This is a story of the extraordinary adventures that befell Joshua Barney during his earliest years at sea, at the time of the Revolutionary war. He shipped as second mate on the brig "Cormorant," to sail from Baltimore to the Mediterranean. The first mate left the ship at Norfolk: the captain died; and Barney, only fifteen years old, was master of the ship and responsible for the safe delivery of her cargo at Nice. Everything in the book is true, though written in the form of fiction.
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Dick Sand - A Captain At Fifteen
Jules Verne – A Biographical Primer
Dick Sand - A Captain At Fifteen
Dick Sand - A Captain At Fifteen, J. Verne
Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck
86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9
Frontcover: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / Angelique
Jules Verne (1828–1905), French author, was born at Nantes on the 8th of February 1828. After completing his studies at the Nantes lycée, he went to Paris to study for the bar. About 1848, in conjunction with Michel Carré, he wrote librettos for two operettas, and in 1850 his verse comedy, Les Pailles rompues, in which Alexandre Dumas fils had some share, was produced at the Gymnase. For some years his interests alternated between the theatre and the bourse, but some travellers’ stories which he wrote for the Musée des Familles seem to have revealed to him the true direction of his talent—the delineation, viz., of delightfully extravagant voyages and adventures to which cleverly prepared scientific and geographical details lent an air of versimilitude. Something of the kind had been done before, after kindred methods, by Cyrano de Bergerac, by Swift and Defoe, and later by Mayne Reid. But in his own particular application of plausible scientific apparatus Verne undoubtedly struck out a department for himself in the wide literary genre of voyages imaginaires. His first success was obtained with Cinq semaines en ballon, which he wrote for Hetzel’s Magazin d’Éducation in 1862, and thenceforward, for a quarter of a century, scarcely a year passed in which Hetzel did not publish one or more of his fantastic stories, illustrated generally by pictures of the most lurid and sensational description.The most successful of these romances include: Voyage au centre de la terre (1864); De la terre à la lune (1865); Vingt mille lieues sous les mers (1869); Les Anglais au pôle nord (1870); and Voyage autour du monde en quatre-vingts jours, which first appeared in Le Temps in 1872.The adaptation of this last (produced with success at the Porte St Martin theatre on the 8th of November 1874) and of another excellent tale, Michael Strogoff (at the Châtelet, 1880), both dramas being written in conjunction with Adolphe d’Ennery, proved the most acceptable of Verne’s theatrical pieces. The novels were translated into the various European languages—and some even into Japanese and Arabic—and had an enormous success in England. But after 1877, when he published Hector Servadac, a romance of existence upon a comet, the writer’s invention began to show signs of fatigue (his kingdom had been invaded in different directions and at different times times by such writers as R. M. Ballantyne, Rider Haggard and H. G. Wells), and he even committed himself, somewhat unguardedly, to very gloomy predictions as to the future of the novel. Jules Verne’s own novels, however, will certainly long continue to delight readers by reason of their sparkling style, their picturesque verve—apparently inherited directly from Dumas—their amusing and good-natured national caricatures, and the ingenuity with which the love element is either subordinated or completely excluded. M. Verne, who was always extremely popular in society, divided his time for the most part between Paris, his home at Amiens and his yacht. He was a member of the Legion of Honour, and several of his romances were crowned by the French Academy, but he was never enrolled among its members. He died at Amiens on the 24th of March 1905. His brother, Paul Verne, contributed to the Transactions of the French Alpine Club, and wrote an Ascension du Mont Blanc for his brother’s collection of Voyages extraordinaires in 1874.
THE BRIG-SCHOONER PILGRIM.
On February 2, 1876, the schooner Pilgrim was in latitude 43° 57′ south, and in longitude 165° 19′ west of the meridian of Greenwich.
This vessel, of four hundred tons, fitted out at San Francisco for whale-fishing in the southern seas, belonged to James W. Weldon, a rich Californian ship-owner, who had for several years intrusted the command of it to Captain Hull.
The Pilgrim was one of the smallest, but one of the best of that flotilla, which James W. Weldon sent each season, not only beyond Behring Strait, as far as the northern seas, but also in the quarters of Tasmania or of Cape Horn, as far as the Antarctic Ocean. She sailed in a superior manner. Her very easily managed rigging permitted her to venture, with a few men, in sight of the impenetrable fields of ice of the southern hemisphere. Captain Hull knew how to disentangle himself, as the sailors say, from among those icebergs, which, during the summer, drift by the way of New Zealand or the Cape of Good Hope, under a much lower latitude than that which they reach in the northern seas of the globe. It is true that only icebergs of small dimensions were found there; they were already worn by collisions, eaten away by the warm waters, and the greater number of them were going to melt in the Pacific or the Atlantic.
Under the command of Captain Hull, a good seaman, and also one of the most skilful harpooners of the flotilla, was a crew composed of five sailors and a novice. It was a small number for this whale-fishing, which requires a good many persons. Men are necessary as well for the management of the boats for the attack, as for the cutting up of the captured animals. But, following the example of certain ship-owners, James W. Weldon found it much more economical to embark at San Francisco only the number of sailors necessary for the management of the vessel. New Zealand did not lack harpooners, sailors of all nationalities, deserters or others, who sought to be hired for the season, and who followed skilfully the trade of fishermen. The busy period once over, they were paid, they were put on shore, and they waited till the whalers of the following year should come to claim their services again. There was obtained by this method better work from the disposable sailors, and a much larger profit derived by their co-operation.
They had worked in this way on board the Pilgrim.
The schooner had just finished her season on the limit of the Antarctic Circle. But she had not her full number of barrels of oil, of coarse whalebones nor of fine. Even at that period, fishing was becoming difficult. The whales, pursued to excess, were becoming rare. The “right” whale, which bears the name of “North Caper,” in the Northern Ocean, and that of “Sulphur Bottom,” in the South Sea, was likely to disappear. The whalers had been obliged to fall back on the finback or jubarte, a gigantic mammifer, whose attacks are not without danger.
This is what Captain Hull had done during this cruise; but on his next voyage he calculated on reaching a higher latitude, and, if necessary, going in sight of Clarie and Adelie Lands, whose discovery, contested by the American Wilkes, certainly belongs to the illustrious commander of the “Astrolabe” and the Zelee, to the Frenchman, Dumont d’Urville.
In fact, the season had not been favorable for the Pilgrim. In the beginning of January, that is to say, toward the middle of the Southern summer, and even when the time for the whalers to return had not yet arrived Captain Hull had been obliged to abandon the fishing places. His additional crew—a collection of pretty sad subjects—gave him an excuse, as they say, and he determined to separate from them.
The Pilgrim then steered to the northwest, for New Zealand, which she sighted on the 15th of January. She arrived at Waitemata, port of Auckland, situated at the lowest end of the Gulf of Chouraki, on the east coast of the northern island, and landed the fishermen who had been engaged for the season.
The crew was not satisfied. The cargo of the Pilgrim was at least two hundred barrels of oil short. There had never been worse fishing. Captain Hull felt the disappointment of a hunter who, for the first time, returns as he went away—or nearly so. His self-love, greatly excited, was at stake, and he did not pardon those scoundrels whose insubordination had compromised the results of his cruise.
It was in vain that he endeavored to recruit a new fishing crew at Auckland. All the disposable seamen were embarked on the other whaling vessels. He was thus obliged to give up the hope of completing the Pilgrim’s cargo, and Captain Hull was preparing to leave Auckland definitely, when a request for a passage was made which he could not refuse.
Mrs. Weldon, wife of the Pilgrim’s owner, was then at Auckland with her young son Jack, aged about five years, and one of her relatives, her Cousin Benedict. James W. Weldon, whom his business operations sometimes obliged to visit New Zealand, had brought the three there, and intended to bring them back to San Francisco.
But, just as the whole family was going to depart, little Jack became seriously ill, and his father, imperatively recalled by his business, was obliged to leave Auckland, leaving his wife, his son, and Cousin Benedict there.
Three months had passed away—three long months of separation, which were extremely painful to Mrs. Weldon. Meanwhile her young child was restored to health, and she was at liberty to depart, when she was informed of the arrival of the Pilgrim.
Now, at that period, in order to return to San Francisco, Mrs. Weldon found herself under the necessity of going to Australia by one of the vessels of the Golden Age Trans-oceanic Company, which ply between Melbourne and the Isthmus of Panama by Papeiti. Then, once arrived at Panama, it would be necessary for her to await the departure of the American steamer, which establishes a regular communication between the Isthmus and California. Thence, delays, trans-shipments, always disagreeable for a woman and a child. It was just at this time that the Pilgrim came into port at Auckland. Mrs. Weldon did not hesitate, but asked Captain Hull to take her on board to bring her back to San Francisco—she, her son, Cousin Benedict, and Nan, an old negress who had served her since her infancy. Three thousand marine leagues to travel on a sailing vessel! But Captain Hull’s ship was so well managed, and the season still so fine on both sides of the Equator! Captain Hull consented, and immediately put his own cabin at the disposal of his passenger. He wished that, during a voyage which might last forty or fifty days, Mrs. Weldon should be installed as well as possible on board the whaler.
There were then certain advantages for Mrs. Weldon in making the voyage under these conditions. The only disadvantage was that this voyage would be necessarily prolonged in consequence of this circumstance—the Pilgrim would go to Valparaiso, in Chili, to effect her unloading. That done, there would be nothing but to ascend the American coast, with land breezes, which make these parts very agreeable.
Besides, Mrs. Weldon was a courageous woman, whom the sea did not frighten. Then thirty years of age, she was of robust health, being accustomed to long voyages, for, having shared with her husband the fatigues of several passages, she did not fear the chances more or less contingent, of shipping on board a ship of moderate tonnage. She knew Captain Hull to be an excellent seaman, in whom James W. Weldon had every confidence. The Pilgrim was a strong vessel, capital sailer, well quoted in the flotilla of American whalers. The opportunity presented itself. It was necessary to profit by it. Mrs. Weldon did profit by it.
Cousin Benedict—it need not be said—would accompany her.
This cousin was a worthy man, about fifty years of age. But, notwithstanding his fifty years, it would not have been prudent to let him go out alone. Long, rather than tall, narrow, rather than thin, his figure bony, his skull enormous and very hairy, one recognized in his whole interminable person one of those worthy savants, with gold spectacles, good and inoffensive beings, destined to remain great children all their lives, and to finish very old, like centenaries who would die at nurse.
“Cousin Benedict”—he was called so invariably, even outside of the family, and, in truth, he was indeed one of those good men who seem to be the born cousins of all the world—Cousin Benedict, always impeded by his long arms and his long limbs, would be absolutely incapable of attending to matters alone, even in the most ordinary circumstances of life. He was not troublesome, oh! no, but rather embarrassing for others, and embarrassed for himself. Easily satisfied, besides being very accommodating, forgetting to eat or drink, if some one did not bring him something to eat or drink, insensible to the cold as to the heat, he seemed to belong less to the animal kingdom than to the vegetable kingdom. One must conceive a very useless tree, without fruit and almost without leaves, incapable of giving nourishment or shelter, but with a good heart.
Such was Cousin Benedict. He would very willingly render service to people if, as Mr. Prudhomme would say, he were capable of rendering it.
Finally, his friends loved him for his very feebleness. Mrs. Weldon regarded him as her child—a large elder brother of her little Jack.
It is proper to add here that Cousin Benedict was, meanwhile, neither idle nor unoccupied. On the contrary, he was a worker. His only passion—natural history—absorbed him entirely.
To say “Natural History” is to say a great deal.
We know that the different parts of which this science is composed are zoology, botany, mineralogy, and geology.
Now Cousin Benedict was, in no sense, a botanist, nor a mineralogist, nor a geologist.
Was he, then, a zoologist in the entire acceptation of the word, a kind of Cuvier of the New World, decomposing an animal by analysis, or putting it together again by synthesis, one of those profound connoisseurs, versed in the study of the four types to which modern science refers all animal existence, vertebrates, mollusks, articulates, and radiates? Of these four divisions, had the artless but studious savant observed the different classes, and sought the orders, the families, the tribes, the genera, the species, and the varieties which distinguish them?
Had Cousin Benedict devoted himself to the study of the vertebrates, mammals, birds, reptiles, and fishes?
Was it to the mollusks, from the cephalopodes to the bryozoans, that he had given his preference, and had malacology no more secrets for him?
Not at all.
Then it was on the radiates, echinoderms, acalephes, polypes, entozoons, sponges, and infusoria, that he had for such a long time burned the midnight oil?
It must, indeed, be confessed that it was not on the radiates.
Now, in zoology there only remains to be mentioned the division of the articulates, so it must be that it was on this division that Cousin Benedict’s only passion was expended.
Yes, and still it is necessary to select.
This branch of the articulates counts six classes: insects, myriapodes, arachnides, crustaceans, cirrhopodes, and annelides.
Now, Cousin Benedict, scientifically speaking, would not know how to distinguish an earth-worm from a medicinal leech, a sand-fly from a glans-marinus, a common spider from a false scorpion, a shrimp from a frog, a gally-worm from a scolopendra.
But, then, what was Cousin Benedict? Simply an entomologist—nothing more.
To that, doubtless, it may be said that in its etymological acceptation, entomology is that part of the natural sciences which includes all the articulates. That is true, in a general way; but it is the custom to give this word a more restricted sense. It is then only applied, properly speaking, to the study of insects, that is to say: “All the articulate animals of which the body, composed of rings placed end to end, forms three distinct segments, and which possesses three pairs of legs, which have given them the name of hexapodes.”
Now, as Cousin Benedict had confined himself to the study of the articulates of this class, he was only an entomologist.
But, let us not be mistaken about it. In this class of the insects are counted not less than ten orders:
Orthopterans as grasshoppers, crickets, etc.
Neuropters as ant-eaters, dragon-flies or libellula.
Hymenopters as bees, wasps, ants.
Lepidopters as butterflies, etc.
Hemipters as cicada, plant-lice, fleas, etc.
Coleopters as cockchafers, fire-flies, etc.
Dipters as gnats, musquitoes, flies.
Rhipipters as stylops.
Parasites as acara, etc.
Thysanurans as lepidotus, flying-lice, etc.
Now, in certain of these orders, the coleopters, for example, there are recognized thirty thousand species, and sixty thousand in the dipters; so subjects for study are not wanting, and it will be conceded that there is sufficient in this class alone to occupy a man!
Thus, Cousin Benedict’s life was entirely and solely consecrated to entomology.
To this science he gave all his hours—all, without exception, even the hours of sleep, because he invariably dreamt “hexapodes.” That he carried pins stuck in his sleeves and in the collar of his coat, in the bottom of his hat, and in the facings of his vest, need not be mentioned.
When Cousin Benedict returned from some scientific promenade his precious head-covering in particular was no more than a box of natural history, being bristling inside and outside with pierced insects.
And now all will be told about this original when it is stated, that it was on account of his passion for entomology that he had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Weldon to New Zealand. There his collection was enriched by some rare subjects, and it will be readily understood that he was in haste to return to classify them in the cases of his cabinet in San Francisco.
So, as Mrs. Weldon and her child were returning to America by the Pilgrim, nothing more natural than for Cousin Benedict to accompany them during that passage.
But it was not on him that Mrs. Weldon could rely, if she should ever find herself in any critical situation. Very fortunately, the prospect was only that of a voyage easily made during the fine season, and on board of a ship whose captain merited all her confidence.
During the three days that the Pilgrim was in port at Waitemata, Mrs. Weldon made her preparations in great haste, for she did not wish to delay the departure of the schooner. The native servants whom she employed in her dwelling in Auckland were dismissed, and, on the 22d January, she embarked on board the Pilgrim, bringing only her son Jack, Cousin Benedict, and Nan, her old negress.
Cousin Benedict carried all his curious collection of insects in a special box. In this collection figured, among others, some specimens of those new staphylins, species of carnivorous coleopters, whose eyes are placed above the head, and which, till then, seemed to be peculiar to New Caledonia. A certain venomous spider, the “katipo,” of the Maoris, whose bite is often fatal to the natives, had been very highly recommended to him. But a spider does not belong to the order of insects properly so called; it is placed in that of the arachnida, and, consequently, was valueless in Cousin Benedict’s eyes. Thus he scorned it, and the most beautiful jewel of his collection was a remarkable staphylin from New Zealand.
It is needless to say that Cousin Benedict, by paying a heavy premium, had insured his cargo, which to him seemed much more precious than all the freight of oil and bones stowed away in the hold of the Pilgrim.
Just as the Pilgrim was getting under sail, when Mrs. Weldon and her companion for the voyage found themselves on the deck of the schooner, Captain Hull approached his passenger:
“It is understood, Mrs. Weldon,” he said to her, “that, if you take passage on board the Pilgrim, it is on your own responsibility.”
“Why do you make that observation to me, Mr. Hull?” asked Mrs. Weldon.
“Because I have not received an order from your husband in regard to it, and, all things considered, a schooner cannot offer you the guarantees of a good passage, like a packet-boat, specially intended to carry travelers.”
“If my husband were here,” replied Mrs. Weldon, “do you think, Mr. Hull, that he would hesitate to embark on the Pilgrim, in company with his wife and child?”
“No, Mrs. Weldon, he would not hesitate,” said Captain Hull; “no, indeed! no more than I should hesitate myself! The Pilgrim is a good ship after all, even though she has made but a sad cruise, and I am sure of her, as much so as a seaman can be of the ship which he has commanded for several years. The reason I speak, Mrs. Weldon, is to get rid of personal responsibility, and to repeat that you will not find on board the comfort to which you have been accustomed.”
“As it is only a question of comfort, Mr. Hull,” replied Mrs. Weldon, “that should not stop me. I am not one of those troublesome passengers who complain incessantly of the narrowness of the cabins, and the insufficiency of the table.”
Then, after looking for a few moments at her little Jack, whom she held by the hand, Mrs. Weldon said:
“Let us go, Mr. Hull!”
The orders were given to get under way at once, the sails were set, and the Pilgrim, working to get out to sea in the shortest time possible, steered for the American coast.
But, three days after her departure, the schooner, thwarted by strong breezes from the east, was obliged to tack to larboard to make headway against the wind. So, at the date of February 2d, Captain Hull still found himself in a higher latitude than he would have wished, and in the situation of a sailor who wanted to double Cape Horn rather than reach the New Continent by the shortest course.
Meanwhile the sea was favorable, and, except the delays, navigation would be accomplished under very supportable conditions.
Mrs. Weldon had been installed on board the Pilgrim as comfortably as possible.
Neither poop nor “roufle” was at the end of the deck. There was no stern cabin, then, to receive the passengers. She was obliged to be contented with Captain Hull’s cabin, situated aft, which constituted his modest sea lodging. And still it had been necessary for the captain to insist, in order to make her accept it. There, in that narrow lodging, was installed Mrs. Weldon, with her child and old Nan. She took her meals there, in company with the captain and Cousin Benedict, for whom they had fitted up a kind of cabin on board.
As to the commander of the Pilgrim, he had settled himself in a cabin belonging to the ship’s crew—a cabin which would be occupied by the second officer, if there were a second one on board. But the brig-schooner was navigated, we know, under conditions which enabled her to dispense with the services of a second officer.
The men of the Pilgrim, good and strong seamen, were very much united by common ideas and habits. This fishing season was the fourth which they had passed together. All Americans of the West, they were acquainted for a long period, and belonged to the same coast of the State of California.
These brave men showed themselves very thoughtful towards Mrs. Weldon, the wife of the owner of their ship, for whom they professed boundless devotion. It must be said that, largely interested in the profits of the ship, they had navigated till then with great gain. If, by reason of their small number, they did not spare themselves, it was because every labor increased their earnings in the settling of accounts at the end of each season. This time, it is true, the profit would be almost nothing, and that gave them just cause to curse and swear against those New Zealand scoundrels.
One man on board, alone among all, was not of American origin. Portuguese by birth, but speaking English fluently, he was called Negoro, and filled the humble position of cook on the schooner.
The Pilgrim’s cook having deserted at Auckland, this Negoro, then out of employment, offered himself for the place. He was a taciturn man, not at all communicative, who kept to himself, but did his work satisfactorily. In engaging him, Captain Hull seemed to be rather fortunate, and since embarking, the master cook had merited no reproach.
Meanwhile, Captain Hull regretted not having had the time to inform himself sufficiently about Negoro’s antecedents. His face, or rather his look, was only half in his favor, and when it is necessary to bring an unknown into the life on board, so confined, so intimate, his antecedents should be carefully inquired into.
Negoro might be forty years old. Thin, nervous, of medium height, with very brown hair, skin somewhat swarthy, he ought to be strong. Had he received any instruction? Yes; that appeared in certain observations which escaped him sometimes. Besides, he never spoke of his past life, he said not a word about his family. Whence he came, where he had lived, no one could tell. What would his future be? No one knew any more about that. He only announced his intention of going on shore at Valparaiso. He was certainly a singular man. At all events, he did not seem to be a sailor. He seemed to be even more strange to marine things than is usual with a master cook, part of whose existence is passed at sea.
Meanwhile, as to being incommoded by the rolling and pitching of the ship, like men who have never navigated, he was not in the least, and that is something for a cook on board a vessel.
Finally, he was little seen. During the day, he most generally remained confined in his narrow kitchen, before the stove for melting, which occupied the greater part of it. When night came and the fire in the stove was out, Negoro went to the cabin which was assigned to him at the end of the crew’s quarters. Then he went to bed at once and went to sleep.
It has been already said that the Pilgrim’s crew was composed of five sailors and a novice.
This young novice, aged fifteen, was the child of an unknown father and mother. This poor being, abandoned from his birth, had been received and brought up by public charity.
Dick Sand—that was his name—must have been originally from the State of New York, and doubtless from the capital of that State.
If the name of Dick—an abbreviation of Richard—had been given to the little orphan, it was because it was the name of the charitable passer-by who had picked him up two or three hours after his birth. As to the name of Sand, it was attributed to him in remembrance of the place where he had been found; that is to say, on that point of land called Sandy-Hook, which forms the entrance of the port of New York, at the mouth of the Hudson.
Dick Sand, when he should reach his full growth, would not exceed middle height, but he was well built. One could not doubt that he was of Anglo-Saxon origin. He was brown, however, with blue eyes, in which the crystalline sparkled with ardent fire. His seaman’s craft had already prepared him well for the conflicts of life. His intelligent physiognomy breathed forth energy. It was not that of an audacious person, it was that of a darer. These three words from an unfinished verse of Virgil are often cited:
“Audaces fortuna juvat…” but they are quoted incorrectly. The poet said: “Audentes fortuna juvat…”
It is on the darers, not on the audacious, that Fortune almost always smiled. The audacious may be unguarded. The darer thinks first, acts afterwards. There is the difference!
Dick Sand was audens.
At fifteen he already knew how to take a part, and to carry out to the end whatever his resolute spirit had decided upon. His manner, at once spirited and serious, attracted attention. He did not squander himself in words and gestures, as boys of his age generally do. Early, at a period of life when they seldom discuss the problems of existence, he had looked his miserable condition in the face, and he had promised “to make” himself.
And he had made himself—being already almost a man at an age when others are still only children.
At the same time, very nimble, very skilful in all physical exercises, Dick Sand was one of those privileged beings, of whom it may be said that they were born with two left feet and two right hands. In that way, they do everything with the right hand, and always set out with the left foot.
Public charity, it has been said, had brought up the little orphan. He had been put first in one of those houses for children, where there is always, in America, a place for the little waifs. Then at four, Dick learned to read, write and count in one of those State of New York schools, which charitable subscriptions maintain so generously.
At eight, the taste for the sea, which Dick had from birth, caused him to embark as cabin-boy on a packet ship of the South Sea. There he learned the seaman’s trade, and as one ought to learn it, from the earliest age. Little by little he instructed himself under the direction of officers who were interested in this little old man. So the cabin-boy soon became the novice, expecting something better, of course. The child who understands, from the beginning, that work is the law of life, the one who knows, from an early age, that he will gain his bread only by the sweat of his brow—a Bible precept which is the rule of humanity—that one is probably intended for great things; for some day he will have, with the will, the strength to accomplish them.
It was, when he was a cabin-boy on board a merchant vessel, that Dick Sand was remarked by Captain Hull. This honest seaman immediately formed a friendship with this honest young boy, and later he made him known to the ship-owner, James W. Weldon. The latter felt a lively interest in this orphan, whose education he completed at San Francisco, and he had him brought up in the Catholic religion, to which his family adhered.
During the course of his studies, Dick Sand showed a particular liking for geography, for voyages, while waiting till he was old enough to learn that branch of mathematics which relates to navigation. Then to this theoretical portion of his instruction, he did not neglect to join the practical. It was as novice that he was able to embark for the first time on the Pilgrim. A good seaman ought to understand fishing as well as navigation. It is a good preparation for all the contingencies which the maritime career admits of. Besides, Dick Sand set out on a vessel of James W. Weldon’s, his benefactor, commanded by his protector, Captain Hull. Thus he found himself in the most favorable circumstances.
To speak of the extent of his devotion to the Weldon family, to whom he owed everything, would be superfluous. Better let the facts speak for themselves. But it will be understood how happy the young novice was when he learned that Mrs. Weldon was going to take passage on board the Pilgrim. Mrs. Weldon for several years had been a mother to him, and in Jack he saw a little brother, all the time keeping in remembrance his position in respect to the son of the rich ship-owner. But—his protectors knew it well—this good seed which they had sown had fallen on good soil. The orphan’s heart was filled with gratitude, and some day, if it should be necessary to give his life for those who had taught him to instruct himself and to love God, the young novice would not hesitate to give it. Finally, to be only fifteen, but to act and think as if he were thirty, that was Dick Sand.
Mrs. Weldon knew what her protégé was worth. She could trust little Jack with him without any anxiety. Dick Sand cherished this child, who, feeling himself loved by this “large brother,” sought his company. During those long leisure hours, which are frequent in a voyage, when the sea is smooth, when the well set up sails require no management, Dick and Jack were almost always together. The young novice showed the little boy everything in his craft which seemed amusing.
Without fear Mrs. Weldon saw Jack, in company with Dick Sand, spring out on the shrouds, climb to the top of the mizzen-mast, or to the booms of the mizzen-topmast, and come down again like an arrow the whole length of the backstays. Dick Sand went before or followed him, always ready to hold him up or keep him back, if his six-year-old arms grew feeble during those exercises. All that benefited little Jack, whom sickness had made somewhat pale; but his color soon came back on board the Pilgrim, thanks to this gymnastic, and to the bracing sea-breezes.
So passed the time. Under these conditions the passage was being accomplished, and only the weather was not very favorable, neither the passengers nor the crew of the Pilgrim would have had cause to complain.
Meanwhile this continuance of east winds made Captain Hull anxious. He did not succeed in getting the vessel into the right course. Later, near the Tropic of Capricorn, he feared finding calms which would delay him again, without speaking of the equatorial current, which would irresistibly throw him back to the west. He was troubled then, above all, for Mrs. Weldon, by the delays for which, meanwhile, he was not responsible. So, if he should meet, on his course, some transatlantic steamer on the way toward America, he already thought of advising his passenger to embark on it. Unfortunately, he was detained in latitudes too high to cross a steamer running to Panama; and, besides, at that period communication across the Pacific, between Australia and the New World, was not as frequent as it has since become.
It then was necessary to leave everything to the grace of God, and it seemed as if nothing would trouble this monotonous passage, when the first incident occurred precisely on that day, February 2d, in the latitude and longitude indicated at the beginning of this history.
Dick Sand and Jack, toward nine o’clock in the morning, in very clear weather, were installed on the booms of the mizzen-topmast. Thence they looked down on the whole ship and a portion of the ocean in a largo circumference. Behind, the perimeter of the horizon was broken to their eyes, only by the mainmast, carrying brigantine and fore-staff. That beacon hid from them a part of the sea and the sky. In the front, they saw the bowsprit stretching over the waves, with its three jibs, which were hauled tightly, spread out like three great unequal wings. Underneath rounded the foremast, and above, the little top-sail and the little gallant-sail, whose bolt-rope quivered with the pranks of the breeze. The schooner was then running on the larboard tack, and hugging the wind as much as possible.
Dick Sand explained to Jack how the Pilgrim, ballasted properly, well balanced in all her parts, could not capsize, even if she gave a pretty strong heel to starboard, when the little boy interrupted him.
“What do I see there?” said he.
“You see something, Jack?” demanded Dick Sand, who stood up straight on the booms.
“Yes—there!” replied little Jack, showing a point of the sea, left open by the interval between the stays of the standing-jib and the flying-jib.
Dick Sand looked at the point indicated attentively, and forthwith, with a loud voice, he cried;
“A wreck to windward, over against starboard!”
Dick Sand’s cry brought all the crew to their feet. The men who were not on watch came on deck. Captain Hull, leaving his cabin, went toward the bow.
Mrs. Weldon, Nan, even the indifferent Cousin Benedict himself, came to lean over the starboard rail, so as to see the wreck signaled by the young novice.
Negoro, alone, did not leave the cabin, which served him for a kitchen; and as usual, of all the crew, he was the only one whom the encounter with a wreck did not appear to interest.
Then all regarded attentively the floating object which the waves were rocking, three miles from the Pilgrim.
“Ah! what can that be?” said a sailor.
“Some abandoned raft,” replied another.
“Perhaps there are some unhappy shipwrecked ones on that raft,” said Mrs. Weldon.
“We shall find out,” replied Captain Hull. “But that wreck is not a raft. It is a hull thrown over on the side.”
“Ah! is it not more likely to be some marine animal—some mammifer of great size?” observed Cousin Benedict.
“I do not think so,” replied the novice.
“Then what is your idea, Dick?” asked Mrs. Weldon.
“An overturned hull, as the captain has said, Mrs. Weldon. It even seems to me that I see its copper keel glistening in the sun.”
“Yes—indeed,” replied Captain Hull. Then addressing the helmsman: “Steer to the windward, Bolton. Let her go a quarter, so as to come alongside the wreck.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the helmsman.
“But,” continued Cousin Benedict, “I keep to what I have said. Positively it is an animal.”
“Then this would be a whale in copper,” replied Captain Hull, “for, positively, also, I see it shine in the sun!”
“At all events, Cousin Benedict,” added Mrs. Weldon, “you will agree with us that this whale must be dead, for it is certain that it does not make the least movement.”
“Ah! Cousin Weldon,” replied Cousin Benedict, who was obstinate, “this would not be the first time that one has met a whale sleeping on the surface of the waves.”
“That is a fact,” replied Captain Hull; “but to-day, the thing is not a whale, but a ship.”
“We shall soon see,” replied Cousin Benedict, who, after all, would give all the mammifers of the Arctic or Antarctic seas for an insect of a rare species.
“Steer, Bolton, steer!” cried Captain Hull again, “and do not board the wreck. Keep a cable’s length. If we cannot do much harm to this hull, it might cause us some damage, and I do not care to hurt the sides of the Pilgrim with it. Tack a little, Bolton, tack!”
The Pilgrim’s prow, which had been directed toward the wreck, was turned aside by a slight movement of the helm.
The schooner was still a mile from the capsized hull. The sailors were eagerly looking at it. Perhaps it held a valuable cargo, which it would be possible to transfer to the Pilgrim. We know that, in these salvages, the third of the value belongs to the rescuers, and, in this case, if the cargo was not damaged, the crew, as they say, would make “a good haul.” This would be a fish of consolation for their incomplete fishing.
A quarter of an hour later the wreck was less than a mile from the Pilgrim.
It was indeed a ship, which presented itself on its side, to the starboard. Capsized as far as the nettings, she heeled so much that it would be almost impossible to stand upon her deck. Nothing could be seen beyond her masts. From the port-shrouds were banging only some ends of broken rope, and the chains broken by the cloaks of white-crested waves. On the starboard side opened a large hole between the timbers of the frame-work and the damaged planks.
“This ship has been run into,” cried Dick Sand.
“There is no doubt of that,” replied Captain Hull; “and it is a miracle that she did not sink immediately.”
“If there has been a collision,” observed Mrs. Weldon, “we must hope that the crew of this ship has been picked up by those who struck her.”
“It is to be hoped so, Mrs. Weldon,” replied Captain, Hull, “unless this crew sought refuge in their own boats after the collision, in case the colliding vessel should sail right on—which, alas! sometimes happens.”
“Is it possible? That would be a proof of very great inhumanity, Mr. Hull.”
“Yes, Mrs. Weldon. Yes! and instances are not wanting. As to the crew of this ship, what makes me believe that it is more likely they have left it, is that I do not see a single boat; and, unless the men on board have been picked up, I should be more inclined to think that they have tried to reach the land. But, at this distance from the American continent, or from the islands of Oceanica, it is to be feared that they have not succeeded.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Weldon, “we shall never know the secret of this catastrophe. Meanwhile, it might be possible that some man of the crew is still on board.”
“That is not probable, Mrs. Weldon,” replied Captain Hull. “Our approach would be already known, and they would make some signals to us. But we shall make sure of it.—Luff a little, Bolton, luff,” cried Captain Hull, while indicating with his hand what course to take.
The Pilgrim was now only three cables’ length from the wreck, and they could no longer doubt that this hull had been completely abandoned by all its crew.
But, at that moment, Dick Sand made a gesture which imperiously demanded silence.
“Listen, listen!” said he.
“I hear something like a bark!” cried Dick Sand. In fact, a distant barking resounded from the interior of the hull. Certainly there was a living dog there, imprisoned perhaps, for it was possible that the hatches were hermetically closed. But they could not see it, the deck of the capsized vessel being still invisible.
“If there be only a dog there, Mr. Hull,” said Mrs. Weldon, "we shall save it.”
“Yes, yes!” cried little Jack, “we shall save it. I shall give it something to eat! It will love us well! Mama, I am going to bring it a piece of sugar!”
“Stay still, my child,” replied Mrs. Weldon smiling. “I believe that the poor animal is dying of hunger, and it will prefer a good mess to your morsel of sugar.”
“Well, then, let it have my soup,” cried little Jack. “I can do without it very well.”
At that moment the barking was more distinctly heard. Three hundred feet, at the most, separated the two ships. Almost immediately a dog of great height appeared on the starboard netting, and clung there, barking more despairingly than ever.
“Howik,” said Captain Hull, turning toward the master of the Pilgrim’s crew, “heave to, and lower the small boat.”
“Hold on, my dog, hold on!” cried little Jack to the animal, which seemed to answer him with a half-stifled bark.
The Pilgrim’s sails were rapidly furled, so that the ship should remain almost motionless, less than half a cable’s length from the wreck.
The boat was brought alongside. Captain Hull, Dick Sand and two sailors got into it at once.
The dog barked all the time. It tried to hold on to the netting, but every moment it fell back on the deck. One would say that its barks were no longer addressed to those who were coming to him. Were they then addressed to some sailors or passengers imprisoned in this ship?
“Is there, then, on board some shipwrecked one who has survived?” Mrs. Weldon asked herself.
A few strokes of the oars and the Pilgrim’s boat would reach the capsized hull.
But, suddenly, the dog’s manner changed. Furious barks succeeded its first barks inviting the rescuers to come. The most violent anger excited the singular animal.
“What can be the matter with that dog?” said Captain Hull, while the boat was turning the stern of the vessel, so as to come alongside of the part of the deck lying under the water.
What Captain Hull could not then observe, what could not be noticed even on board the Pilgrim, was that the dog’s fury manifested itself just at the moment when Negoro, leaving his kitchen, had just come toward the forecastle.
Did the dog then know and recognize the master cook? It was very improbable.
However that may be, after looking at the dog, without showing any surprise, Negoro, who, however, frowned for an instant, returned to the crew’s quarters.
Meanwhile the boat had rounded the stern of the ship. Her aftboard carried this single name: Waldeck.
Waldeck,and no designation of the port attached. But, by the form of the hull, by certain details which a sailor seizes at the first glance, Captain Hull had, indeed, discovered that this ship was of American construction. Besides, her name confirmed it. And now, this hull, it was all that remained of a large brig of five hundred tons.
At the Waldeck’s prow a large opening indicated the place where the collision had occurred. In consequence of the capsizing of the hull, this opening was then five or six feet above the water—which explained why the brig had not yet foundered.
On the deck, which Captain Hull saw in its whole extent, there was nobody.
The dog, having left the netting, had just let itself slip as far as the central hatch, which was open; and it barked partly toward the interior, partly toward the exterior.
“It is very certain that this animal is not alone on board!” observed Dick Sand.
“No, in truth!” replied Captain Hull.
The boat then skirted the larboard netting, which was half under water. A somewhat strong swell of the sea would certainly submerge the Waldeck in a few moments.
The brig’s deck had been swept from one end to the other. There was nothing left except the stumps of the mainmast and of the mizzen-mast, both broken off two feet above the scuttles, and which had fallen in the collision, carrying away shrouds, back-stays, and rigging. Meanwhile, as far as the eye could see, no wreck was visible around the Waldeck—which seemed to indicate that the catastrophe was already several days old.
“If some unhappy creatures have survived the collision,” said Captain Hull, “it is probable that either hunger or thirst has finished them, for the water must have gained the store-room. There are only dead bodies on board!”
“No,” cried Dick Sand, “no! The dog would not bark that way. There are living beings on board!”
At that moment the animal, responding to the call of the novice, slid to the sea, and swam painfully toward the boat, for it seemed to be exhausted.
They took it in, and it rushed eagerly, not for a piece of bread that Dick Sand offered it first, but to a half-tub which contained a little fresh water.
“This poor animal is dying of thirst!” cried Dick Sand.
The boat then sought a favorable place to board the Waldeck more easily, and for that purpose it drew away a few strokes. The dog evidently thought that its rescuers did not wish to go on board, for he seized Dick Sand by his jacket, and his lamentable barks commenced again with new strength.
They understood it. Its pantomime and its language were as clear as a man’s language could be. The boat was brought immediately as far as the larboard cat-head. There the two sailors moored it firmly, while Captain Hull and Dick Sand, setting foot on the deck at the same time as the dog, raised themselves, not without difficulty, to the hatch which opened between the stumps of the two masts.
By this hatch the two made their way into the hold.
The Waldeck’s hold, half full of water, contained no goods. The brig sailed with ballast—a ballast of sand which had slid to larboard and which helped to keep the ship on her side. On that head, then, there was no salvage to effect.
“Nobody here,” said Captain Hull.
“Nobody,” replied the novice, after having gone to the foremost part of the hold.
But the dog, which was on the deck, kept on barking and seemed to call the captain’s attention more imperatively.
“Let us go up again,” said Captain Hull to the novice.
Both appeared again on the deck.
The dog, running to them, sought to draw them to the poop.
They followed it.
There, in the square, five bodies—undoubtedly five corpses—were lying on the floor.
By the daylight which entered in waves by the opening, Captain Hull discovered the bodies of five negroes.
Dick Sand, going from one to the other, thought he felt that the unfortunates were still breathing.
“On board! on board!” cried Captain Hull.
The two sailors who took care of the boat were called, and helped to carry the shipwrecked men out of the poop.
This was not without difficulty, but two minutes after, the five blacks were laid in the boat, without being at all conscious that any one was trying to save them. A few drops of cordial, then a little fresh water prudently administered, might, perhaps, recall them to life.
The Pilgrim remained a half cable’s length from the wreck, and the boat would soon reach her.
A girt-line was let down from the main-yard, and each of the blacks drawn up separately reposed at last on the Pilgrim’s deck.
The dog had accompanied them.
“The unhappy creatures!” cried Mrs. Weldon, on perceiving those poor men, who were only inert bodies.
“They are alive, Mrs. Weldon. We shall save them. Yes, we shall save them,” cried Dick Sand.
“What has happened to them?” demanded Cousin Benedict.
“Wait till they can speak,” replied Captain Hull, “and they will tell us their history. But first of all, let us make them drink a little water, in which we shall mix a few drops of rum.” Then, turning round: “Negoro!” he called.
At that name the dog stood up as if it knew the sound, its hair bristling, its mouth open.
Meanwhile, the cook did not appear.
“Negoro!” repeated Captain Hull.
The dog again gave signs of extreme fury.
Negoro left the kitchen.
Hardly had he shown himself on the deck, than the dog sprang on him and wanted to jump at his throat.
With a blow from the poker with which he was armed, the cook drove away the animal, which some of the sailors succeeded in holding.
“Do you know this dog?” Captain Hull asked the master cook.
“I?” replied Negoro. “I have never seen it.”
“That is singular,” murmured Dick Sand.
THE SURVIVORS OF THE WALDECK.
The slave trade was still carried on, on a large scale, in all equinoctial Africa. Notwithstanding the English and French cruisers, ships loaded with slaves leave the coasts of Angola and Mozambique every year to transport negroes to various parts of the world, and, it must be said, of the civilized world.
Captain Hull was not ignorant of it. Though these parts were not ordinarily frequented by slave-ships, he asked himself if these blacks, whose salvage he had just effected, were not the survivors of a cargo of slaves that the Waldeck was going to sell to some Pacific colony. At all events, if that was so, the blacks became free again by the sole act of setting foot on his deck, and he longed to tell it to them.
Meanwhile the most earnest care had been lavished on the shipwrecked men from the Waldeck. Mrs. Weldon, aided by Nan and Dick Sand, had administered to them a little of that good fresh water of which they must have been deprived for several days, and that, with some nourishment, sufficed to restore them to life.
The eldest of these blacks—he might be about sixty years old—was soon able to speak, and he could answer in English the questions which were addressed to him.
“The ship which carried you was run into?” asked Captain Hull, first of all.
“Yes,” replied the old black. “Ten days ago our ship was struck, during a very dark night. We were asleep——”
“But the men of the Waldeck—what has become of them?”
“They were no longer there, sir, when my companions and I reached the deck.”
“Then, was the crew able to jump on board the ship which struck the Waldeck?” demanded Captain Hull.
“Perhaps, and we must indeed hope so for their sakes.”
“And that ship, after the collision, did it not return to pick you up?”
“Did she then go down herself?”
“She did not founder,” replied the old black, shaking his head, “for we could see her running away in the night.”
This fact, which was attested by all the survivors of the Waldeck, may appear incredible. It is only too true, however, that captains, after some terrible collision, due to their imprudence, have often taken flight without troubling themselves about the unfortunate ones whom they had put in danger, and without endeavoring to carry assistance to them.
That drivers do as much and leave to others, on the public way, the trouble of repairing the misfortune which they have caused, that is indeed to be condemned. Still, their victims are assured of finding immediate help. But, that men to men, abandon each other thus at sea, it is not to be believed, it is a shame!
Meanwhile, Captain Hull knew several examples of such inhumanity, and he was obliged to tell Mrs. Weldon that such facts, monstrous as they might be, were unhappily not rare.
“Whence came the Waldeck?” he asked.
“Then you are not slaves?”
“No, sir!” the old black answered quickly, as he stood up straight. “We are subjects of the State of Pennsylvania, and citizens of free America!”
“My friends,” replied Captain Hull, “believe me that you have not compromised your liberty in coming on board of the American brig, the Pilgrim.”
In fact, the five blacks which the Waldeck carried belonged to the State of Pennsylvania. The oldest, sold in Africa as a slave at the age of six years, then brought to the United States, had been freed already many years ago by the Emancipation Proclamation. As to his companions, much younger than he, sons of slaves liberated before their birth, they were born free; no white had ever had the right of property over them. They did not even speak that “negro” language, which does not use the article, and only knows the infinitive of the verbs—a language which has disappeared little by little, indeed, since the anti-slavery war. These blacks had, then, freely left the United States, and they were returning to it freely.
As they told Captain Hull, they were engaged as laborers at an Englishman’s who owned a vast mine near Melbourne, in Southern Australia. There they had passed three years, with great profit to themselves; their engagement ended, they had wished to return to America.
They then had embarked on the Waldeck, paying their passage like ordinary passengers. On the 5th of December they left Melbourne, and seventeen days after, during a very black night, the Waldeck had been struck by a large steamer.
The blacks were in bed. A few seconds after the collision, which was terrible, they rushed on the deck.
Already the ship’s masts had fallen, and the Waldeck was lying on the side; but she would not sink, the water not having invaded the hold sufficiently to cause it.
As to the captain and crew of the Waldeck, all had disappeared, whether some had been precipitated into the sea, whether others were caught on the rigging of the colliding ship, which, after the collision, had fled to return no more.
The five blacks were left alone on board, on a half-capsized hull, twelve hundred miles from any land.
Then oldest of the negroes was named Tom. His age, as well as his energetic character, and his experience, often put to the proof during a long life of labor, made him the natural head of the companions who were engaged with him.
The other blacks were young men from twenty-five to thirty years old, whose names were Bat (abbreviation of Bartholomew), son of old Tom, Austin, Acteon, and Hercules, all four well made and vigorous, and who would bring a high price in the markets of Central Africa. Even though they had suffered terribly, one could easily recognize in them magnificent specimens of that strong race, on which a liberal education, drawn from the numerous schools of North America, had already impressed its seal.
Tom and his companions then found themselves alone on the Waldeck after the collision, having no means of raising that inert hull, without even power to leave it, because the two boats on board had been shattered in the boarding. They were reduced to waiting for the passage of a ship, while the wreck drifted little by little under the action of the currents. This action explained why she had been encountered so far out of her course, for the Waldeck, having left Melbourne, ought to be found in much lower latitude.
During the ten days which elapsed between the collision and the moment when the Pilgrim arrived in sight of the shipwrecked vessel the five blacks were sustained by some food which they had found in the office of the landing-place. But, not being able to penetrate into the steward’s room, which the water entirely covered, they had had no spirits to quench their thirst, and they had suffered cruelly, the water casks fastened to the deck having been stove in by the collision. Since the night before, Tom and his companions, tortured by thirst, had become unconscious.
Such was the recital which Tom gave, in a few words, to Captain Hull. There was no reason to doubt the veracity of the old black. His companions confirmed all that he had said; besides, the facts pleaded for the poor men.
Another living being, saved on the wreck, would doubtless have spoken with the same sincerity if it had been gifted with speech.
It was that dog, that the sight of Negoro seemed to affect in such a disagreeable manner. There was in that some truly inexplicable antipathy.
Dingo—that was the name of the dog—belonged to that race of mastiffs which is peculiar to New Holland. It was not in Australia, however, that the captain of the Waldeck
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