Jack Buntline

“I can’t, mate, I can’t,” answered Sikes, “I don’t know how to trust in him. He won’t listen to such as me.”

“Pray to him, He’ll hear you, depend on it,” replied Jack.

“I don’t know how to pray – I’ve never prayed,” replied the unhappy man. “Oh, Jack, help me – help me. The shark came close to me, I felt him touch my leg,” he shrieked in a piteous voice.

“Swim on, swim on, man cannot help you, Bill,” said Jack in return; “don’t let your heart faint. Keep praying, I say.”

Alas, alas! How many must find out when too late, that the man on a bed of sickness, or in the hour of danger, who has never prayed before, can seldom or never pray then! The fresh morning of youth, the time of health and strength, of safety and peace, is the time for prayer. Depend on it, the man who does not pray in fair weather never will pray well in foul. So Bill Sikes found when the shark was swimming alongside him. Lustily and well the two seamen plied their arms and feet. Most of their shipmates had climbed on board.

“A shark, a shark!” shouted Jack as he drew near, anxious to warn others of the danger he was himself incurring.

No one needed a second warning, and Jack and Bill were the only ones of the crew left in the water. Several ropes were hove to them, and eager friendly faces looked down on them, and ready hands were stretched out to help them. Jack swam up to a rope, manfully striking out and vehemently splashing the water to the last. Bill with a faint heart followed his example, but the greedy shark was not to be altogether disappointed of his prey. All on board had kept their eyes fixed on that dark fin. Suddenly it disappeared.

“Quick, quick, seize the rope,” they shouted.

Jack had got hold of one, and was hauling himself up. Bill made a grasp at a rope and his hand had clutched it, but ere his fingers had got a firm hold a shriek of agony and despair burst from his lips, and down, down he was dragged, the ensanguined water shewing the cause of his disappearance. There was a cry of horror. It served as the funeral knell of the boaster. As Jack drew himself out of the water, a long snout rose to the surface: it was that of another shark. The white throat of the fierce fish glanced brightly in the sunbeams as he swam off disappointed of his prey. All rejoiced that Jack was saved, and even the captain forgot to lecture him for going so far from the ship, though horror filled the hearts of all as they thought of the fate of Bill Sikes. Why was this? In his health and strength, boaster as he was, Bill was admired by many. Who thought of rebuking him for his impiety? Till his fate was sealed, till God’s threatenings were fulfilled, no one believed the warnings of His Holy Word. So has it been since Noah entered into the ark, so will it be till all things are accomplished.

“This is the second time since I left home that I have seen the scorner meet with a fearful end,” observed Jack, yet he spake in no spirit of self-congratulation. “Oh, mates, whatever you do, put your trust in God, and be assured that He will not fail to guide us for our good if we will but rely on His mercy and kindness.”

The Hope sailed on in the prosecution of her voyage, and the fate of Bill Sikes was soon forgotten. Yet nearly a thousand miles had to be traversed before the Cape of Good Hope could be reached. Hitherto the voyage had been unusually favourable, but a change came quickly over the face of the sky and sea. Dense clouds were gathering from the south, the wind howled fearfully, the surface of the deep was torn up into foam-topped mountains and deep dark valleys of water. Now the brig lay rocking in one, and then, lifted up on high, she seemed to be about to be plunged headlong into another yet deeper than the first, a watery wall threatening to overwhelm her. To make any way on her proper course was impossible, but still sail was kept on her in the hopes that the might thus ride more easily. Jack had been in many a gale, but he had never been in a worse one.

Night came on, sea after sea broke on board. No one expected to see the morning’s sun; the bulwarks were knocked to pieces, so were the boats, with the exception of one: the main-topmast was carried away. The caboose and all spare planks and spars were washed overboard. Thus passed the night, the ship plunging fearfully, and the sea breaking over her. In spite of the just apprehensions of the crew, they saw the morning sun’s bright beams bursting forth from a break in the dark clouds, and tingeing the snow-capped summits of the waves with a golden hue. The gleam came and was gone in a moment, and the storm raged fiercer than before. Now a mountain sea came rolling towards the helpless brig.

“Hold on, hold on,” was the cry. Over it it broke. Jack held on, but the stauncheon he held to was carried away, and he and two of his shipmates were washed overboard into the boiling sea. What hope now for him or them? Those who remained on board with sorrow watched them struggling among the blinding foam; but again the wave rose, struck by an opposing one it seemed, and Jack and one of his companions found themselves cast back with violence on to the deck of their ship. They clutched fast hold of friendly ropes, and the water as it passed away left them clinging to the ship. That heavy sea had done more damage than at first appeared. A leak was sprung. Pale with terror the seamen heard the news.

“How long can she swim? Will she survive the gale?” one asked the other.

“We must labour hard at the pumps; we’ve still one boat uninjured amidships; we may build a raft. Don’t let’s be down-hearted. Let’s trust in God,” said Jack.

The pumps were manned, but the water gained rapidly on them. The gale blew fiercer than ever.

“We shall go down, there’s no doubt of it,” said more than one.

“Let’s keep the ship afloat till the gale goes down rather,” cried Jack working away at the pumps.

The captain and officers all took their spell, but none worked harder than he, and yet none trusted more firmly to the only arm which could save them. Higher and higher rose the water in the hold. Fearfully the ship laboured. Still most of the crew worked bravely at the pumps. All hopes of saving the ship had been abandoned, but yet they trusted that they might keep her afloat till the storm should subside. Vain even that hope. Some in their despair and folly rushed to the spirit casks.

“She is sinking – she is sinking,” was the cry.

The officers and Jack, with those who had kept firm at their posts, leaped into the boat, the lashings were cut loose, some provisions and water had already been put into her. The oars were got out. The brig made a plunge forward into a mountain sea. She never rose again.

Chapter Fourteen

The buoyant boat, though half filled with water, floated on the crest of a wave. Vainly the skulkers from duty, the mad drunkards shrieked for help. None could be given them. In another moment their cries were silenced in death. The boat and those in her were all that remained of the Hope. By constant baling, and by keeping her head to the seas, she with difficulty floated: still she lived. The fury of the tempest began to abate. Jack told his companions how, under similar though still worse circumstances, he had once in the South Atlantic been mercifully preserved, and his account kept up their spirits. Did Jack preach to them, as some would call it? No. He spoke the simple honest truth as it came swelling up pure from his grateful heart, the convictions of his mind, and he would have been very much surprised if any body had told him that he was acting the parson. He would have asked in what the likeness lay, and would have been sorely puzzled to discover it. The boat drove on before the remnant of the gale. She was still many hundred miles from any land. The captain resolved to steer for the Cape of Good Hope. Many were the hardships they might expect to encounter before they could reach it. Still they kept up their spirits. They had provisions for many days. They agreed to husband them to the utmost. They told tales to each other; some were true, their own adventures, and those of old companions; others were mere fiction. They recited poetry. They even sang songs, though their voices sounded strangely in the wild waste of waters in which they floated.

The gale subsided, the sea went down, and the boat was steered a direct course to the westward. Still she made slow progress. A sail had been secured, but it was a small one for the light wind then blowing, and their strength was too much exhausted to enable them to urge her on much faster by pulling. Day after day their provisions decreased, and they grew weaker and weaker. Still no one had hitherto suffered in health. Some showers which fell enabled them to replenish their stock of water. Who can tell the value of that pure liquid to those living under the burning sun of the tropics! They knew it well. Though they had water for the present, their provisions they were aware must soon fail them.

They bethought them of trying to catch fish. Lines they could easily manufacture out of the ropes in the boat, but hooks cost them much thought. At last a file was found in a pocket knife, and some nails were drawn from a piece of plank hove carelessly into the boat. Scarcely had the baits been thrown overboard than a tug was felt and a fine fish was hauled up. Several were thus caught. They were dried in the sun and served them for many a meal. Days passed and none were caught, then again they fell in with a shoal and many were hauled up. The spirits of the crew rose, they no longer doubted that they should reach their destination. Still they did not relax in their efforts to procure food or to reach land. Their strength, however, gradually decreased, and very slow was the progress they made or could hope to make even if the weather continued favourable.

What is more uncertain than the wide ocean? While they were congratulating themselves on their prospects, dark clouds were seen to rise in the west, heavy seas increasing in height came rolling towards them, and once more a heavy gale blew in their teeth. They could no longer carry sail, and all the strength they could exert was scarcely sufficient to enable them to keep the boat head to sea. “Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distress.” So will He always do to those who trust in Him. Let that belief never depart from any who read this story. Cling to it, rejoice in it. Let nothing tear it from you. Satan will strive to do so, the world will try to do so. Jack and his companions found in it their only support. Without it they must have sunk under the sufferings they had to endure. Even though their boat swam they could no longer replenish their scanty stock of food; they had scarcely any water; their strength almost failed them; black clouds were overhead, dark threatening walls of water encompassed them around. Still hand and eye, and nerve and muscle must be exerted to keep the boat from swamping.

The fourth night of the gale was approaching when, as the captain was standing up supported by his crew to take a glance round the horizon as the boat rose to the summit of a sea, his eye fell on the dark sail of a ship seen under the sinking sun. She must, they knew, be approaching them; but might she not too probably pass by them in the dark? How their hearts beat with alternate hopes and fears. On she came, flying before the gale. They stood up, they waved, some shouted. Now, on the top of a foaming wave, they could see her; now, sunk into the trough, they lost fight of her altogether. Did she see them? Earnestly they prayed to heaven that she might. God is ever merciful to those who call upon him faithfully. On she came.

“We are seen, we are seen!” they shouted. They knew her to be a British sloop of war. The courses were brailed up, the topsails closely reefed, and she was brought to the wind, so that they might pull up under her lee. Renewed strength for the operation was given them, and every help being afforded from the ship, they were soon in safety on her deck. Scarcely had they gained it ere they sank down through weakness, but many sank on their knees to return thanks to Him whose right arm had saved them.

Jack found several old messmates from the Tribune, who had been turned over from her to the Flora, the ship which had saved him. So firmly had they been convinced that he had been lost, that they could at first scarcely believe him when he told them who he was. He at once entered gladly on board, and the rest of the brig’s crew were not slow to follow his example. Many a gallant action was the Flora engaged in before the close of the war. Long, indeed, was it, as Jack had anticipated, before he again saw his native land.

The Flora was in company with several other ships of war, when it was resolved to endeavour to cut out a number of privateers and merchantmen, known to be at anchor in one of the ports of the enemy guarded by a battery. The boats of the squadron were sent in to effect this object. In silence and darkness, with muffled oars they approached the shore. Jack was in one of the leading boats. The armed vessels were to be first attacked, and as the wind blew off shore it was hoped that they might be carried out in spite of the fire from the fort. The tracery of the masts and spars and rigging of the vessels could be seen rising up against the sky, the dim outline of the dark frowning forts, and the rocks and hills on the opposite side of the harbour, with here and there a faint light glimmering from some lone cottage on the hill side. Their approach was unsuspected, nor did watchful sentry challenge them as they entered the harbour. Two boats attacked each vessel. Silently they ran alongside, and were on board in a moment. Then the enemy’s crews sprang to their arms and defended themselves with desperation, but of their officers some were on shore, others below, and British valour quickly silencing all opposition, the deck was won. Lustily the English seamen cheered, for there was no necessity for further concealment; the cables were cut, the sails let fall, and the prize, a fine sloop of sixteen guns was moving through the water, when those on board felt her tremble through every timber.

“To the boats, to the boats,” shouted the officers.

The men sprang over the bulwarks. Up lifted her deck. It seemed by some mighty force to be wrenched open. High into the air were thrown many of the late combatants together. A loud thundering noise was heard. Flashes of flame burst forth and ascended in a fiery spout towards the sky, widening as it rose, carrying with it spars and sails, and pieces of timber and human forms, mangled, burnt, and torn asunder, and groans, and shrieks, and cries filled the air. Jack felt himself lifted up just as he was leaping overboard. He threw himself forward. He seemed as if he was carried up amid the burning fragments, and then, his clothes already on fire, he was plunged into the water. Down he sank. His impulse was to strike out, and on rising to the surface he looked around and made towards the nearest boat, on whose side the ruddy glare of the fire shone brightly. Several of his shipmates were in her, and a few of the enemy whom they had picked up. They hauled him on board as they went to search for more of their companions. When no others were to be found they dashed alongside another of the enemy’s vessels. Meantime the fort had opened its fire. Notwithstanding this several vessels were carried out, though few escaped without some shot in hull or rigging, Jack got a wound in his arm.

“Bind it up tight,” said he to a shipmate, “I want the use of it just now.”

Two officers were killed, and several badly wounded. Some honour and a good supply of prize money was the chief result of the affair.

Some time after this, on her passage home, the Flora fell in with an enemy. She gave chase and was not long in coming up with her, when it was discovered that her opponent was of far greater size, and had heavier metal, and many more men. Did this disconcert her officers and crew? Far from it. With even greater than their usual alacrity they went to their guns.

“What care we though the odds are against us! More is the glory to be gained,” was the general remark.

They ranged up alongside the enemy. Their cool and well-directed fire carried away her foremast. Then they passed ahead of her, and she flying up into the wind they raked her with terrific effect. Still she was not idle, and many of their crew were struck down to rise no more. Jack got a severe wound in the leg. He bound his handkerchief round it.

“Never mind,” he sung out; “we must take the enemy, and then think about our hurts.”

He repeated but the sentiments of his gallant captain, who, twice wounded, fought on till a shot brought him a third time to the deck.

“See, see, we have not fought in vain,” he shouted, as at the same moment the enemy’s colours were struck. The victory was won, though hardly won, and at length the Flora and her prize entered Plymouth Sound. The war was over, the last shot had been fired, peace, a truly glorious peace, was proclaimed. His ship was paid off, and Jack found himself, for the first time in his life, free and on shore.

Chapter Fifteen

Jack’s pockets were full of prize money. It burnt them sadly. What should he do with it? He bethought him that, before it was all gone, he would go down to his native village. He remembered the quiet churchyard, with its yew trees, its white headstones, and its lowly green mounds, where lay the only being he had ever learned to love – his mother. He fancied that he should meet some old friends, some one who knew her and him in his childhood. So the gallant hardy sailor set off, with his bundle at the end of a stout stick over his shoulder, and his pockets amply stored with money, towards his native village. He could not reach the place on the night he had expected, so he slept at an inn a little distance off, and it was noon before he entered it. The steeple of the church guided him to the spot he sought. Changed was the village, changed was everything around. The cottages seemed more humble, the scenery on a smaller scale. He at once bent his steps to the churchyard. Round and round it he wandered. He could not determine the spot he looked for. At last he stopped in a remote corner, where the rank herbage and tall weeds almost concealed the closely-packed rows of long low mounds. No foot or headstones were there, but a piece of the wall had fallen, and lay where it fell with grass growing thickly around. He sat himself down on it, and rested his head on his hands. A tear, the first he had shed for many a year, escaped through his fingers.

“Alas, mother, mother, how comfortable I could have made you now had you lived!” he thought, as he remembered the poverty and privations his parent had endured. “I have not forgotten your words, the lessons you gave me. I should not have been ashamed to meet you. Yes, you hear me, mother, but not from down there,” and he unconsciously pointed to the lowly graves. “No, you are above – in Heaven, mother dear, and happy.” He raised his hand and looked up into the blue bright sky beyond the yew tree, that fit emblem of mourning and sorrow, contrasting with the glories of the firmament spread out above it, to which the Christian believer looks with hope and joy as his abode for eternity.

Jack sat a while, then rose and went into the village. He wandered about looking into the faces of the people he met, but not a countenance could he remember. He recollected the names of a few. He inquired for them at the bar of the public house. Nearly all were dead or scattered.

“You be from these parts, master, I s’pose?” said an old man who sat in the bar eyeing him keenly. “I’d a son once who went away to sea. He never came back. They told me he was killed by the enemy. May be you knew him, he’d be about your age and size, I’m thinking.”

“What was his name?” asked Jack.

The old man told him, and seemed sadly grieved when Jack had to say he had never met him.

Resolved not to give up his search for some old acquaintance, Jack shouldered his stick and bundle, and wandered along past the spot where his mother’s cottage had stood. It was on a piece of common. Though it had fallen down, and most of the materials had been removed, he recognised the outlines of the little bit of garden which had surrounded it. Not far off was another cottage. An old woman stood at the door.

“Are you looking for anything, young man?” she asked, after watching him for a time. He felt almost inclined to give her an embrace. The voice, and expression, and figure he recognised as that of a neighbour.

“Are you not Dame Hughes?” he asked eagerly.

She nodded.

“And I’m Jack Buntline,” he answered; “the son of widow Buntline. Do you remember me?”

“Remember thy mother, lad, that I do, a good woman. And now I look at thee I see that thou art her son. Come in. Come in. Thou art welcome.”

Thankfully did Jack enter the humble cottage. He had found what he longed to meet – some one who knew his mother. Long and earnestly did he talk to Mistress Hughes about her, and the dame was somewhat astonished to find his voice falter and to see tears come into the rough seaman’s eyes as they spoke of her.

“Ah, the heart of the lad is in the right place I see,” she muttered, “though to be sure he don’t look as if he often cried.”

Jack at this time had huge brown whiskers, and a beard big enough for a rook to build in, while his cheeks were of the colour of mahogany, and his hands as hard as a smith’s anvil. Dame Hughes had become a widow since Jack went to sea, but she had a daughter. While they were talking Nancy Hughes came in from gleaning. Nancy was a good girl, though she had little that was attractive about her except an honest open countenance; but she was the daughter of the woman who had known his mother, and from the first Jack found his heart drawn towards her. Jack lingered on in the village. The old man whose son had been killed at sea lodged him, and loved to listen to his tales of sea fights and adventures. So did Nancy. Before many days were over he offered to make Nancy his wife, and she consented. They were married. Jack was very happy. He cut out plenty of work for himself – built another room to the widow’s cottage, and helped the neighbours when any work was to be done; but it was not profitable. Jack, like many a man possessing far greater experience in the world, forgot that his money would not last for ever. He put it into a bag, which he gave to Dame Hughes’s safe keeping, saying he could get plenty more when that was gone, but he forgot to explain that he must go to sea to get it.

At last Jack found that the bag was getting empty. Poor Nancy was very sad when he told her he must be off, but she saw that there was no remedy for it; so with a sorrowing heart Jack shouldered his stick and bundle and returned to Plymouth, where he had left his chest and other worldly goods.

The long war was over, and England was at peace with all the world, but he had not many days to wait before he found a ship fitting out for the Pacific. The accounts he heard of her were favourable, so making arrangements that his wife should receive half his pay, he joined her for a four years cruise.

Away went Jack on board the Hero, once more to make the circuit, and more than the circuit, of the world. Sometimes for months together he was scorching under the sun of the tropics. At others, he was frozen up among the icy regions of the northern pole. This voyage he had only the elements, pestilence and famine, to fight with. Storms were skilfully encountered, and the Hero more than once narrowly escaped shipwreck, but fever visited the frigate and carried off many a victim. Dreadful were the ravings of the sufferers as they lay tortured by the fell disease. Jack assisted to tend his shipmates with the tenderness of a woman. While others stood aloof, fearless of danger he went among them. Had he any talisman to guard him? No. But Jack knew that it was his duty to tend the sick, and he trusted in God’s right arm that He would protect him. The fever at last disappeared, and Jack was unharmed.

Chapter Sixteen

Five years passed away before the Hero returned once again to the shores of old England. Jack felt himself of more importance than he had ever been before. He had now a home of his own, and when the ship was paid off, while others were seeking further employment or knocking about idly in a seaport, he set off with joy to that humble abode. It never occurred to him that death might have been busy there of late. For many a long month he had not heard of Nancy. Neither of them were great scribes, but with the aid of friends and shipmates they had during his absence contrived to exchange letters. Jack trudged on manfully. He had brought home most of his pay, though no prize money burnt in his pockets, yet he did not expect to be received with less welcome. His was a kind trailing heart. It was dark when he reached his own door. He looked in through the little lattice window. There was Dame Hughes and there was his Nancy sitting opposite to her busily plying her needle. He pronounced her name just to prepare her, as he said, for his appearance. She gazed about with a startled look as if she could not believe her senses. He spoke again. This time she knew his voice, and it was not long before he had both her and her old mother in his arms. Jack was as happy as the live long day, and many a tale of wonder had he to tell about those curious South Sea Islands and their savage inhabitants, and the icebergs and the whales, and the Patagonian giants and the huge sharks, and the waterspouts and the aurora borealis.