Complete works of r m ba.., p.237
Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 237
“Young man, did you ever see your own mind?”
“No, in course not.”
“Did anybody else ever see it?”
“Cer’nly not.”
“Then of course you don’t believe in it!” added Rokens, while a slight smile curled his upper lip.
The men chuckled a good deal at Jim’s confusion, while he in vain attempted to explain that the two ideas were not parallel by any means. At this juncture, Phil Briant came to the rescue.
“Ah now, git out,” said he. “I agree with Jim intirely; an’ Tim Rokens isn’t quite so cliver as he thinks. Now look here, lads, here’s how it stands, ‘xactly. Jim says he never seed his own mind — very good; and he says as how nobody else niver seed it nother; well, and wot then? Don’t you observe it’s ‘cause he han’t got none at all to see? He han’t got even the ghost of one, so how could ye expect anybody to see it?”
“Oh, hold yer noise, Paddy,” exclaimed Dick Barnes, “an’ let’s have a ghost story from Tim Rokens. He b’lieves in ghosts, anyhow, an’ could give us a yarn about ‘em, I knows, if he likes. Come along now, Tim, like a good fellow.”
“Ay, that’s it,” cried Briant; “give us a stiff ‘un now. Don’t be afeard to skear us, old boy.”
“Oh, I can give ye a yarn about ghosts, cer’nly,” said Tim Rokens, looking into the bowl of his pipe in order to make sure that it was sufficiently charged to last out the story. “I’ll tell ye of a ghost I once seed and knocked down.”
“Knocked down!” cried Nikel Sling in surprise; “why, I allers thought as how ghosts was spirits, an’ couldn’t be knocked down or cotched neither.”
“Not at all,” replied Rokens; “ghosts is made of all sorts o’ things — brass, and iron, and linen, and buntin’, and timber; it wos a brass ghost the feller that I’m goin’ to tell ye about—”
“I say, Sling,” interrupted Briant, “av ghosts wos spirits, as you thought they wos, would they be allowed into the State of Maine?”
“Oh, Phil, shut up, do! Now then, Tim, fire away.”
“Well, then,” began Rokens, with great deliberation, “it was on a Vednesday night as it happened. I had bin out at supper with a friend that night, and we’d had a glass or two o’ grog; for ye see, lads, it was some years ago, afore I tuk to temp’rance. I had a long way to go over a great dark moor afore I could git to the place where I lodged, so I clapped on all sail to git over the moor, seein’ the moon would go down soon; but it wouldn’t do: the moon set when I wos in the very middle of the moor, and as the road wasn’t over good, I wos in a state o’ confumble lest I should lose it altogether. I looks round in all directions, but I couldn’t see nothin’ — cause why? there wasn’t nothin’ to be seen. It was ‘orrid dark, I can tell ye. Jist one or two stars a-shinin’, like half-a-dozen farden dips in a great church; they only made darkness wisible. I began to feel all over a cur’ous sort o’ peculiar unaccountableness, which it ain’t easy to explain, but is most oncommon disagreeable to feel. It wos very still, too — desperate still. The beatin’ o’ my own heart sounded quite loud, and I heer’d the tickin’ o’ my watch goin’ like the click of a church clock. Oh, it was awful!”
At this point in the story the men crept closer together, and listened with intense earnestness.
“Suddently,” continued Rokens— “for things in sich circumstances always comes suddently — suddently I seed somethin’ black jump up right ahead o’ me.”
Here Rokens paused.
“Wot was it?” inquired Gurney, in a solemn whisper.
“It was,” resumed Rokens slowly, “the stump of a old tree.”
“Oh, I thought it had been the ghost,” said Gurney, somewhat relieved, for that fat little Jack-tar fully believed in apparitions, and always listened to a ghost story in fear and trembling.
“No it wasn’t the ghost; it was the stump of a tree. Well, I set sail again, an’ presently I sees a great white thing risin’ up ahead o’ me.”
“Hah! that was it,” whispered Gurney.
“No, that wasn’t it,” retorted Rokens; “that was a hinn, a white-painted hinn, as stood by the roadside, and right glad wos I to see it, I can tell ye, shipmates, for I wos gittin’ tired as well as frightened. I soon roused the landlord by kickin’ at the door till it nearly comed off its hinges; and arter gettin’ another glass o’ grog, I axed the landlord to show me my bunk, as I wanted to turn in.
“It was a queer old house that hinn wos. A great ramblin’ place, with no end o’ staircases and passages. A dreadful gloomy sort o’ place. No one lived in it except the landlord, a dark-faced surly fellow as one would like to kick out of his own door, and his wife, who wos little better than his-self. They also had a hostler, but he slept with the cattle in a hout-house.
“‘Ye won’t be fear’d,’ says the landlord, as he hove ahead through the long passages holdin’ the candle high above his head to show the way, ‘to sleep in the far end o’ the house. It’s the old bit; the new bit’s undergoin’ repairs. You’ll find it comfortable enough, though it’s raither gusty, bein’ old, ye see; but the weather ain’t cold, so ye won’t mind it.’
“‘Oh! niver a bit,’ says I, quite bold like; ‘I don’t care a rap for nothin’. There ain’t no ghosts, is there?’
“‘Well, I’m not sure; many travellers wot has stayed here has said to me they’ve seed ‘em, particklerly in the old part o’ the buildin’, but they seems to be quite harmless, and never hurts any one as lets ’em alone. I never seed ’em myself, an’ there’s cer’nly not more nor half-a-dozen on ’em — hallo!—’
“At that moment, shipmates, a strong gust o’ cold air came rushin’ down the passage we was in, and blow’d out the candle. ‘Ah! it’s gone out,’ said the landlord; ‘just wait here a moment, and I’ll light it;’ and with that he shuffled off, and left me in the blackest and most thickest darkness I ever wos in in all my life. I didn’t dare to move, for I didn’t know the channels, d’ye see, and might ha’ run myself aground or against the rocks in no time. The wind came moanin’ down the passage; as if all the six ghosts the landlord mentioned, and a dozen or two o’ their friends besides, was a-dyin’ of stommick-complaint. I’m not easy frightened, lads, but my knees did feel as if the bones in ’em had turned to water, and my hair began to git up on end, for I felt it risin’. Suddenly I saw somethin’ comin’ along the passage towards me—”
“That’s the ghost, now,” interrupted Gurney, in a tremulous whisper.
Rokens paused, and regarded his fat shipmate with a look of contemptuous pity; then turning to the others, he said —
“It wos the landlord, a-comin’ back with the candle. He begged pardon for leavin’ me in the dark so long, and led the way to a room at the far end o’ the passage. It was a big, old-fashioned room, with a treemendius high ceiling, and no furniture, ‘cept one chair, one small table, and a low camp-bed in a corner. ‘Here’s your room,’ says the landlord; ‘it’s well-aired. I may as well mention that the latch of the door ain’t just the thing. It sometimes blows open with a bang, but when you know it may happen, you can be on the look-out for it, you know, and so you’ll not be taken by surprise. Good-night.’ With that the fellow set the candle down on the small table at the bedside, and left me to my cogitations. I heerd his footsteps echoin’ as he went clankin’ along the passages; then they died away, an’ I was alone.
“Now, I tell ye wot it is, shipmates; I’ve bin in miny a fix, but I niver wos in sich a fix as that. The room was empty and big; so big that the candle could only light up about a quarter of it, leavin’ the rest in gloom. There was one or two old picturs on the walls; one on ’em a portrait of a old admiral, with a blue coat and brass buttons and white veskit. It hung just opposite the fut o’ my bunk, an’ I could hardly make it out, but I saw that the admiral kep his eye on me wheriver I turned or moved about the room, an’ twice or thrice, if not more, I saw him wink with his weather eye. Yes, he winked as plain as I do myself. Says I to myself, says I, ‘Tim Rokens, you’re a British tar, an’ a whaler, an’ a harpooner; so, Tim, my boy, don’t you go for to be a babby.’
“With that I smoked a pipe, and took off my clo’s, and tumbled in, and feeling a little bolder by this time, I blew out the candle. In gittin’ into bed I knocked over the snuffers, w’ich fell with an awful clatter, and my heart lep’ into my mouth as I lep’ under the blankets, and kivered up my head. Howsever, I was uncommon tired, so before my head was well on the pillow, I went off to sleep.
“How long I slep’ I can’t go for to say, but w’en I wakened it wos pitch-dark. I could only just make out the winder by the pale starlight that shone through it, but the moment I set my two eyes on it, wot does I see? I seed a sight that made the hair on my head stand on end, and my flesh creep up like a muffin. It was a—”
“A ghost!” whispered Gurney, while his eyes almost started out of his head.
Before Tim Rokens could reply, something fell with a heavy flop from the yard over their heads right in among the men, and vanished with a shriek. It was Jacko, who, in his nocturnal rambles in the rigging, had been shaken off the yard on which he was perched, by a sudden lurch of the vessel as the tide began to move her about. At any time such an event would have been startling, but at such a time as this it was horrifying. The men recoiled with sharp cries of terror, and then burst into laughter as they observed what it was that had fallen amongst them. But the laughter was subdued, and by no means hearty.
“I’ll be the death o’ that brute yet,” said Gurney, wiping the perspiration from his forehead; “but go on, Rokens; what was it you saw?”
“It was the ghost,” replied Rokens, as the men gathered round him again— “a long, thin ghost, standin’ at my bedside. The light was so dim that I couldn’t well make it out, but I saw that it was white, or pale-like, and that it had on a pointed cap, like the cap o’ an old witch. I thought I should ha’ died outright, and I lay for full five minits tremblin’ like a leaf and starin’ full in its face. At last I started up in despair, not knowin’ well wot to do; and the moment I did so the ghost disappeared.
“I thought this was very odd, but you may be sure I didn’t find fault with it; so after lookin’ all round very careful to make quite sure that it was gone, I lay down again on my back. Well, would ye b’lieve it, shipmates, at that same moment up starts the ghost again as bold as iver? And up starts I in a fright; but the moment I was up the ghost was gone. ‘Now, Tim Rokens,’ says I to myself, always keepin’ my eye on the spot where I’d last seed the ghost, ‘this is queer; this is quite remarkable. You’re dreamin’, my lad, an’ the sooner ye put a stop to that ‘ere sort o’ dreamin’ the better.’
“Havin’ said this, I tried to feel reckless, and lay down again, and up started the ghost again with its long thin white body, an’ the pointed cap on its head. I noticed, too, that it wore its cap a little on one side quite jaunty like. So, wheniver I sot up that ‘ere ghost disappeared, and wheniver I lay down it bolted up again close beside me. At last I lost my temper, and I shouts out quite loud, ‘Shiver my timbers,’ says I, ‘ghost or no ghost, I’ll knock in your daylights if ye carry on like that any longer;’ and with that I up fist and let drive straight out at the spot where its bread-basket should ha’ bin. Down it went, that ghost did, with a clatter that made the old room echo like an empty church. I guv it a rap, I did, sich as it hadn’t had since it was born — if ghosts be born at all — an’ my knuckles paid for it, too, for they was skinned all up; then I lay down tremblin’, and then, I dun know how it was, I went to sleep.
“Next mornin’ I got up to look for the ghost, and, sure enough, I found his remains! His pale body lay in a far corner o’ the room doubled up and smashed to bits, and his pointed cap lay in another corner almost flat. That ghost,” concluded Rokens, with slow emphasis— “that ghost was the candle, it wos!”
“The candle!” exclaimed several of the men in surprise.
“Yes, the candle, and brass candlestick with the stinguisher a-top o’t. Ye see, lads, the candle stood close to the side o’ my bed on the table, an’ when I woke up and I saw it there, it seemed to me like a big thing in the middle o’ the room, instead o’ a little thing close to my nose; an’ when I sot up in my bed, of coorse I looked right over the top of it and saw nothin’; an’ when I lay down, of coorse it rose up in the very same place. An’, let me tell you, shipmates,” added Tim, in conclusion, with the air of a philosopher, “all ghosts is o’ the same sort. They’re most of ’em made o’ wood or brass, or some sich stuff, as I’ve good cause to remimber, for I had to pay the price o’ that ‘ere ghost before I left that there hinn on the lonesome moor, and for the washin’ of the blankets, too, as wos all kivered with blood nixt mornin’ from my smashed knuckles. There’s a morial contained in most things, lads, if ye only try for to find it out; an’ the morial of my story is this — don’t ye go for to b’lieve that everything ye don’t ‘xactly understand is a ghost until ye’ve got to know more about it.”
While Tim Rokens was thus recounting his ghostly experiences, and moralising thereon, for the benefit of his comrades, the silent tide was stealthily creeping up the sides of the Red Eric, and placing her gradually on an even keel. At the same time a British man-of-war was creeping down upon that innocent vessel with the murderous intention of blowing her out of the water, if possible.
In order to explain this latter fact, we must remind the reader of the boat and crew of the Portuguese slaver which was encountered by the party of excursionists on their trip down the river. The vessel to which that boat belonged had been for several weeks previous creeping about off the coast, watching her opportunity to ship a cargo of slaves, and at the same time to avoid falling into the hands of a British cruiser which was stationed on the African coast to prevent the villainous traffic. The Portuguese ship, which was very similar in size and shape to the Red Eric, had hitherto managed to elude the cruiser, and had succeeded in taking a number of slaves on board ere she was discovered. The cruiser gave chase to her on the same afternoon as that on which the Red Eric grounded on the mud-bank off the mouth of the river. Darkness, however, favoured the slaver, and when the land breeze failed, she was lost sight of in the intricacies of the navigation at that part of the coast.
Towards morning, while it was yet dark, the Red Eric floated, and Captain Dunning, who had paced the deck all night with a somewhat impatient tread, called to the mate— “Now, Mr Millons, man the boats, and let some of the hands stand-by to trim the sails to the first puff of wind.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate, as he sprang to obey.
Now it is a curious fact, that at that identical moment the captain of the cruiser addressed his first lieutenant in precisely the same words, for he had caught a glimpse of the whaler’s topmasts against the dark sky, and mistook them, very naturally, for those of the slaver. In a few seconds the man-of-war was in full pursuit.
“I say, Dr Hopley,” remarked Captain Dunning, as he gazed intently into the gloom astern, “did you not hear voices? and, as I live, there’s a large ship bearing right down on us!”
“It must be a slaver,” replied the doctor; “probably the one that owned the boat we saw up the river.”
“Ship on the larboard bow!” shouted the look-out on the forecastle.
“Hallo! ships ahead and astern!” remarked the captain, in surprise. “There seems to be a ‘school’ of ’em in these waters.”
At this moment the oars of the boats belonging to the ship astern were heard distinctly, and a light puff of wind at the same time bulged out the sails of the Red Eric, which instantly forged ahead.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted a voice from the boats astern in a tone of authority; “heave-to, you rascal, or I’ll sink you!”
Captain Dunning turned to the doctor with a look of intense surprise.
“Why, doctor, that’s the usual hail of a pirate, or something like it. What it can be doing here is past my comprehension. I would as soon expect to find a whale in a wash-tub as a black flag in these waters! Port, port a little” (turning to the steersman)— “steady — so. We must run for it, anyhow, for we’re in no fightin’ trim. The best answer to give to such a hail is silence.”
Contrary to expectation the boats did not again hail, but in a few minutes the dark hull of the British cruiser became indistinctly visible as it slipped swiftly through the water before the freshening breeze, and neared the comparatively slow-going whaler rapidly. Soon it came within easy range, and while Captain Dunning looked over the taffrail with a troubled countenance, trying to make her out, the same voice came hoarsely down on the night breeze issuing the same peremptory command.
“Turn up the hands, Mr Millons, and serve out pistols and cutlasses. Get the carronades on the forecastle and quarterdeck loaded, Mr Markham, and look alive; we must show the enemy a bold front, whoever he is.”
As the captain issued these orders, the darkness was for an instant illuminated by a bright flash; the roar of a cannon reverberated over the sea; a round-shot whistled through the rigging of the Red Eric, and the next instant the foretopsail-yard came rattling down upon the deck.
Immediately after, the cruiser ranged up alongside, and the order to heave-to was repeated with a threat that was calculated to cause the hair of a man of peace to stand on end. The effect on Captain Dunning was to induce him to give the order —
“Point the guns there, lads, and aim high; I don’t like to draw first blood — even of a pirate.”
“Ship ahoy! Who are you, and where from?” inquired Captain Dunning, through the speaking-trumpet.
“Her British Majesty’s frigate Firebrand. If you don’t heave-to, sir, instantly, I’ll give you a broadside. Who are you, and where bound?”
“Whew!” whistled Captain Dunning, to vent his feelings of surprise ere he replied, “The Red Eric, South Sea whaler, outward bound.”
Having given this piece of information, he ordered the topsails to be backed, and the ship was hove-to. Meanwhile a boat was lowered from the cruiser, and the captain thereof speedily leaped upon the whaler’s quarterdeck.
