“Well, Bluenose, hoo d’ye find yerself to-day?” inquired Supple Rodger one fine morning, as the Captain sauntered slowly along the beach in front of his hut, with his hands deep in the pockets of his pilot-coat.
“Thankee, I amongst the middlings. How’s yerself?”
“I like myself,” said Rodgers; “how’s old Jeph?”
“Rather or’nary; but I dessay he’ll come all square after a day or two in dock,” answered the Captain; “I left him shored up in bed with bolsters.”
“So Tommy’s slipped his cable, I’m told?” said Rodgers interrogatively.
“Ay, he’s off, an’ no mistake. I thought he was jokin’, for I heard him talk o’ goin’ after Bax some time past, but nothin’ more come of it till yesterday, when he comes to me and bids me good day, and then off like a galley after a French smuggler. It’s o’ no use tryin’ to catch him. That boy’ll make his way and have his will somehow, whether we let him or no. Ay, ay,” said Bluenose, lighting his pipe with a heavy sigh, “Tommy Bogey’s gone for good.”
That was the last that was heard of poor Tommy for many a long day on the beach of Deal. But as there is no good reason why the readers should be kept in the dark regarding his movements, we shall follow him on the rugged path he had selected, and leave the men of Deal to wonder for a time, and talk, and then forget him.
Having waited as long as his patience could hold out, and no letter having come from Bax, Tommy at last prepared to carry out his plan. By dint of hard labour among the boats at any odd jobs that people would give him, and running messages, and making himself generally useful to the numerous strangers who visited that fine and interesting part of the coast, he had scraped together a few pounds. By persevering study at nights he had acquired a fair knowledge of figures and a smattering of navigation. Thus equipped in mind and purse he went off to seek his fortune.
His intention was in the first place to go to London and visit the “Three Jolly Tars,” where, he doubted not, every possible and conceivable sort of information in regard to shipping could be obtained.
There chanced at the time to be a certain small collier lying in the downs, awaiting a fair wind to carry her into the port of London. This collier (a schooner) was named the “Butterfly,” perhaps because the owner had a hazy idea that there was some resemblance between an insect flitting about from flower to flower and a vessel sailing from port to port! Black as a chimney from keelson to truck, she was as like to a butterfly as a lady’s hand is to a monkey’s paw.
The skipper of the “Butterfly” was a friend of Bluenose, and knew Tommy. He at once agreed to give him a passage to London, and never thought of asking questions.
Soon after the boy went aboard the wind changed to the south-west; the “Butterfly” spread her black wings, bore away to the nor’ard, and doubled the North Foreland, where she was becalmed, and left to drift with the tide just as night was closing in.
“I’m tired, Jager” (this was the skipper’s name); “I’ll go below and take a snooze,” said Tommy, “for I’ve lots o’ work before me to-morrow.”
So Tommy went below and fell asleep. The three men who formed the crew of this dingy craft lay down on the deck, the night being fine, and also fell asleep, Jager being at the helm.
Now Jager was one of those careless, easy-going, reckless seamen, who, by their folly, ignorance, and intemperance are constantly bringing themselves to the verge of destruction.
He sat near the tiller gazing up at the stars dreamily for some time; then he looked round the horizon, then glanced at the compass and up at the sails, which hung idly from the yards, after which he began to mutter to himself in low grumbling tones—
“Goin’ to blow from the nor’ard. Ay, allers blows the way I don’t want it to. Driftin’ to the southward too. If this lasts we’ll drift on the Sands. Comfr’able to think on, that is. Come, Jager, don’t you go for to git into the blues. Keep up yer sperits, old boy!”
Acting on his own suggestion, the skipper rose and went below to a private locker, in which he kept a supply of rum,—his favourite beverage. He passed Tommy Bogey on the way. Observing, that the boy was sleeping soundly, he stopped in front of him and gazed long into his face with that particularly stupid expression which is common to men who are always more or less tipsy.
“Sleep away, my lad, it’ll do ye good.”
Accompanying this piece of unnecessary advice with a sagacious nod of the head, the skipper staggered on and possessed himself of a case-bottle about three-quarters full of rum, with which he returned to the deck and began to drink.
While he was thus employed, a breeze sprang up from the north-east.
“Ease off the sheets there, you lubbers!” shouted the drunken man, as he seized the tiller and looked at the compass. “What! sleeping again, Bunks? I’ll rouse ye, I will.”
With that, in a burst of anger, he rushed forward and gave one of the sleepers a severe kick in the ribs. Bunks rose sulkily, and with a terrible imprecation advised the skipper “not to try that again”; to which the skipper retorted, that if his orders were not obeyed more sharply, he would not only try it again, but he would “chuck him overboard besides.”
Having applied a rope’s-end to the shoulders of one of the other sleepers, he repeated his orders to ease off the sheets, as the wind was fair, and staggered back to his place at the helm.
“Why, I do believe it is a sou’-wester,” he muttered to himself, attempting in vain to read the compass.
It was in reality north-east, but Jager’s intellects were muddled; he made it out to be south-west and steered accordingly, almost straight before it. The three men who formed the crew of the little vessel were so angry at the treatment they had received, that they neither cared nor knew how the ship’s head lay. A thick mist came down about the same time, and veiled the lights which would otherwise have soon revealed the fact that the skipper had made a mistake.
“Why, wot on airth ails the compass?” muttered Jager, bending forward intently to gaze at the instrument, which, to his eye, seemed to point in all directions at once; “come, I’ll have another pull at the b–bottle to steady me.”
He grasped the bottle to carry out this intention, but in doing so thrust the helm down inadvertently. The schooner came up to the wind at once, and as the wind had freshened to a stiff breeze and a great deal of canvas was set, she heeled violently over to starboard. The skipper was pitched into the lee scuppers, and the case-bottle of rum was shivered to atoms before he had time to taste a drop.
“Mind your helm!” roared Bunks, savagely. “D’ye want to send us to the bottom?”
The man sprang to the helm, and accompanied his remark with several fierce oaths, which need not be repeated, but which had the effect of rousing Jager’s anger to such a pitch, that he jumped up and hit the sailor a heavy blow on the face.
“I’ll stop your swearin’, I will,” he cried, preparing to repeat the blow, but the man stepped aside and walked forward, leaving his commander alone on the quarter-deck.
Bunks, who was a small but active man, was a favourite with the other two men who constituted the crew of the “Butterfly,” and both of whom were strong-limbed fellows. Their anger at seeing him treated thus savagely knew no bounds. They had long been at deadly feud with Jager. One of them, especially (a tall, dark, big-whiskered man named Job), had more than once said to his comrades that he would be the death of the skipper yet. Bunks usually shook his head when he heard these threats, and said, “It wouldn’t pay, unless he wanted to dance a hornpipe on nothing,” which was a delicate reference to being hung.
When the two men saw Bunks come forward with blood streaming from his mouth, they looked at each other and swore a tremendous oath.
“Will ye lend a hand, Jim?” sputtered Job between his clenched teeth.
Jim nodded.
“No, no,” cried Bunks, interposing, but the two men dashed him aside and rushed aft.
Their purpose, whatever it might have been, was arrested for a moment by Bunks suddenly shouting at the top of his lungs—
“Light on the starboard bow!”
“That’s a lie,” said Jager, savagely; “use yer eyes, you land-lubber.”
“We’re running straight on the North Foreland,” cried Job, who, with his companion, suddenly stopped and gazed round them out ahead in alarm.
“The North Foreland, you fool,” cried the skipper roughly, “who ever saw the North Foreland light on the starboard bow, with the ship’s head due north?”
“I don’t believe ’er head is due north,” said Job, stepping up to the binnacle, just as Tommy Bogey, aroused by the sudden lurch of the vessel and the angry voices, came on deck.
“Out o’ the way,” cried Jager roughly, hitting Job such a blow on the head that he sent him reeling against the lee bulwarks.
The man, on recovering himself, uttered a fierce yell, and rushing on the skipper, seized him by the throat with his left hand, and drove his right fist into his face with all his force.
Jager, although a powerful man, and, when sober, more than a match for his antagonist, was overborne and driven with great violence against the binnacle, which, being of inferior quality and ill secured, like everything else in the miserable vessel, gave way under his weight, and the compass was dashed to pieces on the deck.
Jim ran to assist his comrade, and Bunks attempted to interfere. Fortunately, Tommy Bogey’s presence of mind did not forsake him. He seized the tiller while the men were fighting furiously, and steered away from the light, feeling sure that, whatever it might be, the wisest thing to be done was to steer clear of it.
He had not got the schooner quite before the wind when a squall struck her, and laid her almost on her beam-ends. The lurch of the vessel sent the struggling men against the taffrail with great violence. The skipper’s back was almost broken by the shock, for his body met the side of the vessel, and the other two were thrown upon him. Job took advantage of his opportunity: seizing Jager by the leg, he suddenly lifted him over the iron rail, and hurled him into the sea. There was one wild shriek and a heavy plunge, and the miserable man sank to rise no more.
It is impossible to describe the horror of the poor boy at the helm when he witnessed this cold-blooded murder. Bold though he was, and accustomed to face danger and witness death in some of its most appalling forms, he could not withstand the shock of such a scene of violence perpetrated amid the darkness and danger of a stormy night at sea. His first impulse was to run below, and get out of sight of the men who had done so foul a deed; but reflecting that they might, in their passion, toss him into the sea also if he were to show his horror, he restrained himself, and stood calmly at his post.
“Come, out o’ the way, younker,” cried Job, seizing the helm.
Tommy shrank from the man, as if he feared the contamination of his touch.
“You young whelp, what are ye affeared on? eh!”
He aimed a blow at Tommy, which the latter smartly avoided.
“Murderer!” cried the boy, rousing himself suddenly, “you shall swing for this yet.”
“Shall I? eh! Here, Jim, catch hold o’ the tiller.”
Jim obeyed, and Job sprang towards Tommy, but the latter, who was lithe and active as a kitten, leaped aside and avoided him. For five minutes the furious man rushed wildly about the deck in pursuit of the boy, calling on Bunks to intercept him, but Bunks would not stir hand or foot, and Jim could not quit the helm, for the wind had increased to a gale; and as there was too much sail set, the schooner was flying before it with masts, ropes, and beams creaking under the strain.
“Do your worst,” cried Tommy, during a brief pause, “you’ll never catch me. I defy you, and will denounce you the moment we got into port.”
“Will you? then you’ll never get into port alive,” yelled Job, as he leaped down the companion, and returned almost instantly, with one of the skipper’s pistols.
He levelled it and fired, but the unsteady motion of the vessel caused him to miss his aim. He was about to descend for another pistol, when the attention of all on board was attracted by a loud roar of surf.
“Breakers ahead!” roared Bunks.
This new danger—the most terrible, with perhaps the exception of fire, to which a seaman can be exposed—caused all hands to forget the past in the more awful present. The helm was put down, the schooner flew up into the wind, and sheered close past a mass of leaping, roaring foam, the sight of which would have caused the stoutest heart to quail.
“Keep her close hauled,” shouted Job, who stood on the heel of the bowsprit looking out ahead.
“D’ye think it’s the North Foreland?” asked Bunks, who stood beside him.
“I s’pose it is,” said Job, “but how it comes to be on our lee bow, with the wind as it is, beats me out and out. Anyhow, I’ll keep her well off the land,—mayhap run for the coast of Norway. They’re not so partikler about inquiries there, I’m told.”
“I’ll tell ye what it is, Bunks,” said Tommy, who had gone forward and overheard the last observation, but could not bring himself to speak to Job, “you may depend on it we’re out of our course; as sure as you stand there the breakers we have just passed are the north end of the Goodwin Sands. If we carry on as we’re going now, and escape the sands, we’ll find ourselves on the coast o’ France, or far down the Channel in the morning.”
“Thank’ee for nothin’,” said Job, with a sneer; “next time ye’ve got to give an opinion wait till it’s axed for, an’ keep well out o’ the reach o’ my arm, if ye don’t want to keep company with the skipper.”
Tommy made no reply to this. He did not even look as if he had heard it; but, addressing himself to Bunks, repeated his warning.
Bunks was disposed to attach some weight to it at first, but as the compass was destroyed he had no means of ascertaining the truth of what was said, and as Job laughed all advice to scorn, and had taken command of the vessel, he quietly gave in.
They soon passed the breakers, and went away with the lee-gunwale dipping in the water right down the Channel. Feeling relieved from immediate danger, the murderer once more attempted to catch Tommy, but without success. He then went below, and soon after came on deck with such a flushed face and wild unsteady gaze, that it was evident to his companions he had been at the spirit locker. Jim was inclined to rebel now, but he felt that Job was more than a match for him and Bunks. Besides, he was the best seaman of the three.
“Don’t ’ee think we’d better close-reef the tops’l?” said Bunks, as Job came on deck; “if you’ll take the helm, Jim and me will lay out on the yard.”
There was truly occasion for anxiety. During the last hour the gale had increased, and the masts were almost torn out of the little vessel, as she drove before it. To turn her side to the wind would have insured her being thrown on her beam-ends. Heavy seas were constantly breaking over the stern, and falling with such weight on the deck that Tommy expected to see them stove in and the vessel swamped. In other circumstances the boy would have been first to suggest reefing the sails, and first to set the example, but he felt that his life depended that night (under God) on his watchfulness and care.
“Reef tops’l!” cried Job, looking fiercely at Bunks, “no, we shan’t; there’s one reef in’t, an’ that’s enough.” Bunks shuddered, for he saw by the glare of the murderer’s eyes that the evil deed, coupled with his deep potations, had driven him mad.
“P’raps it is,” said Bunks, in a submissive voice; “but it may be as well to close reef, ’cause the weather don’t seem like to git better.”
Job turned with a wild laugh to Tommy:
“Here, boy, go aloft and reef tops’l; d’ye hear?”
Tommy hesitated.
“If you don’t,” said Job, hissing out the words in the extremity of his passion, and stopping abruptly, as if unable to give utterance to his feelings.
“Well, what if I don’t?” asked the boy sternly.
“Why, then—ha! ha! ha!—why, I’ll do it myself.”
With another fiendish laugh Job sprang into the rigging, and was soon out upon the topsail-yard busy with the reef points.
“Why, he’s shakin’ out the reef,” cried Jim in alarm. “I’ve half a mind to haul on the starboard brace, and try to shake the monster into the sea!”
Job soon shook out the reef, and, descending swiftly by one of the backstays, seized the topsail-halyards.
“Come, lay hold,” he cried savagely.
But no one would obey, so, uttering a curse upon his comrades, he passed the rope round a stanchion, and with his right hand partially hoisted the sail, while with his left he hauled in the slack of the rope.
The vessel, already staggering under much too great a press of canvas, now rushed through the water with terrific speed; burying her bows in foam at one moment, and hurling off clouds of spray at the next as she held on her wild course. Job stood on the bowsprit, drenched with spray, holding with one hand to the forestay, and waving the other high above his head, cheering and yelling furiously as if he were daring the angry sea to come on, and do its worst.
Jim, now unable to speak or act from terror, clung to the starboard bulwarks, while Bunks stood manfully at the helm. Tommy held on to the mainmast shrouds, and gazed earnestly and anxiously out ahead.
Thus they flew, they knew not whither, for several hours that night.
Towards morning, a little before daybreak, the gale began to moderate. Job’s mood had changed. His wild yelling fit had passed away, and he now ranged about the decks in moody silence, like a chained tiger; going down every now and then to drink, but never resting for a moment, and always showing by his looks that he had his eye on Tommy Bogey.
The poor boy knew this well, and watched him intently the whole of that terrible night.
Bunks, who had never once quitted his post, began to yawn, and suggested to Jim that he might take a spell at the helm now, when the progress of the schooner was suddenly arrested with a shock so violent that those on board were hurled prostrate on the deck, the fore-topmast snapped and went over the side, carrying the main-topmast and the jib-boom along with it, and the sea made a clean breach over the stern, completely sweeping the deck.
Job, who chanced to have gone down below, was hurled against the cabin bulkhead, and the glass bottle he held to his lips was shivered to atoms. With his face cut and bleeding he sprang up the companion-ladder.
“On the rocks!” he shouted.
“On the sand, anyhow,” answered Bunks.
“The boat! the boat! she won’t last ten minutes,” cried Jim.
One of the two boats belonging to the “Butterfly” had been washed away by the last wave, the other remained in its place. To this the three men rushed, and launched it quickly into the water. Job was first to get into it.
“Jump in, jump in,” he cried to the others, who were prompt enough to obey.
Tommy Bogey stood motionless and silent close to the main-mast. His face was very pale; but a stern pursing of the lips and compression of the eyebrows showed that it was not cowardly fear that blanched his cheek.
“The boy! the boy!” cried Bunks, as Job let go his hold of the schooner.
A wild stern laugh from Job showed that he had made up his mind to leave Tommy to perish.
“Shame!” cried Jim, seizing one of the oars; “pull, Bunks, pull to wind’ard a bit; we’ll drop down and save him yet. Pull, you murderer!” shouted Jim, with a burst of anger so sudden and fierce that Job was cowed. He sat down and obeyed.
The boat was very small, and might have been easily pulled by so strong a crew in ordinary circumstances; but the strength of wind and sea together was so great, that they were in great danger of being swamped, and it required their utmost efforts to pull a few yards to windward of the schooner.
“Now then, look out!” cried Jim, endeavouring to turn the boat.
As he said this a wave caught its side and upset it. The men uttered a loud cry; a moment later, and they were swept against the bow of the “Butterfly.” Tommy had sprung to the side, caught up a rope, and cast it over. Bunks did not see it; he made a wild grasp at the smooth wet side of the vessel, but his hands found nothing to lay hold of, and he was carried quickly away to leeward. Jim caught the rope, but was brought up so suddenly by it that it was torn from his grasp. He also went to leeward and perished.
Job had caught hold of the cutwater, and, digging his fingers into the wood, held on by main strength for a few minutes.
“Here, lay hold o’ the rope,” cried Tommy, whose only desire now was to save the life of the wretched man; “there, don’t you feel it?”
He had rubbed the rope against Job’s face in order to let him know it was there, but the man seemed to have lost all power to move. He simply maintained his death-grip until his strength gave way. Tommy understood his case, and looked quickly round for one of those ring-shaped lifebuoys which we are accustomed to see in our passenger steamers tied up so securely that they would in most cases of sudden emergency be utterly useless. But the owners of the “Butterfly” were economists. They did not think life-preserving worth the expenditure of a few shillings, so there was no lifebuoy to be found. There was a round cork fender, however, which the boy seized and flung into the sea, just as Job’s grasp loosened. He uttered a wild shriek, and tossed up his arms imploringly, as he was carried away. The buoy fell close beside him, and he caught it. But it was scarce sufficient to sustain his weight, and merely prolonged the agonising struggle. Tommy soon lost sight of him in the darkness. Soon after there arose a wild fierce cry, so loud and strong that it seemed to have been uttered at the boy’s elbow. Tommy shuddered, for it suggested the idea of a despairing soul.
He listened intently, and twice again that thrilling cry broke on his ear, but each time more faintly. Still he continued to listen for it with a feeling of horror, and once or twice fancied that he heard it rising above the turmoil of wind and waves. Long before he ceased to listen in expectancy, the murderer’s dead body lay tossing in that great watery grave in which so many of the human race—innocent and guilty alike—lie buried.
Ere long Tommy was called to renewed exertion and trial.
The tide happened to be rising when the schooner struck. While the incidents above related were taking place, the “Butterfly” was being dashed on the sand so violently, that her breaking up in the course of a short time was a matter of certainty. Tommy knew this well, but he did not give way to despair. He resolved not to part with his young life without a struggle, and therefore cast about in his mind what was best to be done.
His first idea was to construct a raft. He had just begun this laborious work when the rising tide lifted the schooner over the sand-bank, and sent her off into deep water. This raised Tommy’s hopes and spirits to an unnaturally high pitch; he trimmed the foresail—the only one left—as well as he could, and then, seizing the tiller, kept the vessel running straight before the wind.
Standing thus at the helm he began to reflect on his position, and the reflection did not tend to comfort him. He was out in a gale on the stormy sea, without companions, without compass to guide him, and steering he knew not whither—possibly on rocks or shoals. This latter idea induced him to attempt to lie-to till day-break, but the crippled condition of the schooner rendered this impossible. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to run before the gale.
In a short time his attention was attracted to a peculiar sound in the hold. On examination he found that the vessel had sprung a leak, and that the water was rising slowly but steadily. The poor boy’s heart sank, and for the first time his courage began to give way; but quickly recovering himself he lashed the helm in position, and manfully set to work at the pump. He was somewhat relieved to find that the leak was small. In an hour he had pumped out nearly all the water. Then he returned to the helm and rested there for an hour, at the end of which the water in the hold had increased so much that he had to ply the pump again.
The day broke while he was thus engaged, but the morning was so thick that he could see no land. On returning to the helm the second time, Tommy felt that this state of things could not go on much longer. The excitement, the watching, the horrors of the past night were beginning to tell on him. His muscles were exhausted, and he felt an irresistible desire to sleep. He struggled against this till about noon, by which time the wind had moderated to a steady breeze, and the sun shone through the mist as if to cheer him up a little.
He had eaten nothing for many hours, as he did not dare to quit his post to go below for food, lest the schooner should come suddenly on some other vessel and be run down. Hunger and exhaustion, however, soon rendered him desperate; he ran below, seized a handful of biscuit, filled a can with water, and returned hastily on deck to break his fast. It was one of the sweetest meals he ever ate, and refreshed him so much that he was able to go on alternately steering and pumping till late in the afternoon. Then he suddenly broke down. Exhausted nature could bear up no longer. He lashed the helm, pumped out the water in the hold for the last time, and went below to rest.
He was half asleep as he descended the companion-ladder. A strange and sad yet dreamy feeling that everything he did was “for the last time,” weighed heavily on his spirit, but this was somehow relieved by the knowledge that he was now at last about to rest! There was delight in that simple thought, though there mingled with it a feeling that the rest would terminate in death; he lay down to sleep with a feeling that he lay down to die, and a half-formed prayer escaped his lips as his wearied head fell upon the pillow.
Instantly he was buried in deep repose.
The sun sank in the ocean, the stars came out and spangled all the sky, and the moon rose and sank again, but Tommy lay, regardless of everything, in profound slumber. Again the sun arose on a sea so calm that it seemed like oil, ascended into the zenith, and sank towards its setting. Still the boy continued to sleep, his young head resting quietly on the pillow of the dead skipper; his breath coming gently and regularly through the half-opened lips that smiled as if he were resting in peace on his mother’s bosom.
Being dashed on the rocks, or run into by steamers, or whelmed in the waves, were ideas that troubled him not, or, if they did, they were connected only with the land of dreams. Thus the poor boy rested calmly in the midst of danger—yet in safety, for the arm of God was around him.
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