THE BU’STER WILLS TO ACCOMPLISH MISCHIEF, AND GETS INTO TROUBLE.

“At sea.” - How differently do human beings regard that phrase!  To one it arouses feelings akin to rapture; to another it is suggestive of heavings and horror.  To him whose physical condition is easily and disagreeably affected by aquatic motion, “at sea” savours of bad smells and misery.  To him who sings of the intensity of his love for “a ride on the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,” “at sea” sounds like the sweet ringing of a silver bell floating towards him, as if from afar, fraught with the fragrance and melody of distant climes - such as coral isles, icy mountains, and golden sands.

Let us regard the phrase in its pleasant aspect just now, good reader.

I have always loved the sea myself, from the hour I first set foot on board a man-of-war and skylarked with the middies, to that sad and memorable day when, under the strong - I might almost say irresistible -  influence of my strong-minded wife, I bade adieu to the royal navy for ever, and retired into private life.  Alas!  But what is the use of sighing?  If a man will get born in his wrong century, he ought to lay his account with being obliged to suffer much from the strange, I had almost said childish, fallacies, follies, and inconsistencies peculiar to the more early period in which his lot has been cast by mistake.

You see, reader, I have accepted my position.  There is a bare possibility that those who have assigned it to me may be wrong, but I have long ago ceased to dispute that point.

At sea!  Haco’s sloop is there now, just out of sight of land, although not far from it, and resting on as glassy a sheet of water as is ever presented by the ocean in a deep dead calm.  Haco himself, big, hairy, jovial, ruddy, is seated on the after skylight, the sole occupant of the deck.

To look at him one might fancy that Neptune having found a deserted ship, had clambered upon deck and sat him down to take a complacent view of his wide domains, and enjoy a morning pipe.

It is early morning, and the other inhabitants of that floating house are asleep below.

The “Coal-Coffin,” albeit an unseaworthy vessel, is a picturesque object.  Its dirty sails are of a fine rich colour, because of their very dirtiness.  Its weather-worn and filthy spars, and hull and rigging, possess a harmony of tone which can only be acquired by age.  Its cordage being rotten and very limp, hangs, on that account, all the more gracefully in waving lines of beauty and elegant festoons; the reef points hang quite straight, and patter softly on the sails - in short, the tout ensemble of the little craft is eminently picturesque -  draped, as it were, with the mellowness of antiquity; and the whole -  hull, spars, sails, cordage, and reef points, - clearly and sharply reflected in the depths below.

“Wot a splendid mornin’!” said Stephen Gaff, putting his head and shoulders out of the after hatchway, and yawning violently.

“So ’tis, shipmet,” responded the skipper, “a’most too butiful for this world.”

Both men spoke in subdued tones, as if unwilling to disturb the delightful stillness of nature.  Gaff, having slowly raised himself out of the hole in the deck which served as a door to the bandbox, termed, out of courtesy, the cabin, looked up at the mast-head to see if the vane indicated any wind; then he gazed slowly round the horizon.  Meeting with nothing particular there to arrest his eyes, he let them fall on Haco, who was gazing dreamily at the bowl of his German pipe.

“Dead calm,” said Gaff.

“Won’t last long,” said Haco.

“Won’t it?”

“No.  Glass fallin’ fast.”

This seemed to be as much mental food as Gaff could comfortably digest at that time, for he made no rejoinder, but, drawing a short black pipe from his vest-pocket, sat down beside his friend, and filled and smoked it in silence.

“How’s the Roosians?” he inquired, after a long pause.

“All square,” said the skipper, who was addicted somewhat to figurative language and hyperbole in the form of slang, “another week in the doctor’s hands, an’ the grub of the London Home, will set ’em up taught an’ trim as ever.”

“Goin’ to blow hard, think ’ee?” asked Gaff.

“Great guns,” said Haco, puffing a cloud of smoke from his mouth, which was at that time not a bad imitation of a little gun.

“Soon?” inquired Gaff.

“P’r’aps yes, p’r’aps no.”

Once more the seamen relapsed into a silence which was not again broken until two of the crew and several Russians came on deck.

Haco gave orders to have the topsail reefed, and then commencing to pace to and fro on the small deck, devoted himself entirely to smoke and meditation.

Soon after, there was a loud cheer from Billy Gaff.  The Bu’ster had suddenly awakened from an unbroken sleep of twelve hours, tumbled incontinently out of his berth, rushed up the ladder, thrust his head above the hatchway, and, feeling the sweet influences of that lovely morning, vented his joy in the cheer referred to.

Billy had begged hard to be taken to London, and his father, thinking that, the sooner he began the seafaring life to which he was destined, the better, had consented to take him.

Billy willed to accomplish a great number of pieces of mischief during the five minutes which he spent in gazing breathlessly round the ship and out upon the glittering sea; but he was surrounded by so many distracting novelties, and the opportunities for mischief were so innumerable, that, for the first time in his life, he felt perplexed, and absolutely failed to accomplish anything for a considerable time.

This calm, however, like the calm of nature, was not destined to last long.

“Daddy,” said the cherub suddenly, “I’m a-goin’ up the shrouds.”

“Very good, my lad,” said Gaff, “ye’ll tumble down likely, but it don’t much matter.”

Billy clambered up the side, and seized the shrouds, but missing his foothold at the first step, he fell down sitting-wise, from a height of three feet.

There was a sounding thud on the deck, followed by a sharp gasp, and the boy sat staring before him, considering, apparently, whether it were necessary or not to cry in order to relieve his feelings.  Finding that it was not, he swallowed his heart with an effort, got up, and tried it again.

The second effort was more successful.

“That’ll do, lad, come down,” said Gaff, when his son had got half-way up the mast, and paused to look down, with a half-frightened expression.

Contrary to all precedent, Billy came down, and remained quiet for ten minutes.  Then he willed to go out on the bowsprit, but, being observed in a position of great danger thereon, was summarily collared by a sailor, and hauled inboard.  He was about to hurl defiance in the teeth of the seaman, and make a second effort on the bowsprit, when Haco Barepoles thrust his red head up the after-hatch, and sang out - “breakfast!”

“Breakfast, Billy,” repeated Gaff.

To which the cherub responded by rushing aft with a cheer, and descending the square hole after his father.

Having been horribly sea-sick the first day of his voyage, and having now quite recovered, Billy was proportionably ravenous, and it was a long time before he ceased to demand and re-demand supplies of biscuit, butter, and tea.  With appetite appeased at last, however, he returned to the deck, and, allowing quarter of an hour for digestion and reflection, began to consider what should next be done.

The opportunity for some bold stroke was a rare one, for the crew, consisting of five men and a boy, were all forward, earnestly endeavouring to pick acquaintance by means of signs with the convalescent Russians, while Gaff and Haco were still below at breakfast, so that Billy had the after part of the sloop all to himself.

He began operations by attempting to get at the needle of the compass, but finding that this was secured powerfully by means of glass and brass, he changed his mind, and devoted himself heart and soul to the wheel.  Turning it round until the helm was hard down, he looked up at the sails, and with some curiosity awaited the result, but the vessel having no motion no result followed.

Failing in this he forced the wheel round with all his might and let it go suddenly, so that it spun round with the recoil, and narrowly missed knocking him down!

This was a pleasant source of amusement, uniting, as it did, considerable effort and some danger, with the prospect of a smash in some of the steering tackle, so Billy prepared to indulge himself; but it struck him that the frequent recurrence of the accompanying noise would bring the skipper on deck and spoil the fun, so on second thoughts he desisted, and glanced eagerly about for something else, afraid that the golden opportunity would pass by unimproved.

Observing something like a handle projecting from a hole, he seized it, and hauled out a large wooden reel with a log-line on it.  With this he at once began to play, dipping the log into the sea and hauling it up repeatedly as though he were fishing, but there was want of variety in this.  Looking about him he espied a lead-line near the binnacle; he cut the lead from this, and fastening it to the end of the log-line, began forthwith to take deep-sea soundings.  This was quite to his taste, for when he stood upon the vessel’s side, in order to let the line run more freely, and held up the reel with both hands, the way in which it spun round was quite refreshing to his happy spirit.  There must have been a hitch in the line, however, for it was suddenly checked in its uncoiling, and the violence of the stoppage wrenched the reel from his grasp, and the whole affair disappeared beneath the calm water!

The Bu’ster’s heart smote him.  He had not meant anything so wicked as that.

“Ha! you young rascal, I saw you,” said one of the men coming up at that moment.

Billy turned round with a start, and in doing so fell headlong into the sea.

The sailor stood aghast as if paralysed for a moment, then - as Billy rose to the surface with outstretched hands and staring eyes, and uttered a yell which was suddenly quenched in a gurgling cry - he recovered himself, and hastily threw a coil of rope towards the boy.

Now it is a curious and quite unaccountable fact, that comparatively few sailors can swim.  At all events no one can deny the fact that there are hundreds, ay, thousands, of our seafaring men and boys who could not swim six yards to save their lives.  Strange to say, of all the men who stood on the deck of that sloop, at the time of the accident to Billy, (Russians included), not one could swim a stroke.  The result was that they rushed to the stern of the vessel and gazed anxiously over the side; some shouting one thing, and some another, but not one venturing to jump overboard, because it was as much as his life was worth to do so!

Several ropes were instantly thrown over the drowning boy, but being blinded both by terror and salt water, he did not see them.  Then one of the men hastily fastened the end of a line round his waist, intending to spring over and trust to his comrades hauling him on board.  At the same moment several men rushed to the stern boat, intent on lowering her.  All this occurred in a few brief seconds.  Billy had risen a second time with another wild cry when his father and the skipper sprang up the after-hatch and rushed to the side.  Haco dashed his indestructible hat on the deck, and had his coat almost off, when Gaff went overboard, head first, hat, coat, and all, like an arrow, and caught Billy by the hair when he was about four feet below the surface.

Of course Gaffs re-appearance with his son in his arms was greeted with heartfelt and vociferous cheers; and, of course, when they were hauled on board, and Gaff handed Billy to the skipper, in order that he might the more conveniently wring a little of the superabundant water from his garments, another and a still more hearty cheer was given; but Gaff checked it rather abruptly by raising himself and saying sternly -

“Shame on you, lads, for not bein’ able to swim.  The child might ha’ drownded for all you could do to help him.  A soldier as don’t know how to shoot is not much wuss than a sailor as don’t know how to swim.  Why, yer own mothers - yer own sweet-hearts - might be a-drownin’ afore yer eyes, an’ you’d have to run up an’ down like helpless noodles, not darin’ to take to the water, (which ought to be your native element), any more than a blue-nosed Kangaroo.  Shame on ye, I say, for not bein’ able to swim.”

“Amen to that, say I,” observed Haco with emphasis.  “Shame on stout hulkin’ fellers like you for not bein’ able to swim, and shame on them as steers the ship o’ State for not teachin’ ye.  You can put that in yer pipes and smoke it, lads, an’ if it don’t smoke well, ye can make a quid of it, and chew it.  If I could make quids o’ them there sentiments, I’d set up a factory an’ send a inexhaustible supply to the big-wigs in parlymint for perpetooal mastication.  There now, don’t stare, but go for’ard, an’ see, two of you take in another reef o’ the mains’l.  If the glass speaks true, we’ll be under my namesake -  barepoles - before long; look alive, boys!”

It was something new to the crew of the “Coal-Coffin” to be thus checked in an enthusiastic cheer, and to be rebuked by the object of their admiration for not being able to swim.

Deep and long was the discussion they had that evening around the windlass on this subject.  Some held that it was absurd to blame men for not being able, “when p’raps they couldn’t if they wor to try.”  Others thought that they might have tried first before saying that “p’raps they couldn’t.”  One admitted that it was nothing but laziness that had prevented him from learning, whereupon another opined that dirtiness had something to do with it too.  But all agreed in wishing earnestly that they had learned the noble and useful art, and in regretting deeply that they had not been taught it when young.

The boy, who formed one of the crew, silently congratulated himself that he was young, and resolved in his own mind that he would learn as soon as possible.

The sun set in the west, and the evening star arose to cheer the world with her presence, while the greater luminary retired.  Slowly the day retreated and dusky night came on.  One by one the stars shone out, faintly at first, as if too modest to do more than glimmer, but stronger and brighter, and more numerous by degrees, until the whole sky became like a great resplendent milky way.

Still there was no evidence that a double-reef in the mainsail was necessary; no indication that the weather-glass had told a truthful tale.