CHAPTER II.

IN THE DOLDRUMS.

Aided by the steady trades, the _Pandora_ crept up to the line, and in little more than a month from her date of sailing she crossed that invisible goal, and fell in with a dead calm in the horse latitudes.

It was a changeable day, but close and sultry, and the heat between decks was intolerable. The sun occasionally peeped out from behind black clouds, and cast his scorching rays upon the troubled waters, which rose and fell in angry chops, like the breast of an indignant woman. Everything was done to conciliate the fickle wind, but without avail. It behaved like a spoilt child, which is never happy unless acting in a contrary direction to what others desire. The yards were squared in, as it hauled aft, but before the ropes were coiled up the provoking element was round on the other quarter, and the shellbacks manned the forebrace. Then it went right ahead, and the unfortunate officer of the watch was compelled to box his yard, and have the trouble of getting the _Pandora_ on her course again in a dead calm. Heavy squalls came up from all points of the compass, and while they passed over the vessel sent her galloping along at a splendid pace. But in half-an-hour their force would expend itself; and torrents of rain poured down and left the ship again in the doldrums. The officers were weary of slacking away braces and countermanding orders; the sailors’ hard hands, soaked with the rain, became sore and chafed; and the passengers were grumbling and discontented, because they were unable to remain on deck.

The ‘boatswains,’ with their snowy plumage and long spiked-tail feathers, sailed overhead, uttering shrill cries to their mates, but not attempting to pounce down upon the flying fish which swam in shoals close to the surface of the water, and the ‘shipjacks’ and ‘bonitas’ rose frequently into the air, and fell lazily back upon the billows with an awkward splash. Even the merry little ‘Mother Carey’s chickens’ had ceased their continuous flight, and come to an anchor in the wake of the vessel, where they rode up and down on the blue, mountainous waves.

Yet the rain was refreshing. It was not a cold pitiless storm, nor a searching Scotch mist, but fell in a regular tropical downpour--a drenching volume of warm water, that splashed in huge drops upon the decks, that ran down the masts and rigging in a delightful shower-bath, that washed the salt spray from the boats and spars, and made the ship clean and fresh. Had these frequent squalls not mitigated the fierceness of the sun’s rays, the decks would have been unbearable, the sailors would have been obliged to adopt shoe leather, and the pitch would have boiled out of the seams, and stuck to everything with which it came in contact. But under the influence of the rain the shellbacks pattered about with bare feet, enjoying the cool bath, and not even taking the trouble to don their oilskins to protect them from a wetting. Few people on shore know the true character of our English sailors--fewer still have ever tried to find out what sort of animals they are. There is a general opinion held by the land-lubber that the sailor is a rollicking, devil-me-care, blasphemous creature, with a wife in every port,--a great capacity for rum, and a tendency to sing, ‘Yeo heave, oh’ upon every possible occasion. But the real seaman is very different from this. There is no such man as the brainless fool who is depicted in drawing-room songs and on the stage as constantly ‘hoisting up his slacks’ and ‘tipping his flippers,’ and singing out ‘Hillee Haulee,’ or some equally childish refrain.

The British sailor is certainly partial to rum, and he has every reason to be so. When on a freezing night he is perched for a couple of hours on the footrope of a yard, trying to handle an obstinate topsail, which has torn the nails from his fingers, and caused him to tuck his chin down to his breast to head against the biting wind; when this uninviting task is completed, a lot of strong rum goes down like mother’s milk, warming the very cockles of his heart, and giving him fresh vigour and endurance to battle with the storm.

Then with regard to the fairer sex, a sailor’s gallantry is a byword, and what more natural than it should be so. It is so seldom he can enjoy female society, and after having been located for months in a forecastle, and subjected to the rough horse-play of his male companions, the ways and words of women (even though they may be the lowest of their sex) is a welcome change, and acts on the susceptible nature of Jack like a charm. He adores woman collectively and individually. At sea he sings her praises, and he boasts of her virtues in every clime. He swears eternal fidelity to her before he leaves England, and breaks his promise at the first port he touches at--still _woman_, as a noun of multitude, is responsible for it all. And when he returns home, he is as enthusiastic over Poll as if he had never forgotten her for a single minute. His creed may be summed up in the refrain of the ballad--

‘It don’t matter what you do, So long as the heart’s true, And his heart _is_ true to Poll.’

But the British seaman has sterling qualities to counterbalance the frivolity of his child-like nature. To stand by his shipmates in times of trouble or sickness--to evince a strong attachment to little children--to be honest and above-board in his dealings--to defend the weak and punish the bully--to remember kind actions and forget petty injustices, these are some of the virtues which stand out boldly in the characters of our sailors, and more than counterbalance any little failings of which they may be guilty. They are rough and straightforward, preferring to settle an argument by the use of their fists, than by philosophical reasoning. They are brave and fearless,--careless of death, though they live under the daily chance of becoming acquainted with Davy Jones’ locker, and yet simple in their faith as little children.

The sailors before the mast of the _Pandora_ were sixteen in number--twelve able-bodied seamen and four ordinaries, who were all comfortably housed in the forecastle, which was certified to accommodate twenty-four hands. Their work at times, when the ship required box-hauling and tacking, was not light, as the _Pandora_ was heavily rigged, and only carried part of her complement. They were not all English, amongst them being Swedes, Germans, and Spaniards, who dressed in blue and red ‘jumpers,’ and made a picturesque group when at work together. There is always one officer who is singled out as a favourite by the seamen, and on the _Pandora_ a unanimous verdict was passed in favour of Vernon Blythe. The chief mate was gruff and tyrannical, and his orders were frequently accompanied by unnecessary oaths, which lowered him in their estimation. The third officer was only a newly-fledged mate, who had just hopped from the midshipman’s berth, and, though holding a certificate, was looked on by the sailors as a mere boy, and treated consequently with a respectful but patronising interest. The ‘old man,’ as they designated their skipper, was not disliked, though by no means a favourite. When at the wheel, or in the captain’s quarters, he never interfered with them, but his indefatigable system of working up was not appreciated.

For a whole fortnight the _Pandora_ was making but little headway in the doldrums, and during that period the sailors were continually working ship. The captain raised the clews of his courses, and lowered them again; ran up the headsails, and then manned the downhauls; set the spanker, and trailed it in again. Everything was done by turn to work the vessel out of those detestable latitudes, and he did not spare his crew, which aggravated them to such an extent, that they growled from morning till night, and rained imprecations on their commander’s head, which, if put into effect, would have enriched the coffers of his satanic majesty.

Early one morning a treacherous squall burst upon the _Pandora_, which threw her for a few seconds on her beam ends, till she was righted by the cool pluck of Mr Coffin, who ordered the halliards to be let go; and perceiving the yards would not come down, took charge of the helm himself, and shivered the weather leeches, which righted the ship, though she sailed within an inch of being taken flat aback, and losing her sticks. When she was out of danger, Captain Robarts considered it necessary to stay the vessel, as she was many points out of her course, and the order was given to ‘’bout ship.’ The decks were now dry, and the breeze fresh and invigorating. The passengers had crowded on the knife-board to see the _Pandora ‘turned round’_--an operation which was new to them. The ropes were cleared for running, and the hands stationed; and when clean full ‘Sea-oh!’ was passed to the chief mate, who, with a few men, was standing by to ease off the jib sheets on the topgallant forecastle. When within a point and a half of the wind, and the sails were hugging the masts, the order was shouted to ‘crossjack haul,’ and the hands of the main fiferail gathered in the slack of the braces, which whizzed and cracked through the blocks at the opposite side, as the heavy yards swung round.

But when square the lower yard brought up with a sudden jerk, and refused to be pointed.

‘What’s foul?’ roared Captain Robarts.

‘There’s something in the starboard crossjack braceblock, sir,’ replied the third officer.

‘Send a hand up to clear it, then,’ bawled the irate skipper.

Now it happened that the ship’s washerwoman had taken advantage of the recent rainy weather to collect a quantity of fresh water, and that very morning had hung her clean linen to dry on a small line suspended over the deck, between the main shrouds. The velocity of the braces as they ran up aloft made them twist and curl and assume fantastic shapes, and as they careered in close proximity to the wet clothing, a mysterious garment was caught up, and became jammed in the block. One of the sailors ran up the ratlines, and clambered into the top; and, by a strong pull from below, the garment was disengaged. The language of the officers was high Dutch to the passengers assembled on the poop, but from the visible excitement of the captain, they guessed that something must have gone wrong, and watched the seaman curiously, as he hastened up the rope ladder.

‘What is it?’ shouted the skipper, as he saw the block was cleared.

The sailor in the maintop did not answer, but glanced slyly down at his shipmates, and then at the red flannel garment he held in his hand; whilst the ladies and gentlemen stood in a group together, and looked on with breathless interest.

‘It is something _red_!’ exclaimed Alice Leyton, who was very close to Captain Lovell. ‘What on earth can it be? Is it a flag, Jack?’ she asked of Vernon, who stood just below them.

‘I don’t know, Alice, but I don’t think it is,’ replied Jack, who seemed unaccountably amused.

‘It is just the colour of baby’s new pinafores. I shall be sorry if one of them gets torn,’ said Mrs Leyton.

‘What is it?’ repeated the captain, in a louder voice. ‘D--n it! Hold it out, man.’

Without hesitation the sailor obeyed. He held the mysterious obstacle out at arm’s length, and the breeze, catching it on the right quarter, unfurled it like a flag, and it remained distended in the air for the benefit of all beholders. It was made of red flannel--it appeared to be divided into two parts like twin bolster-covers on one stalk--and it looked as if it would fit Mrs Vansittart.

The silence which followed its appearance lasted for a minute only. Then the ladies blushed crimson, and with subdued exclamations of horror hid their faces behind their fans or in the pages of their novels. The gentlemen, with ill-concealed smiles, turned away, lest their amusement should confuse still further their fair companions; and the boisterous sailors with one accord burst into loud shouts of laughter, which, for the moment, was beyond the power of their officers to control.

The grim and pious captain even was moved by the liberal display of that sacred, though unmentionable article of female clothing, and was obliged to bite his lip and stamp his feet lest his noisy crew should take advantage of his loss of self-command. Then assuming his usual dignified manner, he bellowed out an order in a deep, stern voice, that made every sailor hasten to the forebraces, and for a time forget the comical little adventure which had upset the order and equanimity of the _Pandora_.

Vernon Blythe walked away to the lower deck with a broad smile upon his face. He had laughed as heartily as the rest, until a distressed look from Alice Leyton had recalled him to a sense of duty. But now, as he found himself alone, the comical appearance of the red flannel bolster cases, as they inflated in the breeze, came back forcibly upon his mind, and he laughed out loud. How closely connected are joy and sorrow, comedy and tragedy, in this world. Vernon was striding along, with a beaming smile upon his handsome features, and his eyes lit up with merriment, when he came suddenly upon _Iris Harland_. He had longed and prayed to see her again; he had tried every manœuvre he could think of to come upon her unawares, but without success, and he had almost begun to think there was no chance for him. And yet now, when he was least expecting it, here she was in the second cabin, seated at the end of the table, with her head bent wearily upon her hand. In a moment the light had faded from Jack’s face, to give place to a look of anxious expectation. But he did not hesitate. His chance was come, and he would take it. He walked straight up to her side.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]