thickly grizzled with white. A rough “sea-dog” he was, with a hoarse pipe and a blasphemous tongue, who took his rum ashore with little water in it, and puffed almost incessantly at his blackly coloured meerschaum.

He had been cast away three times in his voyages, and once at least had tasted the flesh of his fellows when starvation had forced them to cast lots; he did not like to talk of that time, and always turned the conversation with a volley of oaths when reminded of it. But to his owners he was staunch as a bull-dog, and excused the sorry crew they gave him as far as a man given to hasty bursts of temper could.

His mates were pretty much of the same mould, fiery and faithful, and given to kicking the ignorant and incompetent wretches who made up their watch and left them all the responsibility and half of the serious work to do, yet they never reviled the guilty owners, because they had been trained to obedience; they took it out of the ignorant crew whom they had been forced to ship.

A sailor will love his vessel as he would his wife, if she is not a regular dead load, but no true-born seaman could entertain a moment’s respect, far less affection, for the kind of vessels which cross the Atlantic in search of timber; they are all labour without a point about them to admire, rotten to the core, full of leaks and discomfort, only fit to go—as they so often do—to the bottom, therefore, they—the men—feel no compunction when the charterer loads her ten or twenty feet above the deck and makes her look like the swampy tub that she is.

It is the custom of some sailors who have any articles they specially value to send them home by other ships before leaving port with their cargo, and then commending their souls to Providence; if they escape that voyage it has been more than they expected; yet such is their dog-like fidelity that they never blame their owners.

Richard Harris had a thought of running away from the Nancy Jane when he got to Halifax, only that the appearance of that country was not sufficiently tempting; besides, his friend Jeff had told him on the voyage out about the glories of South America, and the chances a man might have in Australia, so that he concluded to risk the voyage home and take another voyage in some southward bound vessel to a climate more genial.

When the Nancy Jane left Halifax, she was certainly more like a Noah’s Ark than a modern brigantine, with the wood piled on her deck ten feet above the bulwarks and the water almost flush with the deck; of course, he did not know the danger as the captain and mates did; it was only the outlandish appearance of the craft which struck him with dismay.

There seemed nothing ominous to his unprofessional eye in the way she leaned over as she got into the quiet waters; it was a greater discomfort than on the outward bound passage to find the decks so crammed up, which forced him to climb over the deals and made the forecastle dark and choking; it had been pretty bad before in that way, but now it was unendurable; the pumps also had to be started before they lifted the anchors, and this is not exactly the kind of exercise which even a lover of athletic sports likes to take constantly—it is decidedly monotonous as well as wearing.

However, the weather was calm and genial as they left port, with a clear sky overhead and a bright blue sea beyond. He would sleep on deck as much as possible during the passage, although, as Jeff remarked ruefully, there would not be many watches below for any of them, as one of the short-handed crew had deserted without his place being supplied.

He had written one letter home to Mary, telling her where to send her answer, so that he was looking forward to getting it when he reached Cardiff before his next voyage southward.

For five days the weather continued calm, with a fair light breeze which sent them along at a moderate rate and opened the seams of the hull terribly; and as the skipper saw the water rush out of the pump without diminishing the quantity in the hold, he swore and bullied the men and mates more than ever.

On the sixth day the wind freshened so that they had to reduce sail, and all hands were sent aloft for this purpose. Not being practical sailors, this operation was clumsily and slowly performed, for the men, besides being inexperienced, were completely worn out with their unremitting spells at the pumps, and weak with the horrible food served out to them.

When, with much stamping and bellowing, the sails were at last made right and the men could return to the pumps, the water had gained so much headway that the deck was about three inches covered, and with all their efforts they were not able to get it clear again. Then, all at once, the captain left off cursing, and became quite lamb-like in his behaviour, serving out to each of them a large tot of rum from his own cabin.

Before night the wind changed, and became a moderate gale; then they began to find out what that deck-load could do in the shape of damage, for while the timbers below rolled and groaned and cracked, the wood above broke from its moorings and smashed bulwarks and supports all to pieces. So darkness fell upon them, with an ocean rearing up in great breakers and washing over the loosened battens, which the men caught at despairingly, even although in the clinging two of them were crushed.

The skipper and mates gave no more orders; the hurricane took the management of that water-logged brigantine entirely in hand, and did its work dexterously and thoroughly; with a report like thunder the first mast snapped with all its gearing, and a few moments more the other followed suit, leaving a mass of wreckage hanging to the sides and half-submerged bow; it was the easiest-made wreck that one could have imagined, something like the breaking of a leper’s fingers.

Luckily for Richard Harris and his faithful chum, Jeff, they were together and hanging on to some battens, which kept their lashings and did not roll. The skipper was hanging on to the same mass, and he consoled them during the breathing pauses, after the waves had receded, by shouting cheerily but hoarsely:
“Keep up your hearts, my lads, and hang on. The old hulk won’t sink any further to-night; she’s got her belly filled, and the wood will keep her floating for a spell.”

It was an awful night for all that, but only the prelude to greater horrors. In a properly manned and properly loaded water-tight vessel, the storm was nothing to have alarmed any seaman, for they had good sea room, and the wind was only a stiff one, but upon this water-logged, rotten hulk, which ought to have been broken up before Dick was born, but which had been sent to sea voyage after voyage with only the most superficial patching, it was the same as if they had been clinging to a lead-weighted log; the waves had their free fling, and rushed over this impediment in their career with resistless force.

So on it raged all through the long hours of darkness, the wind shrieking through and tossing the wreckage about, until they whistled and cracked like whipcord; the loose deals rolling about as the ship swayed before each swamping mass of water which rushed on and washed over them every few minutes, while beneath them they could feel the hull shaking and the supports parting as the water sludged and sobbed about them, without a ray of light to cheer them.

Dick knew that his darky friend was with him, though they could not see each other, for as each wave swept over, he felt his strong wet arm holding on, and when again the heavy brine went over him and choked him, that consciousness of friendship kept some of the heat in his heart.

At last daylight broke, and they could look round upon their disaster, for the wind had lulled a bit and the waves were more settled.

What they saw was a wide ocean, slate-tinted and covered with foam-flecks, with a cold grey sky bulging with spent and lank-looking clouds all torn to tatters as they trailed their dirty rags in front of the gathering light.

The captain and second mate, with a Swede sailor, were all that remained of the crew, with the exception of Dick and his friend Jeff. One man lay under a mass of fallen battens, with his body crushed and only his head and shoulders showing out; the others had been washed overboard.

The vessel herself was under water, with only the moorings of the deck-loading keeping them to her, that and the wreckage of the two masts which still floated by the lee-side.

There was no getting below for provisions, for the timber blocked up the way completely; they were prisoners on a water-logged wreck, without the prospect of a meal, a drink, or even a smoke, for the matches and tobacco which they had in their pockets were saturated.

“This reminds me of the time I was aboard the Caledonia, and about the same parts, I reckon,” gasped the captain weakly, as he crawled on his knees and looked round. They were all weak with the cruel buffeting they had received during the night, and could not have raised one of those loose battens even by their united efforts, far less the mass which lay between them and the submerged timbers.

“We were nineteen days on that blessed wreck without grub, and only two of us were picked up alive. Ah! no, this blooming wreck will float most likely for the next six weeks, long enough to make mummies of the whole bilin’ of us.”

“Ye had grub that trip, old man,” answered the second mate, with an ugly short laugh of despair.

“Shut up, Jack Williams; stow your jaw about them times,” growled the captain harshly.

“What’s the good? Wasn’t I in the Francis Speight on her last voyage?” answered the mate, burying his face in his hands, with a dismal groan. “That’s what we must all come to sooner or later in this accursed trade.”

Richard Harris could not comprehend these dark words, but he shuddered as he heard them, with even greater disgust than he had done at the broaching of the first cask of pickled provisions.

Days passed over their heads in this horrible circumscribed prison, and never a sail or wreath of smoke broke the even line of that distant horizon, while they grew weaker and more helpless each day, until at last they all were waiting for death, past even the desire to keep a watch.

Several times had the captain and second mate made a motion as if to get down to that deal-crushed sailor, but with a frightened glance at each other and a shiver of disgust, they sank again upon their backs and looked blankly at the sky.

Fortunately for them, beyond a couple of rainy days, the weather was fine if cold; they lay and let the rain soak into them and felt the better for it, although after it was clear again the most acute of agonies racked their bones.

On the eighth day Jeff Johnson fell to kissing the passive Richard, under the fancy that it was a sweetheart he was with. Jeff’s delirium was an amiable one, for, although extravagant in his language and flowery, he was chivalrous and respectful in the extreme; the Swede yelled out a chantry in his own Norse tongue, while the captain and mate held independent conversations which no one listened to. Then Dick began to dream that he was once more at home, the owner of a fortune, with Mary Gray still waiting for him. Even starvation on the wreck of an over-loaded timber ship has its intervals of exquisite surcease and pleasure, as the victims of the Inquisition had when Nature gave way.

*****

When Dick woke up next he found himself in a comfortable second-class bunk on board of a Cunard steam-packet, with his faithful friend Jeff sitting beside him; they had been rescued just in time.

Being young, and naturally strong, he was very quickly able to take his place at the table, and soon, with the others, became the centre of attraction on deck.

Of course, the first questions asked were their individual names, and when Dick had given his, a grey-bearded, sun-dried passenger stepped over to him and said:

“I knew a man once out in Australia called Richard Harris—was he any friend of yours, young fellow?”

“My father’s name was Richard Harris, and he was a squatter in Australia,” answered Dick quietly.
“What part?”
“Waratah was the name of his station, on the Murrumbidgee River.”
“But I don’t understand why you are in this plight, for your father died a wealthy man—of that I am certain, for I was a neighbour of his out there at the time of his death.”

Richard told his new friend his story from beginning to end, how he had been sent to an English school when quite young and afterwards consigned to Mr. John Dagget.

When the ex-squatter, who was returning from America, where he had bought an estate, heard of the doings of the accomplished John Dagget, he swore a mighty bush oath that he would see the son of his old friend righted if there was law to be had in England.

“It isn’t hard-up sailors and broken hearted widows this shipowner has to deal with now, but a man who can plank down dollar for dollar with him. Keep up your pecker, my son, you’ll get both your own money back and your Mary.”

And he was as good as his word; for when they reached England he set to work with that energy which marks Australians when they are after money, and makes them so much alike to Americans. John Dagget fought bravely for his land as long as he could and held out doggedly to the last, but on the eve of the trial he disgorged, with a virtuous air, and so quashed exposure and sadly disappointed his opponent, who, being on the war-trail, wanted to have it out to the bitter end.

Mary Gray, through unguardedly expressing sympathy in the cause of Dick, got her instant and ignominious dismissal from Federation Hall, another false step of the shipowner, because it brought her not only to the arms of her fortunate lover, but also to his friend the squatter, who no sooner heard her story than he went on the new scent and never rested until her poor uncle had restored fortune number two.

Then this combative Australian took up the cause of the widows of drowned seamen and harried the repose of the owner of Federation Hall so much, that Father Time soon laid his flour bag over his head, leaving visible white traces on that magnificent black beard and wavy tresses.

There was no pleasure in sailing ships with a spy like this hovering about, looking after the provisions and forcing honest ship-owners to pay up full wages, so that finally Mr. John Dagget disposed of his lucrative business and retired to that paradise of the good Americans—Paris, where I believe he still resides, as amiable and bland as of yore.

I don’t know if he dreams any more as he did on that Christmas Eve after his good dinner; I know that Richard Harris does, in fact his whole life is a dream—the continuation of that starvation dream on board of the Nancy Jane—and the best I wish him is that he may never waken from it.

That ebon-skinned Jeff Johnson is in the dream also, and when anyone speaks about the ocean he says, with a broad grin:
“No, boys, nebber to sea no more for this chile, while I have Master Dick’s hosses to look after.”

Happy New Year!