Robert Michael Ballantyne
Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication
Story 2
Story 2—Chapter 1.
Why I did not become a Sailor
There is mystery connected with the incidents which I am about to relate. Looked at from one point of view, the whole affair is mysterious—eminently so; yet, regarded from another point of view, it is not so mysterious as it seems. Whatever my reader may think about it as he goes along, I entreat him to suspend his judgment until he has reached the conclusion of my narrative. My only reason for bringing this mysterious matter before the public is, that, in addition to filling me with unutterable surprise, it had the effect of quenching one of my strongest desires, and effectually prevented my becoming a sailor.
This, I freely admit, is not in itself a sufficient reason to justify my rushing into print. But when I regard the matter from what may be termed a negative point of view, I do feel that it is not absolutely presumptuous in me to claim public attention. Suppose that Sir John Franklin had never gone to sea; what a life of adventure and discovery would have been lost to the world! what deeds of heroism undone, and, therefore, untold! I venture to think, that if that great navigator had not gone to sea, it would have been a matter of interest, (knowing what we now know), to have been told that such was the case. In this view of the matter I repeat it, as being of possible future interest, that the incident I am about to relate prevented my becoming a sailor.
I am said to be a soft boy—that is to say, I was said to be soft. I’m a man now, but, of course, I was a boy once. I merely mention this to prove that I make no pretension whatever to unusual wisdom; quite the reverse. I hate sailing under false colours—not that I ever did sail under any colours, never having become a sailor—and yet I shouldn’t say that, either, for that’s the very point round which all the mystery hangs. I did go to sea! I’m rather apt to wander, I find, from my point, and to confuse my own mind, (I trust not the reader’s). Perhaps the shortest way to let you understand how it was is to tell you all about it.
My name is Robert Smith—not an unusual name, I am given to understand. It was of little use to me during the period of my boyhood, for I never got any other name than Bob—sometimes soft was added. I had a father. He loved me. As a natural consequence, I loved him. He was old, partially bald, silver-haired, kind, affectionate, good, five feet six, and wore spectacles. I, at the time I write of; was young, stout, well-grown, active, and had a long nose—much too long a nose: it was the only point in regard to which I was sensitive. It was owing to the length of this member, I believe, that I once went by the name of Mozambique. You see, I conceal nothing. The remarkable—the mysterious—the every way astonishing incidents I am about to relate, require that I should be more than usually careful and particular in stating things precisely as I saw them and understood them at the time.
In this view of the matter I should remark that the softness with which I was charged did not refer to my muscles—they were hard and well developed—but to my intellect. I take this opportunity of stating that I think the charge unjust. But, to conclude my description of myself; I am romantic. One of my dearest companions used to say that my nose was the same, minus the tic! What he meant by that I never could make out. I doubt if he himself knew.
My chief delight in my leisure hours was to retire to my bedroom and immerse myself in books of travel and adventure. This was my mania. No one can conceive the delight I experienced in following heroes of every name over the pathless deep and through the trackless forests of every clime. My heart swelled within me, and the blood rushed through my veins like liquid fire, as I read of chasing lions, tigers, elephants, in Africa; white bears and walrus in the Polar regions; and deer and bisons on the American prairies. I struggled long to suppress the flame that consumed me, but I could not. It grew hotter and hotter. At last, it burst forth—and this brings me to the point.
I thought—one dark, dismal night in the middle of November—I thought, (mind, I don’t say I determined; no, but I thought), of running away from home and going to sea!
I confess it with shame. The image of my dear father rose before me with a kind and sorrowful look. I repented; started to my feet, and seized the book I was reading with the intention of tossing it into the fire. In doing so, I accidentally turned over a leaf. There was an illustration on the page. I looked at it. An African savage firing the whole contents of a six-barrelled revolver down the throat of a Bengal tiger, without, apparently, doing it any harm! I thought not of the incongruous combination. My soul was fired anew. Once again I thought of running away from home and going to sea—not by any means with the intention of remaining at sea, but for the purpose of reaching foreign—if possible—unknown lands.
Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully, but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my brows, and went out in search of my bosom friend John Brown—also a commonplace name, I believe—at least, so it is said.
Jack, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father—his father died when Jack was an infant. I’ve often fancied that there was a delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father. I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the passage to reach his room.
“Come in,” he cried, as I knocked.
“Jack, come to my room. It’s more comfortable than yours. I want your advice.”
He rose, in some surprise, and followed me.
If John Brown’s name was commonplace his person was certainly not so. He looked like a young lord. He was a noble fellow, by nature if not by birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth, the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb—such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack.
“Jack,” said I, “I’m going to run away!”
My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at me in speechless amazement for a second; then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Jack,” I repeated, “I’m going to run away.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said he.
“And,” I continued, regardless of his remark, “I mean that you shall run away with me.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he replied. “But come, Bob, my boy, you’re joking. Surely this is not the object for which you called me out of my room.”
“Indeed it is. Listen to me, Jack.” (I looked at him impressively. He returned the look, for Jack was earnest as well as gay.) “You know that my dear father positively refused to let me go abroad, although I have entreated him to do so again and again. Now I think that’s hard, you know. I love my dear father very much, but—”
“You love yourself better. Is that it?”
“Well, put it so if you choose. I don’t care. I’m going to run away, and if you won’t go with me you can stay at home—that’s all.”
“Come, come, Bob, don’t be cross,” said Jack, kindly; “you know you don’t mean it.”
“But I do; and I’m sure I don’t see what it is that prevents you from going too,” said I, testily.
“H’m! well, there is a small matter, a sort of moral idea, so to speak, that prevents.”
“And what is that?”
“Respect for my mother! Bob, my boy, I’ve been too deeply imbued with that in my babyhood to shake it off now, even if I wished to do so; but I don’t, Bob, I don’t. I’m proud of my mother, and, moreover, I remember her teachings. There’s one little verse I used to repeat to her every Sunday night, along with the rest of the ten commandments, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother,’ etcetera. It seems to me that running away is rather flying in the face of that. Doesn’t it strike you in that light, Bob?”
I was silent. I felt that I had no argument against such reasoning. Jack rose.
“It’s late, Bob; we are to start on our fishing expedition to-morrow morning at six, so it behoves us to get into bed. Good-night! and think over it!”
I seized his hand and pressed it warmly.
“Good-night, Jack, I will!”
Story 2—Chapter 2
My bedroom was a small one, with little furniture in it. A small iron stove in the fire-place acted instead of a grate, and as I was accustomed to read late my father allowed me to light it in cold weather. It was blazing cheerfully when Jack left me, and the bright gleams of ruddy light that darted through the chinks of the door and fell on the opposite wall, threw the light of my solitary candle quite into the shade.
I have already remarked that the night was dark and dismal. In addition to that, it was stormy. The wind moaned drearily among the venerable elms that surrounded our quiet country residence, and ever and anon came in sharp, fitful gusts that caused the window-frames to rattle, and even shook the house, at times, to its foundation. Heavy drops of rain fell occasionally on the window-panes, and in a few minutes the storm broke forth in full violence.
As the old house had stood many such in years gone by, I did not give myself much concern about the gale; but pulled down the blind, placed my little table and books near the stove, and, drawing in my chair, sat down to think. How long I remained in this condition I cannot tell; but my reveries were broken by the large clock on the stairs striking twelve.
I started up, and clinching my hands exclaimed aloud, “No! I’ve made up my mind, I won’t run away!” Under the impulse of the feeling I threw open the door of the stove and heaped on fresh coals, muttering to myself; as I did so, “No, I won’t run away, I won’t run away; no, no, no, I won’t run a—”
I was checked suddenly by my eye falling a second time on that terrific African savage sending from his revolver a charge down the throat of that magnificent Bengal tiger, that would have blown the inside entirely out of any living creature smaller than an elephant. I sat down. I gazed at the picture. I read the account. I followed up the adventurous savage. My head reeled with excitement. A strange terrible heat seemed to dart like lightning through my veins, and the book began to flicker before my eyes. I became alarmed.
“Surely some terrible fever is seizing on me!” I exclaimed, and in the terror of the thought I started up and paced my room rapidly. But the fire increased, and my head swam. I meditated ringing the bell and alarming the household; but the thought of this quieted me, and gradually I became calmer.
It was at this moment that my former resolution returned upon me with tenfold violence. “I’ll submit to this no longer,” I growled between my teeth; “I will run away!”
The instant I said that, I felt as if I were imbued with a determination that nothing could shake. Jack’s reasoning never once came into my mind. I took down the knapsack that hung on a nail ready packed for the intended fishing expedition of the morrow. I buckled it on; put on my thickest shoes, and, seizing a stout cudgel, issued softly from my apartment, and tapped gently at Jack’s door.
“Come in!”
I entered, and was overwhelmed with surprise at finding my friend standing in the middle of the room accoutred for the road just like myself. He put his finger to his lips.
“Hush! Bob. I was on the point of going to your room to say that I’ve made up my mind to run away with you.”
I was staggered. I did not relish this unaccountable change. If I had persuaded him to go, it would have been all right; but to find him thus ready and eager was unnatural. I felt as if I were accountable for this change in his opinions and actions, and immediately, strange to say, experienced a tendency to dissuade him.
“But, Jack, you forget what you said to me some hours ago.”
“No, I don’t,” he answered, gloomily.
“Perhaps we’d better think over it again.”
“No, we won’t. Come, Bob, don’t show the white feather now. Don’t waste time. It’s about dawn. It’s too late to reason. You have tempted me, and I have given in.”
Saying this, he seized me by the collar and pushed me before him.
And now the mysterious events which I am about to relate began. The conduct of my friend Jack on this occasion was in itself a mystery. He was by nature the gentlest and most inoffensive of human beings, except when circumstances required him to act vigorously: then he was a lion—irresistible. Since the commencement of our acquaintance, which was of many years’ standing, he had never by word or look given me the slightest cause for anger; and yet here he was grasping me violently by the collar and pushing me forcibly before him.
I did not get angry. My conscience smote me. I said to myself; “Ah! this is the result of evil conduct. I have tempted Jack to act against his judgment; he is no longer what he was.”
Instead of melting under this feeling, I became hardened. I stepped out, and so dragged my friend after me down the back stairs which led to the lower part of the house, where the servants slept. Jack whispered, “All right,” and let go his hold.
“Now we must be cautious,” I said, in a low tone, as we proceeded to traverse the passage, on each side of which were the rooms occupied by the servants. We took off our shoes and advanced on tip-toe. At the far end of the passage we heard a sound like a trombone. That was the butler; we knew of his snoring propensities, and so were not alarmed. His door was open; so was his mouth—I could see that plainly, as I passed, by the dim light of a candle which he always burned at night. The butler was excessively fat. I merely mention this because it accounts for the fact of his not awaking when we unlocked the street door. Fat people are not easily wakened.
The lock of the door was an old-fashioned large one. It grated slightly as Jack turned the key; then at a certain point the key lost control over it, and it shot back with a report like a pistol-shot! My heart flew to my mouth, and almost choked me. The butler gave a double snort and turned in his bed as Jack and I darted round an angle of the wall and hid in a dark corner. The butler soon gave unquestionable evidence that he had not been thoroughly aroused, and we were about to issue from our place of concealment, when the door of our man-servant’s room opened, and he peeped out. Edwards—that was his name—was a stout young fellow, and we felt certain that he would not rest satisfied until he had found out the cause of the noise.
We were right. He stepped cautiously into the passage with a poker in his hand. My heart sank within me. Just at that moment a cat darted across the passage with its back and tail up, and its eyes glaring. Edwards flung the poker at it, missed the cat, and knocked over an old tin umbrella-stand, with which the poker made a hideous clatter on the stone floor of the passage.
“Ha! you brute! Wot? it’s you as is makin’ all that row, is it?”
“Oh, dear, Edwards, what’s happened?” cried a shrill voice from the other end of the passage—it was cook.
“Oh, nothin’, only the cat,” replied the man as he sauntered into the butler’s room. The butler seemed at that moment to have been smitten with a fit of apoplexy—we could see him from our dark corner;—he grew purple in the face, gasped once or twice, choked awfully, and then sat up in bed staring like a maniac.
“Oh! Jack,” I whispered in horror.
“Don’t be alarmed; it’s only his usual way of waking up. I’ve seen him do it often.”
“What noise is that? What’s going on down there?” cried a deep bass voice in the distance. It was my father. No one replied. Presently my father’s bedroom bell rang with extreme violence. Edwards rushed out of the butler’s room. The butler fell back, opened his mouth, and pretended to be asleep—snoring moderately. This of itself would have undeceived any one, for when the old hypocrite was really asleep he never snored moderately. The cook and housemaid uttered two little shrieks and slammed their respective doors, while the bell rang violently a second time.
“Now for it,” whispered Jack. He opened the back door softly, and we darted out. A streak of pale light on the horizon indicated the approach of day. We tried to close the door behind us, but we heard the butler choke, gasp, and shout at the top of his voice, “Hi! hallo!” At the same instant the old dinner-gong sent a peal of horrible sound through the house, and we took to flight filled with unutterable terror.
Oh, how we did run! We had scarcely cleared the offices and got fairly into the avenue when we heard Edwards shout as he started in pursuit.
We were both good runners, but Jack soon took the lead, and kept it by about five yards. Our feet scarcely touched the ground. I felt as if I had wings, so great was my terror. We reached the end of the avenue. The gate was full five feet high. To my inexpressible amazement, Jack went clear over it with one bound!
I have never been able to analyse my feelings and impulses on that occasion. I am, and always was, rather a poor jumper; yet, without hesitation, without even a doubt as to my ability to clear it, I went at that gate like an Irish hunter at a stone wall, and leaped fairly over it! The leap did not even check my pace for an instant. I remember, in the whirl and confusion of the moment, that I attributed my almost superhuman powers to terror; but the feeling that we were pursued again absorbed all my faculties.
We dashed on at a killing pace, and, strange to say, without feeling the slightest fatigue. Having cleared the avenue, we mounted the high ground in the neighbourhood, passed the church, entered the village, and went through it like a railway train; came out upon the road beyond, and reached a wooded part of the country where several roads and by-paths diverged from the highway. All this time Edwards kept close on our heels. He did not gain on us, but we felt that we did not distance him. “Down here!” cried Jack, doubling suddenly into a lane.
We passed a small bridge that crossed a mill-lake. Beyond, there was a farm-yard. The path-way was high, and we could look down on the tops of the stacks. One of these, a haystack, stood about ten feet from the low wall that skirted the road. It had been half pulled down, and the hay was loose. Without a word or warning Jack sprang completely across this space, turned right over, and plunged head first into the hay. I followed instantly, and disappeared. We lay for a few seconds perfectly still, and heard Edwards pass at full speed. Then we struggled out and watched him out of sight.
Sliding down, we regained the lane, returned to the high-road, and continued our flight.
We saw no more of Edwards.
About eight miles from my father’s house there was a small seaport town. We made for this, and reached it just as the sun rose in all his golden glory on the distant edge of the sleeping sea.
Story 2—Chapter 3
On entering the village we found it in a state of unusual bustle. I had often been there before, and had thought it rather a quiet place for a seaport. But now there was a sort of bustling activity and an air of mystery about it that I could not understand. I mentioned my feelings to Jack, but he did not answer me, which was a piece of rudeness so unusual that I could only suppose that his mind was so deeply affected with the circumstances in which we had placed ourselves, as to render him somewhat absent.
On arriving at the chief, indeed the only, inn of the place, we discovered the reason of all the bustle. A strange ship had arrived the night before—a large ship, fitted out for an expedition to some distant part of the world. She had come to complete her supply of provisions and to engage a few extra hands.
Here then was a fortunate opportunity! We asked at once where we could find the captain. He was in the bar-room of the inn. We entered it and found him there, standing with his back to the fire and a coat-tail under each arm. He was a big fat man, with a savage expression of countenance, and ragged head and beard, and a red nose.
“Sir,” said Jack, “we wish to ship with you.”
The captain stared, took a pencil-case out of his pocket, picked his teeth therewith, and surveyed us from head to foot.
“Oh, you do, do you? You wish to ship with me?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose I don’t want you.”
“Then we shall have to try elsewhere.”
The captain smiled grimly, shut up the pencil-case, and said—
“What can ye do?”
“We can read, and write, and count,” said I, taking the words out of Jack’s mouth; for I felt that his brusque manner of replying was not calculated to commend us to the captain.
“Oh, you can read, and write, and count, can ye?” repeated the captain, with deep sarcasm. “If ye had said ye could feed, and fight, and shout, it would have bin more to the purpose.”
“Perhaps we can do a little of that sort of thing, too,” suggested Jack, with a broad grin.
“Hah?” ejaculated the captain. “Wot else can ye do?”
“Oh, anything,” said Jack.
“I gin’rally find,” observed the captain, “that w’en a boy says he can do anything, he very soon proves that he can do nothing.”
“Well, I don’t mean that exactly,” rejoined Jack; “I mean we can try anything.”
“Ha! that’s more to the pint. Where did ye come from?”
We looked at each other. “That,” said I, “is a matter of no importance to any one but ourselves. We have run away from home, and we want to go to sea as fast as possible. If you are willing to take us, we are willing to go. What say you?”
“Run away! ho! ho!—run away!” said the captain, chuckling; “you are just the lads I want. Nothing like runaway boys for me. I wouldn’t give a pinch of snuff for your good boys that do wot they’re bid. Commend me to the high-spirited fellers that runs away, and that folk are so wicked as to call bad boys. That’s the sort o’ stuff that suits our service.”
I did not by any means relish the manner and tone in which all this was said: so I asked him what particular service he belonged to.
“You’ll know that time enough,” he replied, laughing; “but after all, why shouldn’t I tell ye? there’s nothing to conceal. We’re a discovery-ship; we’re goin’ to look for Sir John Franklin’s expedition, and after we’ve found it we’re going to try the North Pole, and then go right through the Nor’-west passage, down by Behring’s Straits, across the Pacific, touchin’ at the Cannibal Islands in passin’, and so on to China. Havin’ revictualled there, we’ll bear away for Japan, Haustralia, Cape o’ Good Hope, and the West Indies, and come tearin’ across the Atlantic with the Gulf-stream to England! Will that suit ye?”
It may seem strange, and the reader will hardly believe me when I say, that, transparently absurd though this statement was, nevertheless I believed every word of it—and so did Jack. I saw that by his glowing eye and heightened colour.
“And when do you sail?” I inquired joyfully.
“In half an hour; so get aboard, boys, and don’t give so much tongue. I’ve other matters to mind just now. Come, be off!”
We retreated precipitately to the door.
“What’s her name?” inquired Jack, looking back.
“‘The Ring-tailed Smasher,’” cried the captain, fiercely.
“The what?”
“‘The Ring-tailed Smasher,’” roared the captain, seizing the poker.
We vanished. In five minutes we were on board the ship. To this hour I have no remembrance of how we got on board. My brain swam with intense excitement. I felt as if I were flying, not walking, as I ran about the deck and clambered up the rigging.
Shortly after the captain came aboard. The rope that attached the vessel to the quay was cast off, the sails flew out as if by magic, and the shore began to fall rapidly astern.
It was now, for the first time, that a full sense of what I had done came over me. I leaned over the stern of the ship, and gazed at my native shore as it grew fainter in the distance, until the familiar hills became a mere line of blue on the horizon, and were finally blotted from my view by the blinding tears that sprang suddenly to my eyes. Oh! the agony of that moment I shall never forget. The words that Jack had quoted to me the night before—“Honour thy father and thy mother”—seemed to be stamped in letters of fire within my brain. I felt keenly that, in a moment of passionate self-will, I had done that which would cause me the deepest sorrow all my life.
In that dark hour I forgot all my romantic notions of travel in foreign lands; I cared not a straw for hunting, or fighting, or wild adventures. I would have cheerfully given worlds, had I possessed them, to be permitted to undo the past—to hasten to my dear father’s feet, and implore forgiveness of the evil that I had done. But regret was now unavailing. The land soon sank below the horizon, and, ere many hours had passed, our ship was scudding before a stiff breeze and leaping wildly over the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
