Chapter Thirty One.
Delivered, Wrecked, and Rescued
It is unnecessary, indeed impossible, to describe the feelings with which Gaff and Billy descended from Signal Cliff to the beach to meet the boat which put off from the man-of-war and made for the little creek just below the cave.
As the boat’s keel grated on the sand, the midshipman in command leaped ashore. He was a particularly small and pert midshipman, a smart conceited vigorous little fellow, who delighted to order his big men about in the voice of a giant; and it was quite interesting to observe how quietly and meekly those big men obeyed him, just as one sometimes sees a huge Newfoundland dog or mastiff obey the orders of a child.
“Why, where on earth did you come from, and what are you doing here?” demanded the little middy, as he approached Gaff, and looked up in that man’s rugged and unshorn countenance.
Poor Gaff could scarce command himself sufficiently to reply—
“We’re Englishmen—bin cast away—five years now—”
He could go no farther, but, seizing the boy’s hand, shook it warmly. The Bu’ster, being equally incapable of speaking, seized the hand of the sailor next him, and also shook it violently. Then he uttered a cheer, and turning suddenly round ran along the beach for half a mile like a greyhound, after which he returned and asserted that his feelings were somewhat relieved!
Meanwhile the middy continued to question Gaff.
“What! d’ye mean to say you’ve been five years here—all alone?”
“Ay, all but a few days,” said Gaff, looking round on the men with a bewildered air. “How strange yer voices sound! Seems as if I’d a’most forgotten what men are like!”
“Well, you are a queer fish,” said the boy with a laugh. “Are there no more here but you two?”
“No more; just Billy and me—also Squeaky and Shrieky.”
Gaff said this quite gravely, for nothing was farther from his thoughts at that time than jesting.
“And pray, who may Squeaky and Shrieky be?”
“Squeaky’s a pig, and Shrieky’s a little parrot.”
“Well,” observed the middy with a laugh, “that’s better than no company at all.”
“Yours is an English man-o’-war, I think?” said Gaff.
“You’re right, old fellow; she’s the ‘Blazer,’ 74, Captain Evans, bound for England. Took a run farther south than usual after a piratical-looking craft, but missed her. Gave up the chase, and came to this island to get water. Little thought we should find you on it. Astonish the captain rather when we go back. Of course you’ll want us to take you home. Will you go off with me at once?”
Gaff and Billy hesitated, and both looked back with a strange mixture of feelings at their island-home.
“Oh, we won’t hurry you,” said the boy, with a kindly and patronising air; “if there are any traps you want to pack up, we’ll wait for you. It’ll take us some time to get the breakers filled. Can you show me a good spring?”
“Ay, an’ we can show you a hot one,” cried Billy, with a smile. “But come up to the cave with us and have some grub.”
The midshipman expressed his readiness to comply, and ordered one of the men to stay and watch the boat.
“You needn’t leave any one with the boat,” said Gaff; “there’s nobody here to touch it.”
“Nevertheless I will leave a guard. Now, then show us the way.”
It is needless to describe the surprise of the sailors at everything they saw and heard; and the mixed feelings that agitated the breasts of Gaff and his son—anxiety to return to England, with regret to quit the cavern home where they had spent so many quiet and comparatively happy years.
Suffice it to say that they, and the few things they possessed, were speedily transferred to the “Blazer,” on board of which they received the most considerate attention and kindness. And you may be sure, reader, that Billy did not forget to take the pig and the parroquet along with him.
Fair winds sprang up, and for many weeks the “Blazer” bowled along steadily on her course. It seemed as if the elements had agreed to be favourable, and expedite the return of the exiles. But this state of things did not last.
Towards the end of the voyage fogs and gales prevailed, and the “Blazer” was driven considerably out of her course to the northward, insomuch that she finally made the land on the north-western coast of Scotland. This induced the captain to run through the Pentland Firth, after passing through which they were beset by calms.
One day a small steamer passed close alongside the “Blazer.”
“That’s an Aberdeen steamer,” said the captain; “would you like to be put on board, Gaff?”
Gaff said that he would, as it was probable he should reach home sooner by her than if he were to accompany the “Blazer” to London.
Accordingly the steamer was signalled, and Gaff and Billy were put on board.
Scarcely had this been done when a stiff easterly gale set in, and before morning a heavy sea was running, before which the steamer rolled heavily.
It seemed as if Gaff and his son were doomed to be drowned, for disaster by sea followed them wherever they went. At last, however, the morning broke bright and clear, and the wind abated, though the sea was still running very high.
That forenoon the steamer sighted the coast of Aberdeenshire and the tall column of the Girdle-ness lighthouse came into view.
“We’ll be home soon now, daddy,” said Billy, as they walked the quarter-deck together.
“P’raps, but we an’t there yet,” said Gaff; “an’ I never count my chickens before they are hatched.”
Gaff and his son no longer wore the rough skin garments which had clothed them while in their island-home. They had been rigged out in man-o’-war habiliments by the kindness of those on board the “Blazer,” but they had steadily refused to permit the barber to operate upon them, and still wore their locks shaggy and long. They were, perhaps, as fine specimens of a hardy and powerful man and boy as could be found anywhere; for Gaff, although past his prime, was not a whit less vigorous and athletic than he had been in days of yore, though a little less supple; and Billy, owing probably to his hardy and healthy style of life on the island, was unusually broad and manly for his age.
In a few hours the steamer made the harbour of Aberdeen. The passengers, who had been very busy all the morning in packing up the things they had used on the voyage, were now assembled in groups along the side of the vessel trying to make out objects on shore. The captain stood on the bridge between the paddles giving directions to the steersman, and everything gave promise of a speedy and happy landing.
A heavy sea, however, was still running, filling the bay to the northward of the harbour with foaming breakers, while the pier-head was engulfed in clouds of spray as each billow rolled past it and fell in thunder on the bar.
Every one on board looked on with interest; but on that clear bright day, no one thought of danger.
Just as the steamer came close up to the bar, a heavy sea struck her on the port bow, driving her a little too near the pier. The captain shouted to the steersman, but the man either did not understand him, or did not act with sufficient promptitude, for the next wave sent them crashing on the portion of bulwark or breakwater that juts out from the head of the Aberdeen pier.
The consternation and confusion that ensued is beyond description. The women screamed, the men shouted. The captain ordered the engines to be reversed, and this was done at once, but the force of the next billow was too great. It lifted the vessel up and let her fall heavily again on the pier, where she lay hard and fast with her back broken. Another wave lifted her; the two halves of the vessel separated and sank on each side of the pier, leaving the passengers and crew in the waves.
It would be difficult to say whether the shouts of the multitudes who stood on the pier-head or the shrieks of the wrecked people were loudest.
Instantly every exertion was made to save them. Boats were launched, ropes were thrown, buoys were cast into the sea, and many of the people were saved, but many were also drowned before assistance reached them.
Gaff and Billy, being expert swimmers, seized the persons nearest to them, and took them safe to the pier, where ready hands were stretched out to grasp them. The former saved a lady, the latter a little girl. Then they plunged back into the sea, and saved two more lives.
While this was going on, several of the passengers were swept round into the bay, where they would have perished but for the prompt and able assistance of a man who was known as “The Rescue.”
This man was so named because he undertook the dangerous and trying duty of watching the bathers during the summer months, and rescuing such of them as got out of their depth.
In this arduous work that heroic man had, during five years of service, saved with his own hands between thirty and forty lives—in some cases with a boat, but in most cases by simply swimming out and seizing the drowning persons, and without using corks or floats of any kind. When asked why he did not use a lifebelt, he said that it would only impede his motions and prevent him from diving, which he was often compelled to do when the drowning persons had sunk. His usual method was to swim off when there was a shout for help, and make for the struggling man or boy so as to come up behind him. He then seized him under the armpits, and thus effectually prevented him from grasping him in any way. Drawing him gently upon his breast while he lay over on his back, he then made for the shore, swimming on his back and using his feet only.
On the present occasion the “Rescue” saved four or five of those who were washed into the bay, and then ran out to the end of the pier to render assistance there.
In height he was not above the middle size, but he had a very muscular and well-knit frame. Just as he drew near, Gaff, who was bearing a little boy through the surf in his arms, was hurled against the stones of the pier, rendered insensible, and sucked back by the retreating water. Billy was farther out at the moment, and did not see what had occurred.
The shout of alarm from those in front of the crowd was almost immediately answered by a cry from behind of:
“The Rescue! The Rescue! This way!”
Without checking his speed, the Rescue sprang into the sea, caught Gaff by the hair of the head, and was next moment hurled on the breakwater. He was prepared for the shock, and caught the hands of two men, who, with ropes round their waists, waded into the water as far as they dared. Billy was washed ashore at the same moment, almost in a state of helpless exhaustion, and all were hauled out of the sea amid the wild cheers of the excited crowd.
Gaff, being laid under the lee of the pier-wall, soon recovered, and then he and Billy were led tenderly up to the town, where they were kindly entertained and cared for during several days, by the hospitable Rescue, in whose house they lodged during their stay in the fair city of Aberdeen.
Most of the cattle that happened to be on board the ill-fated steamer were saved, and among them was Squeaky. Shrieky, too, managed to escape. His cage having been smashed in the general confusion he was set free, and flew wildly towards the pier, where he took refuge in the bosom of a sailor, who took care of him. Ultimately he and his companion in distress were restored to their friends.
Chapter Thirty Two.
Home Again
A few days after the events narrated in the last chapter, Gaff and his son arrived by stage-coach in the town of Wreckumoft, and at once started off for the village of Cove.
It was night. There was no moon, but the stars shone brightly in a clear sky, affording sufficient light to show them their road.
Neither of them spoke. Their minds were filled with anxiety, for the thought that was uppermost and ever-present in each was, “Are they well? are they alive?” They did not utter the thought, however.
“It’s a long bit since you an’ I was here, Billy,” observed Gaff in a low voice.
“Ay, very long,” replied the lad.
They walked on again at a smart pace, but in silence.
Presently they heard footsteps approaching, and a man soon came up from the direction of Cove.
“Foine noight,” said the man.
“Fine night it is,” responded Gaff and Billy in the same breath.
Gaff suddenly turned and accosted the stranger just as he had passed them.
“D’ye belong to Cove?”
“No, I doan’t; only stoppin’ there a bit.”
“Ye don’t happen to know a ’ooman o’ the name o’ Gaff, do ye?”
“Gaff—Gaff,” repeated the man, meditating; “no, I niver heern on her.”
“Hm; thought pr’aps ye might—good-night.”
“Good-noight.”
And the man went his way.
“Ah! Billy, my heart misgives me, boy,” said Gaff after a pause.
It was evident that Billy’s heart misgave him too, for he made no reply.
The distance to Cove being only three miles, they were not long in reaching the cottage, although their pace had become slower and slower as they approached the village, and they stopped altogether when they first came in sight of their old home.
A light shone brightly in the little window. They glanced at each other on observing this, but no word escaped them. Silently they approached the cottage-window and looked in.
Gaff started back with a slight exclamation of surprise, for his eye fell on the new and strange furniture of the “boodwar.” Billy looked round with a searching eye.
“There’s nobody in,” he said at length, “but look, daddy, the old clock’s there yet.”
Gaff did not know whether this was a good or a bad omen, for any one who had taken and refurnished the cottage might have bought the old clock and kept it as a sort of curiosity.
While they were gazing, the door of the closet opened and Mrs Gaff came out. She was a little stouter, perhaps, than she had been five years before, but not a whit less hale or good-looking.
“Mother—God bless her!” murmured Billy in a deep earnest voice.
“Where can Tottie be?” whispered Gaff anxiously.
“Maybe she’s out,” said Billy.
The lad’s voice trembled while he spoke, for he could not but reflect that five years was a long long time, and Tottie might be dead.
Before Gaff spoke again, the closet door once more opened, and a slender sprightly girl just budding into womanhood tripped across the room.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Billy, “who can that—surely! impossible! yes it is, it must be Tot, for I could never mistake her mouth!”
“D’ye see any sign of—of—a man?” said Gaff in a voice so deep and peculiar, that his son turned and looked at him in surprise.
“No, daddy—why? what d’ye ask that for?”
“’Cause it’s not the first time a sailor has comed home, after bein’ many years away, and found that his wife had guv him up for dead, an’ married again.”
Gaff had often thought of the possibility of such a thing during his prolonged residence on the island, and the thought had cost him many a bitter pang, but he had never mentioned it to Billy, on whom the idea fell for the first time like a thunderbolt. He almost staggered, and put his hand quickly on the window-sill.
“But come, lad, let’s bear up like men. I’ll go in first. Don’t let on; see if they’ll remember us.”
So saying, Gaff lifted the latch of the door and stood before his wife and child. Billy also entered, and stood a pace behind him.
Mrs Gaff and Tottie, who were both engaged about the fireplace at the time, in the preparation of supper, turned and looked at the intruders in surprise, and, for a few seconds, in silence.
The light that fell upon father and son was not very strong, and the opening of the door had caused it to flicker.
“Come in, if ye wants a word wi’ me,” said Mrs Gaff, who was somewhat uneasy at the rugged appearance of her visitors, but was too proud to show it.
“Hast forgotten me, Jess?”
Mrs Gaff rushed at once into his arms.
“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul,’” murmured Gaff, as he smoothed the head that lay on his shoulder.
Tottie recognised her brother the instant he advanced into the full light of the fire, and exclaiming the single word “Billy,” leaped into his open arms.
“Not lost after all, thank God,” said Gaff, with a deep prolonged sigh, as he led his wife to a chair and sat down beside her.
“Lost, Stephen, what mean ye?”
“Not married again,” said Gaff with a quiet smile.
“Married again! an’ you alive! oh, Stephen!”
“Nay, lass, not believin’ me alive, but ye’ve had good reason to think me dead this many a year.”
“An’ d’ye think I’d ha’ married agin even though ye was dead, lad?” asked the wife, with a look of reproach.
“Well, I believe ye wouldn’t; but it’s common enough, ye must admit, for folk to marry a second time, an’ so, many and many a long day I used to think p’raps Jess’ll ha’ found it hard to keep herself an’ Tottie, an’ mayhap she’ll have married agin arter givin’ me up for dead.”
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs Gaff energetically.
“Well, forgive me for thinkin’ it, lass. I’ve been punished enough, for it’s cost me many a bitter hour when I was on the island.”
“On the island!” exclaimed Tottie in surprise.
“Ay, Tot, but it’s an old story that, an’ a long one.”
“Then you’ll have to tell it to me, daddy, and begin at once,” said Tottie, leaving the Bu’ster—who was more entitled to his nickname on that evening than he had ever been in all his life,—and sitting down beside her father on the floor.
“Come, let’s have fair exchange,” said Gaff, pushing his wife towards Billy, who grasped his mother round her ample waist, and pulled her down upon his knee!
“You’re so big and strong an’ handsome,” said Mrs Gaff, running her fingers through her son’s voluminous locks, while a few tears tumbled over her cheeks.
“Mother,” said Billy with a gleeful look, “give me a slap on the face; do, there’s a good old woman; I want to feel what it’s like now, to see if I remember it!”
“There!” cried Mrs Gaff, giving him a slap, and no light one—a slap that would have floored him in days of yore; “you deserve it for calling me an old woman.”
Mrs Gaff followed up the slap with a hug that almost choked her son.
“Make less noise, won’t you?” cried Tottie. “Don’t you see that daddy’s going to begin his story?”
Silence being with difficulty obtained, Gaff did begin his story, intending to run over a few of the leading facts regarding his life since he disappeared, but, having begun, he found it impossible to stop, all the more so that no one wanted to stop him. He became so excited, too, that he forgot to take note of time, and his audience were so interested that they paid no attention whatever to the Dutch clock with the horrified countenance, which, by the way, looked if possible more horrified than it used to do in the Bu’ster’s early days. Its preliminary hissing and frequent ringings were unheeded; so were the more dignified admonitions of the new clock; so was the tea-kettle, which hissed with the utmost fury at being boiled so long, but hissed in vain, for it was allowed to hiss its entire contents into thin air, and then to burn its bottom red hot! In like manner the large pot of potatoes evaporated its water, red-heated its bottom, and burned its contents to charcoal.
This last event it was that aroused Mrs Gaff.
“Lauks! the taties is done for.”
She sprang up and tore the pot off the fire. Tottie did the same to the kettle, while Gaff and Billy looked on and laughed.
“Never mind, here’s another kettle; fill it, Tot, fro’ the pitcher,” said Mrs Gaff; “it’ll bile in a few minutes, an’ we can do without taties for one night.”
On examination, however, it was found that a sufficient quantity of eatable potatoes remained in the heart of the burned mass, so the misfortune did not prove to be so great as at first sight it appeared to be.
“But now, Jess, let me pump you a bit. How comes it that ye’ve made such a ’xtraornary affair o’ the cottage?”
Mrs Gaff, instead of answering, hugged herself, and looked unutterably sly. Then she hugged Billy, and laughed. Tottie laughed too, much more energetically than there was any apparent reason for. This caused Billy to laugh from sympathy, which made Mrs Gaff break out afresh, and Gaff himself laughed because he couldn’t help it! So they all laughed heartily for at least two minutes—all the more heartily that half of them did not know what they were laughing at, and the other half knew particularly well what they were laughing at!
“Well, now,” said Gaff, after a time, “this may be uncommonly funny, but I’d like to know what it’s all about.”
Mrs Gaff still looked unutterably sly, and giggled. At length she said—
“You must know, Stephen, that I’m a lady!”
“Well, lass, you an’t ’xactly a lady, but you’re an uncommon good woman, which many a lady never wos, an’ never will be.”
“Ay, but I am a lady,” said Mrs Gaff firmly; “at least I’m rich, an’ that’s the same thing, an’t it?”
“I’m not so sure o’ that,” replied Gaff, shaking his head; “seems to me that it takes more than money to make a lady. But what are ye drivin’ at, Jess?”
Mrs Gaff now condescended on explanation. First of all she made Gaff and Billy go round the apartment with her, and expounded to them the signification of the various items, after the manner of a showman.
“Here, you see,” said the good woman, pointing to the floor, “is a splendid carpit strait fro’ the looms o’ Turkey; so the man said as sold it to me, but I’ve reason to believe he told lies. Hows’ever, there it is, an’ it’s a fuss-rater as ye may see. The roses is as fresh as the day it was put down, ’xceptin’ that one where Tottie capsized a saucepan o’ melted butter an’ eggs last Christmas day. This,” (pointing to the bed), “is a four-poster. You’ve often said to me, Stephen, that you’d like to sleep in a four-poster to see how it felt. Well, you’ll git the chance now, my man! This here is a noo grate an’ fire-irons, as cost fi’ pun’ ten. The man I got it fro’ said it wos a bargain at that, but some knowin’ friends o’ mine holds a different opinion. Here is a noo clock, as goes eight days of his own accord, an’ strikes the halves an’ quarters, but he’s not so good as he looks, like many other showy critters in this world. That old farmiliar face in the corner does his dooty better, an’ makes less fuss about it. Then this here is a noo set o’ chimbley ornaments. I don’t think much o’ them myself, but Tot says they’re better than nothing. Them six cheers is the best I ever sat on. Nothin’ can smash ’em. Mad Haco even can’t—”
“Ah! is Haco alive still?” interrupted Gaff.
“Alive, I should think so. Nothin’ ’ll kill that man. I don’t believe buryin’ him alive would do it. He’s up at the Sailors’ Home just now. But I’m not done yet. Here’s a portrait o’ Lord Nelson, as can look all round the room. See, now, git into that corner. Now, an’t he lookin’ at ye?”
“That he is, an’ no mistake,” replied Gaff.
“Well, git into this other corner; now, an’t he lookin’ at ye still?”
“To be sure he is!”
“Well, well, don’t go for to puzzle yer brains over it. That pictur’ has nearly druv all the thinkin’ men o’ Cove mad, so we’ll let it alone just now. Here’s a man-o’-war, ye see; an’ this is the steps for mountin’ into the four-poster. It serves for a—a—some sort o’ man, I forget—Tot, you know—”
“An ottoman,” said Tottie.
“Ay, a ottyman by day, an’ steps-an’-stairs at night. Look there!”
Mrs Gaff opened up the steps and said, “What d’ye think o’ that?”
Gaff said, “Wonderful!” and Billy exclaimed, “Hallo!”
“Yes, Stephen,” resumed Mrs Gaff, going to the cupboard and fetching the tea-caddy, from which she extracted her banker’s book, “all them things was bought for you with your own fortin’, which is ten thousand pound, (an’ more, for I’ve not lived up to the interest by no manner o’ means); an’ that there book’ll show ye it’s all true.”
Having reached this point, Mrs Gaff was seized with a fit of laughter, which she stifled on her husband’s breast, and then, flinging herself into the four-poster, she burst into a flood of tears.
This was the first time in her life that she had given way to such weakness, and she afterwards said to Tottie, in reference to it, that she couldn’t help it, and had made up her mind to have a good cry once for all, and be done with it.
Gaff and his son examined the bank-book, and listened with wonder to Tottie’s account of the manner in which their wealth had come to them. Before the recital was completed, Mrs Gaff had had her cry out, and dried her eyes.
“What think ye of that, Stephen?” she said, pointing to the book.
Gaff shook his head slowly, and looked very grave.
“I don’t much like it, Jess.”
“What, don’t like money?”
“Too much of it is dangerous. I hope it won’t harm us, lass.”
“It’s done no harm to me yet, as I knows of,” said Mrs Gaff firmly.
“What says the Bible, Tot, about that?” asked Gaff. “Money’s the root o’ all evil, an’t it?”
“No, daddy, it’s the love o’ money that’s the root of all evil.”
“Ah, to be sure. Well, there’s a difference there. Hows’ever, we can’t help it, so we must larn to bear it. Come along now, Jess, and let us have supper.”
To supper they sat down, and long they sat over it, and a hearty one they ate. It was not till they began to think of retiring for the night that it was remembered that there was no possibility of putting up Billy in the cottage, for Tottie occupied the closet of the “boodwar.” The Bu’ster relieved his parents from their difficulty, however, by asserting that he had taken a wild desire to see Mad Haco that night; so, declining the offer of a shake-down made up under the four-poster, he started for Wreckumoft, and took up his quarters in the Sailors’ Home.