Four years rolled away, casting chequered light and shadow over the little village of Ashford in their silent passage,—whitening the forelocks of the aged, and strengthening the muscles of the young. Death, too, touched a hearth here and there, and carried desolation to a home; for four years cannot wing their flight without enforcing on us the lesson—which we are so often taught and yet take so long to learn—that this is not our rest,—that here we have no abiding city. Did we but ponder this lesson more frequently and earnestly, instead of making us sad, it would nerve our hearts and hands to fight and work more diligently,—to work in the cause of our Redeemer,—the only cause that is worth the life-long energy of immortal beings,—the great cause that includes all others; and it would teach us to remember that our little day of opportunity will soon be spent and that the night is at hand in which no man can work.
Four years rolled away, and during this time Martin, having failed to obtain his aunt’s consent to his going to sea, continued at school, doing his best to curb the roving spirit that strove within him. Martin was not particularly bright at the dead languages; to the rules of grammar he entertained a rooted aversion; and at history he was inclined to yawn, except when it happened to touch upon the names and deeds of such men as Vasco di Gama and Columbus. But in geography he was perfect; and in arithmetic and book-keeping he was quite a proficient, to the delight of Mrs Dorothy Grumbit whose household books he summed up; and to the satisfaction of his fast friend, Mr Arthur Jollyboy, whose ledgers he was—in that old gentleman’s secret resolves—destined to keep.
Martin was now fourteen, broad and strong, and tall for his age. He was the idol of the school,—dashing, daring, reckless, and good-natured. There was almost nothing that he would not attempt and there were very few things that he could not do. He never fought however—from principle; and his strength and size often saved him from the necessity. But he often prevented other boys from fighting, except when he thought there was good reason for it; then he stood by and saw fair-play. There was a strange mixture of philosophical gravity, too, in Martin. As he grew older he became more enthusiastic and less boisterous.
Bob Croaker was still at the school, and was, from prudential motives, a fast friend of Martin. But he bore him a secret grudge, for he could not forget the great fight.
One day Bob took Martin by the arm, and said, “I say, Rattler, come with me to Bilton, and have some fun among the shipping.”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said Martin. “I’m just in the mood for a ramble, and I’m not expected home till bed-time.”
In little more than an hour the two boys were wandering about the dock-yards of the sea-port town, and deeply engaged in examining the complicated rigging of the ships. While thus occupied, the clanking of a windlass and the merry, “Yo heave O! and away she goes,” of the sailors, attracted their attention.
“Hallo! there goes the Firefly, bound for the South Seas,” cried Bob Croaker; “come, let’s see her start. I say, Martin, isn’t your friend, Barney O’Flannagan, on board?”
“Yes, he is. He tries to get me to go out every voyage, and I wish I could. Come quickly; I want to say good-bye to him before he starts.”
“Why don’t you run away, Rattler?” inquired Bob, as they hurried round the docks to where the vessel was warping out.
“Because I don’t need to. My aunt has given me leave to go if I like; but she says it would break her heart if I do; and I would rather be screwed down to a desk for ever than do that, Bob Croaker.”
The vessel, upon the deck of which the two boys now leaped, was a large, heavy-built barque. Her sails were hanging loose, and the captain was giving orders to the men, who had their attention divided between their duties on board and their mothers, wives, and sisters, who still lingered to take a last farewell.
“Now, then, those who don’t want to go to sea had better go ashore,” roared the captain.
There was an immediate rush to the side.
“I say, Martin,” whispered Barney, as he hurried past, “jump down below for’ard; you can go out o’ the harbour mouth with us and get ashore in one o’ the shore-boats alongside. They’ll not cast off till we’re well out. I want to speak to you—”
“Man the fore-top-sail halyards,” shouted the first mate.
“Ay ay, sir-r–r,” and the men sprang to obey. Just then the ship touched on the bar at the mouth of the harbour, and in another moment she was aground.
“There, now, she’s hard and fast!” roared the captain, as he stormed about the deck in a paroxysm of rage. But man’s rage could avail nothing. They had missed the passage by a few feet, and now they had to wait the fall and rise again of the tide ere they could hope to get off.
In the confusion that followed, Bob Croaker suggested that Martin and he should take one of the punts, or small boats which hovered round the vessel, and put out to sea, where they might spend the day pleasantly in rowing and fishing.
“Capital!” exclaimed Martin. “Let’s go at once. Yonder’s a little fellow who will let us have his punt for a few pence. I know him. Hallo, Tom!”
“Ay, ay,” squeaked a boy who was so small that he could scarcely lift the oar, light though it was, with which he sculled his punt cleverly along.
“Shove alongside, like a good fellow; we want your boat for a little to row out a bit.”
“It’s a-blowin’ too hard,” squeaked the small boy, as he ranged alongside. “I’m afeared you’ll be blowed out.”
“Nonsense!” cried Bob Croaker, grasping the rope which the boy threw to him. “Jump on board, younker; we don’t want you to help us, and you’re too heavy for ballast. Slip down the side, Martin, and get in while I hold on to the rope. All right? now I’ll follow. Here, shrimp, hold the rope till I’m in, and then cast off. Look alive!”
As Bob spoke, he handed the rope to the little boy; but, in doing so, let it accidentally slip out of his hand.
“Catch hold o’ the main chains, Martin,—quick!”
But Martin was too late. The current that swept out of the harbour whirled the light punt away from the ship’s side, and carried it out seaward. Martin instantly sprang to the oar, and turned the boat’s head round. He was a stout and expert rower, and would soon have regained the ship; but the wind increased at the moment, and blew in a squall off shore, which carried him further out despite his utmost efforts. Seeing that all further attempts were useless, Martin stood up and waved his hand to Bob Croaker, shouting as he did so, “Never mind, Bob, I’ll make for the South Point. Run round and meet me, and we’ll row back together.”
The South Point was a low cape of land which stretched a considerable distance out to sea, about three miles to the southward of Bilton harbour. It formed a large bay, across which, in ordinary weather, a small boat might be rowed in safety. Martin Rattler was well-known at the sea-port as a strong and fearless boy, so that no apprehension was entertained for his safety by those who saw him blown away. Bob Croaker immediately started for the Point on foot a distance of about four miles by land; and the crew of the Firefly were so busied with their stranded vessel that they took no notice of the doings of the boys.
But the weather now became more and more stormy. Thick clouds gathered on the horizon. The wind began to blow with steady violence, and shifted a couple of points to the southward; so that Martin found it impossible to keep straight for the Point. Still he worked perseveringly at his single oar, and sculled rapidly over the sea; but, as he approached the Point he soon perceived that no effort of which he was capable could enable him to gain it. But Martin’s heart was stout. He strove with all the energy of hope, until the Point was passed; and then, turning the head of his little boat towards it, he strove with all the energy of despair, until he fell down exhausted. The wind and tide swept him rapidly out to sea; and when his terrified comrade reached the Point the little boat was but a speck on the seaward horizon.
Well was it then for Martin Rattler that a friendly heart beat for him on board the Firefly. Bob Croaker carried the news to the town; but no one was found daring enough to risk his life out in a boat on that stormy evening. The little punt had been long out of sight ere the news reached them, and the wind had increased to a gale. But Barney O’Flannagan questioned Bob Croaker closely, and took particular note of the point of the compass at which Martin had disappeared; and when the Firefly at length got under weigh, he climbed to the fore-top cross-trees, and stood there scanning the horizon with an anxious eye.
It was getting dark, and a feeling of despair began to creep over the seaman’s heart as he gazed round the wide expanse of water, on which nothing was to be seen except the white foam that crested the rising billows.
“Starboard, hard!” he shouted suddenly.
“Starboard it is!” replied the man at the wheel, with prompt obedience.
In another moment Barney slid down the back-stay and stood on the deck, while the ship rounded to and narrowly missed striking a small boat that floated keel up on the water. There was no cry from the boat; and it might have been passed as a mere wreck, had not the lynx eye of Barney noticed a dark object clinging to it.
“Lower away a boat, lads,” cried the Irishman, springing overboard; and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the water closed over his head.
The Firefly was hove to, a boat was lowered and rowed towards Barney, whose strong voice guided his shipmates towards him. In less than a quarter of an hour the bold sailor and his young friend Martin Rattler were safe on board, and the ship’s head was again turned out to sea.
It was full half an hour before Martin was restored to consciousness in the forecastle, to which his deliverer had conveyed him.
“Musha, lad, but ye’re booked for the blue wather now, an’ no mistake!” said Barney, looking with an expression of deep sympathy at the poor boy, who sat staring before him quite speechless. “The capting ’ll not let ye out o’ this ship till ye git to the gould coast, or some sich place. He couldn’t turn back av he wanted iver so much; but he doesn’t want to, for he needs a smart lad like you, an’ he’ll keep you now, for sartin.”
Barney sat down by Martin’s side and stroked his fair curls, as he sought in his own quaint fashion to console him. But in vain.
Martin grew quite desperate as he thought of the misery into which poor Aunt Dorothy Grumbit would be plunged, on learning that he had been swept out to sea in a little boat, and drowned, as she would naturally suppose. In his frenzy he entreated and implored the captain to send him back in the boat and even threatened to knock out his brains with a handspike if he did not; but the captain smiled and told him that it was his own fault. He had no business to be putting to sea in a small boat in rough weather, and he might be thankful he wasn’t drowned. He wouldn’t turn back now for fifty pounds twice told.
At length Martin became convinced that all hope of returning home was gone. He went quietly below, threw himself into one of the sailor’s berths, turned his face to the wall, and wept long and bitterly.
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