Philosopher Jack

Although the fish was not caught, this little incident served to raise the spirits of every one, and as the calm sunny weather lasted the whole day, even the most thoughtful of the party found it difficult to realise their forlorn condition; but when evening drew near, the aspect of things quickly changed. The splendid ocean-mirror, which had reflected the golden crags and slopes, the towers and battlements of cloud-land, was shivered by a sudden breeze and became an opaque grey; the fair blue sky deepened to indigo; black and gathering clouds rose out of the horizon, and cold white crests gleamed on the darkening waves. The men gathered in anxious groups, and Polly sat in the entrance of her bower gazing on the gloomy scene, until her young heart sank slowly but steadily. Then, remembering her father’s advice, she betook herself to God in prayer.

Young though she was, Polly was no sentimentalist in religion. She believed with all her heart in Jesus Christ as a living, loving Saviour. Her faith was very simple, and founded on experience. She had prayed, and had been answered. She had sought Jesus in sorrow, and had been comforted. The theologian can give the why and how and wherefore of this happy condition, but in practice he can arrive at it only by the same short road. One result of her prayer was that she went to sleep that night in perfect peace, while most of her companions in misfortune sat anxiously watching what appeared to be a gathering storm.

Before going to rest however, Polly had an earnest little talk with her father.

“Polly,” said Captain Samson, sitting down under the shelter of the tarpaulin, and drawing the child’s fair head on his breast, “I never spoke to you before on a subject that p’r’aps you won’t understand, but I am forced to do it now. It’s about money.”

“About money!” exclaimed Polly in surprise; “oh, father, surely you forget! The very last night we spent on shore, you spoke to me about money; you gave me a half-sovereign, and said you meant to give a blow-out to old Mrs Brown before leaving, and told me to buy—stay, let me see—there was half a pound of tea, and four pounds of sugar, and three penn’orth of snuff, and—”

“Yes, yes, Polly,” interrupted the captain, with a smile, “but I meant about money in a business way, you know, because if you chanced, d’ee see, ever to be in England without me, you know,—it—”

“But I’ll never be there without you, father, will I?” asked the child with an earnest look.

“Of course not—that’s to say, I hope not—but you know, Polly, that God arranges all the affairs of this world, and sometimes in His love and wisdom He sees fit to separate people—for a time, you know, only for a time—so that they don’t always keep together. Now, my darling, if it should please Him to send me cruising to—to—anywhere in a different direction from you, and you chanced ever to be in England alone—in Scotland, that is—at your own home, you must go to Bailie Trench—you know him—our old friend and helper when we were in shoal water, my dear, and say to him that I handed all my savings over to Mr Wilkins—that’s Watty’s father, Poll—to be invested in the way he thought best. When you tell that to Bailie Trench he’ll know what to do; he understands all about it. I might send you to Mr Wilkins direct but he’s a very great man, d’ee see, and doesn’t know you, and might refuse to give you the money.”

“To give me the money, father! But what should I do with the money when I got it?”

“Keep it, my darling.”

“Oh! I see, keep it safe for you till you came back?” said Polly.

“Just so, Poll, you’re a clever girl; keep it for me till I come back, or rather take it to Bailie Trench and he’ll tell you how to keep it. It’s a good pot o’ money, Poll, and has cost me the best part of a lifetime, workin’ hard and spendin’ little, to lay it by. Once I used to think,” continued the captain in a sad soliloquising tone, “that I’d live to cast anchor near the old spot, and spend it with your mother, Polly, and you; but the Lord willed it otherwise, and He does all things well, blessed be His name! Now you understand what you’re to do about the money, don’t you, if you should ever find yourself without me in Scotland, eh?”

Polly did not quite clearly understand, but after a little further explanation she professed herself to be quite prepared for the transaction of that important piece of financial business.

Poor Captain Samson sought thus to secure, to the best of his ability, that the small savings of his life should go to Polly in the event of her being saved and himself lost. Moreover, he revealed the state of his finances to Philosopher Jack, Ben Trench, and Watty Wilkins, whom he found grouped apart at a corner of the raft in earnest conversation, and begged of them, if they or any of them should survive, to see his daughter’s interest attended to.

“You see, my lads, although I would not for the world terrify the dear child uselessly, by telling her that we are in danger, it must be clear to you that if a gale springs up and our raft should be broken up, it’s not likely that all of us would be saved. Yet Polly might escape, and some of you also. We are all in the Lord’s hands, however, and have nothing to fear if we are His followers.”

Ah! that “if” went home. The captain did not lay stress on it; nevertheless stress was laid on it somehow, for the three youths found it recurring again and again to memory that night, though they did not speak of it to each other.

As the night advanced, the threatening gale passed away; the stars came out in all their splendour, and the morning sun found the glassy sea again ready to reflect his image. Thus they floated for several days in comparative peace and comfort. But it came at last.

One evening a squall came rushing down on them, turning up the sea, and converting it to ink and foam as it approached. The rag of sail with which they had previously courted the breeze in vain was hastily taken in; the fastenings of everything were looked to. Polly was placed in her canvas bower, and the whole structure of the raft was strengthened with a network of hawsers and cordage.

When the squall struck them, the raft appeared to tremble. The seas broke clean over them, several articles not properly secured were swept off, and weak points in the main fastenings were made plain, as the spars, beams, and planks writhed and struggled to get free.

But Captain Samson and his men were equal to the occasion; an iron clamp here, and an extra turn of a chain or hawser there, made all fast, so that before the squall had time to raise the sea, the raft held well together, and yielded, without breaking, to the motions of the waves.

Of course every one was drenched, including poor little Polly, for although the tarpaulin turned off the waves and spray above, it could not prevent the water spirting up between the spars from below. But Polly was, according to Baldwin, “a true chip of the old block;” she bore her discomforts with heroism, and quite put to shame poor Mr Luke, whose nervous temperament caused him great suffering.

Thus was spent a night of anxiety. The next day was little better, and the night following was worse. In addition to the violence of the wind and constant breaking over them of heavy seas, the darkness became so intense that it was difficult to see where damage to the fastenings occurred, and repairs became almost impossible.

About midnight there was a terrible rending of wood in that part of the raft lying farthest from Polly’s bower, and a great cry of fear was heard. The more courageous among the men sprang, by a natural impulse, to assist those in distress. It was found that a large portion of the raft had broken adrift, and was only held to it by a single rope. On this portion were two passengers and one of the crew. The former were apparently panic-stricken; the latter made frantic but futile attempts to haul in on the rope.

“Bear a hand, boys!” cried Edwin Jack, as he laid hold of the inner end of the rope.

Strong and willing hands were ready, but before they could lay hold the rope parted, and Jack was dragged violently into the sea. He rose like a cork. Little Wilkins lay down, and stretched out a helping hand. Jack caught it, and would infallibly have dragged the little fellow into the water if Ben Trench had not thrown himself on his legs and held on. Baldwin Burr seized hold of Ben, and the captain coming up at the moment, lent his powerful aid. Jack was saved, but the broken part of the raft, with its hapless occupants, was swept away and lost sight of.

This sad event had naturally a very depressing effect on every one. True, the portion of the raft which had broken away was large enough to sustain the unfortunates who were on it. Moreover, some of the provisions had also gone with them, so that there was hope of their holding out for a time and being picked up by a passing ship, but the hope was slight, and in the event of rougher weather, their fate would be certain.

For six days and nights the raft was tossed about on the open sea. It could scarcely be said that it sailed, although as large a mast and piece of canvas as they could set up urged it slowly though the water when the wind was strong. As to steering, that was next to impossible, and in truth it did not matter much how they steered.

Constant exposure by night and by day now began to tell on the less robust of the crew. Little Polly, however, was not one of these. She possessed a naturally good constitution, and was, besides, specially cared for by her father, who devoted all the powers of an inventive mind to the strengthening and improving of “the bower.” In this he was ably assisted by Philosopher Jack, whose love for the child deepened daily as he watched the sweet contented manner with which she received every drenching—and she got many—and the anxious way in which she inquired for, and sought to help, those of the party whose health began to fail.

Among these latter was Ben Trench.

“Ah! Polly,” said Ben one sultry forenoon when she brought him a glass of sweetened lime-juice and water, “you’re a kind little nurse. I really don’t know how I should get on without you.”

“Upon my word,” said little Wilkins, pouting, “you’re a grateful fellow! Here have I been nursing you all the morning, yet you seem to think nothing of that in comparison with Polly’s glass of lime-juice.”

“Come, Watty, don’t be jealous,” said Ben; “it’s not the glass of lime-juice, but Polly’s sympathetic face beaming behind it, that does me so much good. Besides, you know, Polly’s a girl, and a girl is always a better nurse than a man; you must admit that.”

Watty was not at all prepared to admit that, but his being spoken of as a man did much to mollify his hurt feelings.

“But I do hope you feel better to-day,” said Polly, observing with some anxiety the short, half-breathless manner in which the invalid spoke.

“Oh yes! I feel better—that is to say, I think I do. Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. You know, Polly, I came on this voyage chiefly on account of my health, and of course I must expect to be a little damaged by so much exposure, though your good father has indeed done his best to shelter me. Why, do you know, I sometimes think the berth he has made for me between the logs here is a greater triumph of his inventive genius than your bower. I often think they spoiled a splendid engineer when they made your father a sailor.”

Polly laughed at this, and Watty Wilkins tried to laugh, just by way of keeping up his friend’s spirits and being what Baldwin called good company; but poor Watty could not laugh. He had loved and played with Ben Trench since ever he could remember, and when he looked at his pale face and listened to his weak voice, a dread foreboding came over him, and brought such a rush of feeling to his heart that he was fain to leap up and spring to the farthest end of the raft, where he fell to hauling and tightening one of the rope-fastenings with all the energy of his little body and soul.

“Land ho!” shouted one of the men at that moment from the top of a cask, which formed the outlook, where, every day and all day, a man was stationed to watch for a sail or a sign of land.

An electric shock could not have produced greater excitement than these two words.

“Where away?” exclaimed the captain, leaping up beside the look-out.

“On the port-bow, sir,—there!” pointing eagerly.

“I don’t see it—oh—yes—no. It’s only a cloud. Who ever heard of the port-bow of a raft? Bah! your eyes have been squintin’. Not a bit of it, I see it—low lyin’; why, I see the palms—and I see the nuts—ah, and the monkeys, no doubt a-eatin’ of ’em—hip, hip, hurrah!”

Such were some of the exclamations, ending in a long, deep-toned, British cheer, with which the discovery of land was greeted.

In a short time all uncertainty was removed, and the land was clearly made out to be a small coral island with its narrow outlying reef, and a few cocoa-nut palms waving thereon.

The joy of the shipwrecked crew was excessive—somewhat in proportion to their previous depression. They shook bands, laughed, cheered, and in some cases wept, while a few clasped their hands, looked up, and audibly thanked God.

“You’ll soon get ashore,” said Polly, laying her hand on Ben Trench’s arm.

“Ay, and the cocoa-nut milk will set you up and make you fat in no time,” added Watty Wilkins.

“So it will,” returned Ben, who had not risen like the others; “we’ll have jolly times of it, won’t we? Like Robinson Crusoe. Oh! how I wish that sister Susan was here! She would enjoy it so much. It’s an island, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Edwin Jack, coming forward at the moment, “a coral island, with plenty of vegetation on it. So cheer up, Ben, we shall soon be ashore.”

Not so soon, however, as they expected, for the wind was light, although favourable, the raft was heavy, and the two oars had but little influence on it. The sun sank and rose again before they drew near to the reef. Inside the reef, between it and the island-shore, there was a lake or lagoon of calm water, but outside, on the reef itself, a heavy swell broke with continuous roar. To get involved in those giant breakers would have been destruction to the raft, and probably death to most of those on board. One narrow opening, marked by a few shrubs and palms on either side, formed the only portal to the calm lagoon. The captain himself took the steering oar, and summoned our philosopher to his assistance.

“Give way now, lads, with a will.”

As many men as could grasp the two oars laid hold of them, and bent their backs till the strong wood cracked again. Gradually the raft neared the opening. As it did so the ground-swell began to act on it. By degrees the towering billows—which seemed to rise out of a calm sea and rush to their destruction like walls of liquid glass—caught it, dragged it on a little, and then let it slip. At last one great wave began to curl in hissing foam underneath, caught the raft fairly, carried it forward on its boiling crest, and launched it with lightning speed into the opening. The space was too narrow! One of the projecting spars touched the reef. Instantly the fastenings were rent like pack-thread, and the raft was hurled forward in disconnected fragments. One of these turned completely over with several men on it. Another portion passed through the opening and swung round inside. The steering oar was wrenched from Jack’s hands, and struck the captain into the water. As if by instinct, Jack sprang to the “bower,” caught Polly in his arms, and leaped into the sea. At the same moment Wilkins ran to the rescue of his friend Ben. These two were on the part that had swung round to the calm side of the reef, and Watty waded to it with Ben on his back. The captain and all the rest were washed in a cataract of foam and wreckage through the opening into the lagoon, and pitched by curling eddies on the shore. In a few minutes they all stood in safety, panting, but uninjured, on the white sands of the coral reef.

Chapter Four

The Coral Island—Proceedings Therein

The island on which the raft with its occupants had been cast was of small size, not more than six miles in extent, and lay low in the water. Nevertheless it was covered with luxuriant vegetation, among which were several groves of cocoa-nut palms, the long feathery branches of which waved gracefully in a gentle breeze, as if beckoning an invitation to the castaways on the reef to cross the lagoon and find shelter there. But crossing the lagoon was not an easy matter.

“Shure it’s a mile wide if it’s a futt,” said one of the men as they stood in a group on the reef, dripping and gazing at the isle.

“No, Simon O’Rook,” said Bob Corkey, in that flat contradictions way to which some men are prone; “no, it’s only half a mile if it’s an inch.”

“You’re wrong, both of you,” said Baldwin Burr, “it ain’t more than quarter of a mile. Quite an easy swim for any of us.”

“Except my Polly,” observed the captain quietly.

“Ay, and those who are too weak to swim,” said Watty Wilkins, with a glance at his friend Ben, who had lain down on the sand and listened with a calm untroubled look to the conversation.

“You don’t seem at all anxious,” whispered Polly to Ben.

“No, Polly, I’m not. I have lately been taught how to trust in God by your example.”

“By mine!” exclaimed the child in extreme surprise.

Before Ben could reply the captain turned and called to Polly.

“Come here, my duckey; Edwin Jack offers to swim over the lagoon to the island with you on his back. Will you trust yourself to him?”

“Yes, father,” answered the child promptly.

“But maybe there are sharks,” suggested O’Rook.

There was a momentary silence. In the excitement of the occasion every one had forgotten sharks. What was to be done? The raft was utterly destroyed. Only a few of the logs which had formed it lay on the reef; the rest were floating on the lagoon at various distances, none nearer than fifty yards.

“There’s nothing for it, then, but to reconstruct our raft,” said the captain, throwing off his coat and shoes; “so these logs must be secured.”

He had only taken two steps towards the water when Philosopher Jack grasped his arm.

“Stop, sir, it is your duty to look after Polly. Now lads, those who can swim come along!”

Another instant and he was in the sea, regardless of sharks, and striking out for the floating wreckage, closely followed by O’Rook, Corkey, Burr, and Watty Wilkins. Strange to say, eight other men of the crew could not swim, although they had managed somehow to scramble on the reef. Whether it was that the sharks were not there at the time, or that the number and energy of the swimmers frightened them, we cannot tell, but each man reached a log or plank in safety, and began pushing it towards the reef. It was when they drew near to this that the trial of their courage was most severe. The excitement and gush of daring with which they had plunged in was by that time expended, and the slow motion of the logs gave them time for reflection. O’Rook’s lively fancy troubled him much.

“If the baists would only attack a man in front,” he muttered, “it’s little I’d mind ’em, but to come up behind, sneakin’ like—hooroo!”

At that moment a branch of coral, which projected rather far from the bottom, touched O’Rook’s toe and drew from him an uncontrollable yell of alarm. Baldwin Burr, who swam close behind, was humorously inclined as well as cool. He pushed the plank he was guiding close to his comrade’s back, dipped the end of it, and thrust it down on O’Rook’s legs.

The effect was even more powerful than he had hoped for.

“A shark!—a sha-a-a-rk!” howled O’Rook, and dived under the broken main-yard, which he was piloting ashore. Coming up on the other side, he tried to clamber on it, but it rolled round and dropped him. He went down with a gurgling cry. Again he rose, grasped the spar with his left arm, glared wildly round, and clenched his right hand as if ready to hit on the nose any creature—fish, flesh, or fowl—that should assail him.

“Take it easy, messmate,” said Burr in a quiet tone; “sorry I touched you. Hope it didn’t hurt much.”

“Och! it was you, was it? Sure, I thought it was a shark; well, well, it’s plaised I am to be let off so aisy.”

With this philosophic reflection O’Rook landed with his piece of timber. Enough of material was soon collected to form a raft sufficiently large to ferry half of the party across the lagoon, and in two trips the whole were landed in safety on the island.

“You don’t mean to tell me, Jack,” said Baldwin Burr, “that this island was made by coral insects?”

“Yes, I do!” said Jack.

“From the top to the bottom?” asked Burr.

“From the bottom to the top,” said Edwin.

Baldwin asked this question of the philosopher during a pause in their labours. They were, at the time, engaged in constructing a new bower for Polly among the flowering shrubs under the cocoa-nut palms. Polly herself was aiding them, and the rest of the party were scattered among the bushes, variously employed in breaking down branches, tearing up long grass, and otherwise clearing ground for an encampment.

“How could insects make an island?” asked Polly, sitting down on a bank to rest.

“Don’t you know, Poll?” said Edwin; “why, I thought your father taught you about almost everything.”

“Oh no,” replied Polly, with an innocent smile, “not everything yet, you know, but I daresay he will in the course of time. Tell me about the insects.”

“Well, let me see, how shall I begin?” said Jack, leaning against the bank, and crossing his arms on his breast. “The coral insects, Polly, are very small, some of them not larger than a pin’s head. They are great builders. There is lime in sea-water. The insects, which are called corallines, have the power of attracting this lime to them; drawing it away from the water, so to speak, and fixing it round their own bodies, which is called secreting the lime. Thus they form shells, or houses, to themselves, which they fix at the bottom of the sea. Having laid the basements of their houses close together, they proceed to add upper storeys, and thus they add storey to storey, until they reach the surface of the sea. They work in such innumerable millions that, in course of time, they form reefs and islands, as you see.”

“But I don’t see!” said Polly, looking round; “at least, I don’t see corallines working.”

“Ah, good,” said Baldwin, with a nod of approval to the child, as if to say, “You have him there!”

“True,” returned the philosopher, “because the corallines can only work under water. The moment they reach the surface they die; but those that remain continue their labours on the sides of the reef or island, and thus widen it. Then the waves break off masses of coral, and cast them, with drifting sea-weed and other things, up on the reef, which makes it higher; then sea-birds come to rest on it. The winds carry seeds of various plants to it, which take root, grow up, die; and thus thicken the soil by slow degrees, till at last, after a long, long time, the island becomes a pretty large and fertile one like this.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Polly; “what a clever insect!”

“Clever indeed,” returned Edwin; “especially when we consider that it has got no brains.”

“No brains!” echoed Baldwin.

“No, it has little more than a stomach.”

“Oh! come now,” remonstrated Baldwin; “we can’t believe that, can we, Miss Polly? Even a house-builder must think, much more an island-builder; and no fellow can think with his stomach, you know.”

“Nevertheless, it is as I tell you,” continued Jack, “and these little creatures manage to create hundreds of islands in the Southern Seas, by their perseverance, energy, and united action. Quite an example to man—eh, Baldwin?”

“Ha! just so—a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together. I think we’d better act on the principles of these corry-lines, else Miss Polly’s bower won’t be ready afore dark.”

So saying, the seaman and our philosopher resumed their work with such united energy—aided by Polly herself—that a very comfortable habitation of boughs and large leaves was finished before the day closed. It resembled a large beehive, was overshadowed by dense foliage of a tropical kind, and carpeted with a species of fern.

Polly was profuse in her thanks, and when it was finished, called to her father to come and admire it. The stout mariner at once obeyed the summons. He quitted the pile of firewood on which he had been labouring, and with a violently red face and perspiring brow, appeared on the scene, bearing a mighty axe on his shoulder.