The Red Eric

“Next mornin’ I got up to look for the ghost, and, sure enough, I found his remains! His pale body lay in a far corner o’ the room doubled up and smashed to bits, and his pointed cap lay in another corner almost flat. That ghost,” concluded Rokens, with slow emphasis—“that ghost was the candle, it wos!”

“The candle!” exclaimed several of the men in surprise.

“Yes, the candle, and brass candlestick with the stinguisher a-top o’t. Ye see, lads, the candle stood close to the side o’ my bed on the table, an’ when I woke up and I saw it there, it seemed to me like a big thing in the middle o’ the room, instead o’ a little thing close to my nose; an’ when I sot up in my bed, of coorse I looked right over the top of it and saw nothin’; an’ when I lay down, of coorse it rose up in the very same place. An’, let me tell you, shipmates,” added Tim, in conclusion, with the air of a philosopher, “all ghosts is o’ the same sort. They’re most of ’em made o’ wood or brass, or some sich stuff, as I’ve good cause to remimber, for I had to pay the price o’ that ’ere ghost before I left that there hinn on the lonesome moor, and for the washin’ of the blankets, too, as wos all kivered with blood nixt mornin’ from my smashed knuckles. There’s a morial contained in most things, lads, if ye only try for to find it out; an’ the morial of my story is this—don’t ye go for to b’lieve that everything ye don’t ’xactly understand is a ghost until ye’ve got to know more about it.”

While Tim Rokens was thus recounting his ghostly experiences, and moralising thereon, for the benefit of his comrades, the silent tide was stealthily creeping up the sides of the Red Eric, and placing her gradually on an even keel. At the same time a British man-of-war was creeping down upon that innocent vessel with the murderous intention of blowing her out of the water, if possible.

In order to explain this latter fact, we must remind the reader of the boat and crew of the Portuguese slaver which was encountered by the party of excursionists on their trip down the river. The vessel to which that boat belonged had been for several weeks previous creeping about off the coast, watching her opportunity to ship a cargo of slaves, and at the same time to avoid falling into the hands of a British cruiser which was stationed on the African coast to prevent the villainous traffic. The Portuguese ship, which was very similar in size and shape to the Red Eric, had hitherto managed to elude the cruiser, and had succeeded in taking a number of slaves on board ere she was discovered. The cruiser gave chase to her on the same afternoon as that on which the Red Eric grounded on the mud-bank off the mouth of the river. Darkness, however, favoured the slaver, and when the land breeze failed, she was lost sight of in the intricacies of the navigation at that part of the coast.

Towards morning, while it was yet dark, the Red Eric floated, and Captain Dunning, who had paced the deck all night with a somewhat impatient tread, called to the mate— “Now, Mr Millons, man the boats, and let some of the hands stand-by to trim the sails to the first puff of wind.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate, as he sprang to obey.

Now it is a curious fact, that at that identical moment the captain of the cruiser addressed his first lieutenant in precisely the same words, for he had caught a glimpse of the whaler’s topmasts against the dark sky, and mistook them, very naturally, for those of the slaver. In a few seconds the man-of-war was in full pursuit.

“I say, Dr Hopley,” remarked Captain Dunning, as he gazed intently into the gloom astern, “did you not hear voices? and, as I live, there’s a large ship bearing right down on us!”

“It must be a slaver,” replied the doctor; “probably the one that owned the boat we saw up the river.”

“Ship on the larboard bow!” shouted the look-out on the forecastle.

“Hallo! ships ahead and astern!” remarked the captain, in surprise. “There seems to be a ‘school’ of ’em in these waters.”

At this moment the oars of the boats belonging to the ship astern were heard distinctly, and a light puff of wind at the same time bulged out the sails of the Red Eric, which instantly forged ahead.

“Ship ahoy!” shouted a voice from the boats astern in a tone of authority; “heave-to, you rascal, or I’ll sink you!”

Captain Dunning turned to the doctor with a look of intense surprise.

“Why, doctor, that’s the usual hail of a pirate, or something like it. What it can be doing here is past my comprehension. I would as soon expect to find a whale in a wash-tub as a black flag in these waters! Port, port a little” (turning to the steersman)—“steady—so. We must run for it, anyhow, for we’re in no fightin’ trim. The best answer to give to such a hail is silence.”

Contrary to expectation the boats did not again hail, but in a few minutes the dark hull of the British cruiser became indistinctly visible as it slipped swiftly through the water before the freshening breeze, and neared the comparatively slow-going whaler rapidly. Soon it came within easy range, and while Captain Dunning looked over the taffrail with a troubled countenance, trying to make her out, the same voice came hoarsely down on the night breeze issuing the same peremptory command.

“Turn up the hands, Mr Millons, and serve out pistols and cutlasses. Get the carronades on the forecastle and quarterdeck loaded, Mr Markham, and look alive; we must show the enemy a bold front, whoever he is.”

As the captain issued these orders, the darkness was for an instant illuminated by a bright flash; the roar of a cannon reverberated over the sea; a round-shot whistled through the rigging of the Red Eric, and the next instant the foretopsail-yard came rattling down upon the deck.

Immediately after, the cruiser ranged up alongside, and the order to heave-to was repeated with a threat that was calculated to cause the hair of a man of peace to stand on end. The effect on Captain Dunning was to induce him to give the order—

“Point the guns there, lads, and aim high; I don’t like to draw first blood—even of a pirate.”

“Ship ahoy! Who are you, and where from?” inquired Captain Dunning, through the speaking-trumpet.

“Her British Majesty’s frigate Firebrand. If you don’t heave-to, sir, instantly, I’ll give you a broadside. Who are you, and where bound?”

“Whew!” whistled Captain Dunning, to vent his feelings of surprise ere he replied, “The Red Eric, South Sea whaler, outward bound.”

Having given this piece of information, he ordered the topsails to be backed, and the ship was hove-to. Meanwhile a boat was lowered from the cruiser, and the captain thereof speedily leaped upon the whaler’s quarterdeck.

The explanation that followed was not by any means calculated to allay the irritation of the British captain. He had made quite sure that the Red Eric was the slaver of which he was in search, and the discovery of his mistake induced him to make several rather severe remarks in reference to the crew of the Red Eric generally and her commander in particular.

“Why didn’t you heave-to when I ordered you,” he said, “and so save all this trouble and worry?”

“Because,” replied Captain Dunning drily, “I’m not in the habit of obeying orders until I know that he who gives ’em has a right to do so. But ’tis a pity to waste time talking about such trifles when the craft you are in search of is not very far away at this moment.”

“What mean you, sir?” inquired the captain of the cruiser quickly.

“I mean that yonder vessel, scarcely visible now on the lee bow, is the slaver, in all likelihood.”

The captain gave but one hasty glance in the direction pointed to by Captain Dunning, and next moment he was over the side of the ship, and the boat was flying swiftly towards his vessel. The rapid orders given on board the cruiser soon after, showed that her commander was eagerly in pursuit of the strange vessel ahead, and the flash and report of a couple of guns proved that he was again giving orders in his somewhat peremptory style.

When daylight appeared, Captain Dunning was still on deck, and Glynn Proctor stood by the wheel. The post of the latter, however, was a sinecure, as the wind had again fallen. When the sun rose it revealed the three vessels lying becalmed within a short distance of each other and several miles off shore.

“So, so,” exclaimed the captain, taking the glass and examining the other vessels. “I see it’s all up with the slaver. Serves him right; don’t it, Glynn?”

“It does,” replied Glynn emphatically. “I hope they will all be hanged. Isn’t that the usual way of serving these fellows out?”

“Well, not exactly, lad. They don’t go quite that length—more’s the pity; if they did, there would be less slave-trading; but the rascals will lose both ship and cargo.”

“I wonder,” said Glynn, “how they can afford to carry on the trade when they lose so many ships as I am told they do every year.”

“You wouldn’t wonder, boy, if you knew the enormous prices got for slaves. Why, the profits on one cargo, safely delivered, will more than cover the loss of several vessels and cargoes. You may depend on’t they would not carry it on if it did not pay.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Glynn, giving the wheel a savage turn, as if to express his thorough disapprobation of the slave-trade, and his extreme disgust at not being able, by the strength of his own right arm, at once to repress it. “And who’s to pay for our foretopsail-yard?” he inquired, abruptly, as if desirous of changing the subject.

“Ourselves, I fear,” replied the captain. “We must take it philosophically, and comfort ourselves with the fact that it is the foretopsail-yard, and not the bowsprit or the mainmast, that was carried away. It’s not likely the captain of the cruiser will pay for it, at any rate.”

Captain Dunning was wrong. That same morning he received a polite note from the commander of the said cruiser, requesting the pleasure of his company to dinner, in the event of the calm continuing, and assuring him that the carpenter and the sail-maker of the man-of-war should be sent on board his ship after breakfast to repair damages. Captain Dunning, therefore, like an honest, straightforward man as he was, admitted that he had been hasty in his judgment, and stated to Glynn Proctor, emphatically, that the commander of the Firebrand was “a trump.”

Chapter Fifteen.

New Scenes—A Fight Prevented by a Whale—A Storm—Blown off the Yardarm—Wreck of the “Red Eric”

Five weeks passed away, and really, when one comes to consider the matter, it is surprising what a variety of events may be compressed into five weeks; what an amount of space may be passed over, what an immense change of scene and circumstance may be experienced in that comparatively short period of time.

Men and women who remain quietly at home do not, perhaps, fully realise this fact. Five weeks to them does not usually seem either very long or very short. But let those quiet ones travel; let them rush away headlong, by the aid of wind and steam, to the distant and wonderful parts of this wonderful world of ours, and, ten to one, they will afterwards tell you that the most wonderful discovery they had made during their travels, is the fact that a miniature lifetime (apparently) can be compressed into five weeks.

Five weeks passed away, and in the course of that time the foretopsail-yard of the Red Eric had been repaired; the Red Eric herself had passed from equatorial into southern seas; Alice Dunning had become very sea-sick, which caused her to look uncommonly green in the face, and had got well again, which caused her to become fresh and rosy as the early morning; Jacko had thoroughly established his reputation as the most arrant and accomplished thief that ever went to sea: King Bumble had been maligned and abused again and again, and over again, despite his protestations of innocence, by grim-faced Tarquin, the steward, for having done the deeds which were afterwards discovered to have been committed by Jacko; fat little Gurney had sung innumerable songs of his own composing, in which he was ably supported by Glynn Proctor; Dr Hopley had examined, phrenologically, all the heads on board, with the exception of that of Tarquin, who would not submit to the operation on any account, and had shot, and skinned, and stuffed a variety of curious sea-birds, and caught a number of remarkable sea-fish, and had microscopically examined—to the immense interest of Ailie, and consequently of the captain—a great many surprising animalcules, called Medusae, which possessed the most watery and the thinnest possible bodies, yet which had the power of emitting a beautiful phosphoric light at night, so as to cause the whole ocean sometimes to glow as if with liquid fire; Phil Briant had cracked more jokes, good, bad, and indifferent, than would serve to fill a whole volume of closely-printed pages, and had told more stories than would be believed by most people; Tim Rokens and the other harpooners had, with the assistance of the various boats’ crews, slain and captured several large whales, and Nikel Sling had prepared, and assisted to consume, as many breakfasts, dinners, and suppers as there are days in the period of time above referred to;—in short, those five weeks, which we thus dismiss in five minutes, might, if enlarged upon, be expanded into material to fill five volumes such as this, which would probably take about five years to write—another reason for cutting this matter short. All this shows how much may be compressed into little space, how much may be done and seen in little time, and, therefore, how much value men ought to attach to little things.

Five weeks passed away, as we have already remarked, and at the end of that time the Red Eric found herself, one beautiful sunny afternoon, becalmed on the breast of the wide ocean with a strange vessel, also a whaler, a few miles distant from her, and a couple of sperm-whales sporting playfully about midway between the two ships. Jim Scroggles on that particular afternoon found himself in the crow’s-nest at the masthead, roaring “Thar she blows!” with a degree of energy so appalling that one was almost tempted to believe that that long-legged individual had made up his mind to compress his life into one grand but brief minute, and totally exhaust his powers of soul and body in the reiterated vociferation of that one faculty of the sperm-whale. Allowance must be made for Jim, seeing that this was the first time he had been fortunate enough to “raise the oil” since he became a whaler.

The usual scene of bustle and excitement immediately ensued. The men sprang to their appointed places in a moment; the tubs, harpoons, etcetera, were got ready, and in a few minutes the three boats were leaping over the smooth swell towards the fish.

While this was taking place on board the Red Eric, a precisely similar scene occurred on board the other whale-ship, and a race now ensued between the boats of the two ships, for each knew well that the first boat that harpooned either of the whales claimed it.

“Give way, my lads,” whispered Captain Dunning eagerly, as he watched the other boats; “we shall be first—we shall be first; only bend your backs.”

The men needed not to be urged; they were quite as anxious as their commander to win the races and bent their backs, as he expressed it, until the oars seemed about to break. Glynn sat on the after thwart, and did good service on this occasion.

It soon became evident that the affair would be decided by the boats of the two captains, both of which took the lead of the others, but as they were advancing in opposite directions it was difficult to tell which was the fleeter of the two. When the excitement of the race was at its height the whales went down, and the men lay on their oars to wait until they should rise again. They lay in anxious suspense for about a minute, when the crew of Captain Dunning’s boat was startled by the sudden apparition of a waterspout close to them, by which they were completely drenched. It was immediately followed by the appearance of the huge blunt head of one of the whales, which rose like an enormous rock out of the sea close to the starboard-quarter.

The sight was received with a loud shout, and Tim Rokens leaped up and grasped a harpoon, but the whale sheered off. A spare harpoon lay on the stern-sheets close to Glynn, who dropped his oar and seized it. Almost without knowing what he was about, he hurled it with tremendous force at the monster’s neck, into which it penetrated deeply. The harpoon fortunately happened to be attached to a large buoy, called by whalers a drogue, which was jerked out of the boat like a cannon-shot as the whale went down, carrying harpoon and drogue along with it.

“Well done, lad,” cried the captain, in great delight, “you’ve made a noble beginning! Now, lads, pull gently ahead, she won’t go far with such an ornament as that dangling at her neck. A capital dart! couldn’t have done it half so well myself, even in my young days!”

Glynn felt somewhat elated at this unexpected piece of success; to do him justice, however, he took it modestly. In a few minutes the whale rose, but it had changed its course while under water, and now appeared close to the leading boat of the other ship.

By the laws of the whale-fishery, no boat of one vessel has a right to touch a whale that has been struck by the boat of another vessel, so long as the harpoon holds fast and the rope remains unbroken, or so long as the float to which the harpoon is connected remains attached. Nevertheless, in defiance of this well-known law, the boat belonging to the captain of the strange ship gave chase, and succeeded in making fast to the whale.

To describe the indignation of Captain Dunning and his men on witnessing this act is impossible. The former roared rather than shouted, “Give way, lads!” and the latter bent their backs as if they meant to pull the boat bodily out of the water, and up into the atmosphere. Meanwhile all the other boats were in hot pursuit of the second whale, which had led them a considerable distance away from the first.

“What do you mean by striking that fish?” shouted Captain Dunning, when, after a hard pull, he came up with the boat, the crew of which had just succeeded in thrusting a lance deep into a mortal part of the huge animal, which soon after rolled over, and lay extended on the waves.

“What right have you to ask?” replied the captain of the strange ship, an ill-favoured, powerful man, whose countenance was sufficient to condemn him in any society, save that of ruffians. “Don’t you see your drogue has broke loose?”

“I see nothing of the sort. It’s fast at this moment; so you’ll be good enough to cut loose and take yourself off as fast as you please.”

To this the other made no reply, but, turning to his men, said: “Make fast there, lads; signal the other boats, and pull away for the ship; look sharp, you lubbers.”

“Och! captain dear,” muttered Phil Briant, baring both arms up to the shoulders, “only give the word; do, now!”

Captain Dunning, who was already boiling with rage, needed no encouragement to make an immediate attack on the stranger, neither did his men require an order; they plunged their oars into the water, ran right into the other boat, sprang to their feet, seized lances, harpoons, and knives, and in another moment would have been engaged in a deadly struggle had not an unforeseen event occurred to prevent the fray. This was the partial recovery of the whale, which, apparently resolved to make one final struggle for life, turned over and over, lashed the sea into foam, and churned it up with the blood which spouted in thick streams from its numerous wounds.

Both boats were in imminent danger, and the men sprang to their oars in order to pull out of the range of the monster’s dying struggles. In this effort the strange boat was successful, but that of Captain Dunning fared ill. A heavy blow from the whale’s tail broke it in two, and hurled it into the air, whence the crew descended, amid a mass of harpoons, lances, oars, and cordage, into the blood-stained water.

The fish sheered away for some distance, dragging the other boat along with it, and then rolled over quite dead. Fortunately not one of the crew of the capsized boat was hurt. All of them succeeded in reaching and clinging to the shattered hull of their boat; but there they were destined to remain a considerable time, as the boat of the stranger, having secured the dead fish, proceeded leisurely to tow it towards their ship, without paying the slightest attention to the shouts of their late enemies.

A change had now come over the face of the sky. Clouds began to gather on the horizon, and a few light puffs of air swept over the sea, which enabled the strange vessel to bear down on her boat, and take the whale in tow. It also enabled the Red Eric to beat up, but more slowly, towards the spot where their disabled boat lay, and rescue their comrades from their awkward position. It was some time before the boats were all gathered together. When this was accomplished the night had set in and the stranger had made off with her ill-gotten prize, the other whale having sounded, and the chase being abandoned.

“Now, of all the disgustin’ things that ever happened to me, this is the worst,” remarked Captain Dunning, in a very sulky tone of voice, as he descended to the cabin to change his garments, Ailie having preceded him in order to lay out dry clothes.

“Oh! my darling papa, what a fright I got,” she exclaimed, running up and hugging him, wet as he was, for the seventh time, despite his efforts to keep her off. “I was looking through the spy-glass at the time it happened, and when I saw you all thrown into the air I cried—oh! I can’t tell you how I cried.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Ailie, my pet, for your red, swelled-up eyes speak for themselves. But go, you puss, and change your own frock. You’ve made it as wet as my coat, nearly; besides, I can’t undress, you know, while you stand there.”

Ailie said, “I’m so very, very thankful,” and then giving her father one concluding hug, which completely saturated the frock, went to her own cabin.

Meanwhile the crew of the captain’s boat were busy in the forecastle stripping off their wet garments, and relating their adventures to the men of the other boats, who, until they reached the ship, had been utterly ignorant of what had passed.

It is curious that Tim Rokens should open the conversation with much the same sentiment, if not exactly the same phrase, as that expressed by the captain.

“Now boys,” said he, slapping his wet limbs, “I’ll tell ye wot it is, of all the aggrawations as has happened to me in my life, this is out o’ sight the wust. To think o’ losin’ that there whale, the very biggest I ever saw—”

“Ah! Rokens, man,” interrupted Glynn, as he pulled off his jacket, “the loss is greater to me than to you, for that was my first whale!”

“True, boy,” replied the harpooner, in a tone of evidently genuine sympathy; “I feel for ye. I knows how I should ha’ taken on if it had happened to me. But cheer up, lad; you know the old proverb, ‘There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out o’t.’ You’ll be the death o’ many sich yet, I’ll bet my best iron.”

“Sure, the wust of it all is, that we don’t know who was the big thief as got that fish away with him,” said Phil Briant, with a rueful countenance.

“Don’t we, though!” cried Gurney, who had been in the mate’s boat; “I axed one o’ the men o’ the stranger’s boats—for we run up close alongside durin’ the chase—and he told me as how she was the Termagant of New York; so we can be down on ’em yet, if we live long enough.”

“Humph!” observed Rokens; “and d’ye suppose he’d give ye the right name?”

“He’d no reason to do otherwise. He didn’t know of the dispute between the other boats.”

“There’s truth in that,” remarked Glynn, as he prepared to go on deck; “but it may be a year or more before we foregather. No, I give up all claim to my first fish from this date.”

“All hands ahoy!” shouted the mate; “tumble up there! Reef topsails! Look alive!”

The men ran hastily on deck, completing their buttoning and belting as they went, and found that something very like a storm was brewing. As yet the breeze was moderate, and the sea not very high, but the night was pitchy dark, and a hot oppressive atmosphere boded no improvement in the weather.