Philosopher Jack

“Youngster,” said the captain, sternly, “I sent for you to tell you of a fact that came to my knowledge just before we left port. Your father told me that, being unwilling to disappoint you in your desires, he had managed to get a situation of some sort for you on board a well-known line of ocean steamers, and he only waited to get the thing fairly settled before letting you know about it. There, you may go for’ed and think what you have lost by running away.”

Without a word of reply Watty left the cabin. His day’s work had just been completed. He turned into his hammock, and, laying his head on his pillow, quietly wept himself to sleep.

“Ain’t you rather hard on the poor boy, father?” said Polly, who had witnessed the interview.

“Not so hard as you think, little woman,” answered the captain, stroking the child’s head with his great hand; “that little rascal has committed a great sin. He has set out on the tracks of the prodigal son you’ve often read about, an’ he’s not sufficiently impressed with his guilt. When I get him into a proper frame o’ mind I’ll not be so hard on him. Now, Polly, go putt your doll to bed, and don’t criticise your father.”

Polly seized the huge whiskers of her sire, and giving him an unsolicited “nor’-wester,” which was duly returned, went off to her little cot.

We do not mean to trouble the reader with all the incidents of a prolonged voyage to southern latitudes, during which Philosopher Jack formed a strong friendship with Ben Trench and Watty Wilkins; continued his instruction of the amiable and unfathomable Baldwin Burr, and became a general favourite with the crew of the Lively Poll. Suffice it to say that all went well, and the good ship sailed along under favouring breezes without mishap of any kind until she reached that great ocean whose unknown waters circle round the Southern Pole.

Here, however, good fortune forsook them, and contrary-gales baffling the Lively Poll drove her out of her course, while tumbling billows buffeted her severely.

One night a dead calm prevailed. The air became hot, clouds rose rapidly over the sky, and the barometer—that faithful friend of the mariner—fell unusually low.

“How dreadfully dark it is getting,” said Polly, in a low, half-frightened tone to Baldwin Burr, who was at the wheel.

“We’re going to have a night of it, my dear,” replied the seaman.

If he had said that the winds and waves were going to “have a night of it” Baldwin Burr would have been more strictly correct. He had scarcely uttered the words when the captain gave orders to close-reef the top-sails. Our philosopher, springing aloft with his comrades, was out on the top-sail yard in a few seconds. Scarcely had the sails been reefed when the gale burst upon the ship, and almost laid her flat upon the foaming sea. At first the very violence of the wind kept the waves down, but they gradually rose until the ship was tossed on their crests and engulfed in their hollows like a cork. As the force of the gale increased sail was further reduced, until nothing but a mere rag was left and even this at last was split and blown to ribbons. Inky clouds soon obscured the sky, and, as night descended on the wild scene, the darkness became so intense that nothing could be seen except the pale gleam of foaming billows as they flashed past over the bulwarks. In the midst of the turmoil there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a terrible crash of thunder. This was succeeded by a sound of rending which was not the result of elemental strife.

“Foremast gone, sir,” cried one of the men, staggering aft.

Seizing an axe, the captain sprang forward. Edwin Jack followed. They found the ship’s-carpenter already at work cutting the shrouds and other ropes that held the wreck of the mast. As flashes of lightning followed in quick succession they revealed a scene of ruin on the forepart of the vessel, with the tall figure of Edwin as he stood on the bulwarks wielding an axe. At last the wreck was cleared, but the seas were now bursting over the decks and sweeping away everything not made fast. Among other things the long-boat was carried away, and ere long all the other boats were torn from their fastenings or destroyed. It was a fearful night. Even the most reckless among the sailors were overawed by such a display of the terrors of God. At such times scoffers are wont to become tremblers, and those who “trust in God” find Him “a very present help in trouble.”

The gale was as short-lived as it was fierce. By the dawn of the following day it had abated considerably, and it was found that less damage had been done to the ship than might have been expected.

“We’re all right, Polly, thank God!” said the captain, earnestly, when he ventured to open the companion hatch and go below. “You prayed for us, dear, didn’t you?”

“Yes, father, I did; I prayed that our lives might be spared, if He pleased.”

“Well, Polly, our prayers have been answered,” said the captain; “our lives are spared and the ship is safe, though we’ve lost the foremast and the boats. However, that can be putt to rights; we’ll rig up a jury-mast and get on famously, so keep up your heart, old girl, and give us a nor’—. There, you’d better stay below yet awhile; it’s dirty on deck.”

The weather was not long of improving. A profound calm followed the storm. Bright sunshine banished the thunder-clouds. The contrast between the dangers just past and the peaceful condition that prevailed had the effect of raising the spirits of all on board the Lively Poll to an unusual height, so that snatches of song, whistling, and cheery remarks, were heard on all sides among the busy crew as they rigged up a new mast, bent on new sails, and repaired the various damages. When night put a stop to their labours, and every one sought repose, except the watch and the captain and the man at the wheel, the same peaceful calm continued. Only the long undulating swell of ocean remained to tell of the recent storm, while the glassy surface reflected a universe of stars.

It was at this time of profound repose and fancied security that the death-knell of the Lively Poll was sounded. In the southern seas there is a little creature, named the coral insect (of which we shall have more to say hereafter), which is ever at work building walls and ramparts on the bottom of the sea. These rise by degrees to the surface,—rise above it—and finally become some of the fairest isles of the Pacific. Charts tell of the isles, but no charts can tell the locality of coral reefs which have just, or barely, reached the surface. The Lively Poll was forging slowly ahead under a puff of air that only bulged her top-sails as she rose and sank on the majestic swell. Presently she rose high, and was then let down on a coral reef with such violence that the jury-mast with the main-topmast and all the connected rigging, went over the side. Another swell lifted her off, and flung her on the ocean’s breast a total wreck.

The scene that followed may be imagined. Whatever could be done by an able and active seaman in such an emergency was done by Captain Samson. Water was rushing in through the shattered hull. To pass a sail under the ship’s bottom and check this was the first act. Then the pumps were rigged and worked by all on board. Besides Ben Trench there were three gentlemen passengers. These took their turn with the rest, but all was of no avail. The ship was sinking. The utmost efforts of those whose lives seemed dependent on her only delayed the final catastrophe.

“There is no hope,” said the captain in a low tone to his chief mate, to whom he gave some rapid orders, and went below.

It was daybreak, and the first gleam of light that leaped over the glassy sea tinged the golden curls of Polly Samson as she lay sleeping on one of the cabin sofas. She awoke and started up.

“Lie still, darling, and rest as long as you may,” said the captain in a low tender voice, “and pray, Polly, pray for us again. God is able to save to the uttermost, my pet.”

He said this without pausing, as he went to his berth and brought out a sextant, with which he returned on deck.

Standing near the foot of the companion-ladder, Watty Wilkins had heard the words, “There is no hope,” and the few sentences addressed to the child. His impressionable spirit leapt to the conclusion that the fate of all on board was sealed. He knew that the boats had all been swept away, and a feeling of profound despair seized him. This was quickly followed by contrition for his past conduct and pity for his father, under the impulse of which he sat down in a corner of the steward’s pantry and groaned aloud. Then he wrote a few lines in pencil on a piece of paper, bidding farewell to his father. Often had he read of such messages from the sea being wafted ashore in bottles, but little did he expect ever to have occasion to write one. He had just put the paper in a bottle, corked it up, and dropped it out of one of the cabin windows, when he was summoned on deck, and found that a raft was being hastily prepared alongside. Already some casks of biscuits and water had been lowered on it, while the carpenter and several men were busily at work increasing its size and binding it together with iron clamps, hawsers, and chains.

There was urgent need for haste, as the ship was fast settling down.

“Now then, my lads, look alive!” cried the captain, as he lifted his little daughter over the side. “The ship can’t float much longer. Here, Jack, catch hold.”

Edwin sprang to the side of the raft, and, standing up, received Polly in his arms.

“Take care of her! Hold her tight!” cried the anxious father.

“Trust me,” said Philosopher Jack.

The child was placed on the highest part of the raft with the passengers, and partially covered with a shawl. The crew were then ordered to leave the ship. Having seen every one out of it Captain Samson descended and gave the order to shove off. This was quickly done, and the distance was slowly increased by means of two large oars. The huge mass of spars and planks moved gradually away from the doomed vessel, whose deck was by that time little above the level of the sea. They had not got more than a few hundred yards off, when Baldwin Burr, who pulled one of the oars, uttered an exclamation. Edwin Jack and Ben Trench, who knelt close to him fastening a rope, looked up and saw the captain standing on the high part of the raft near Polly and little Wilkins, waving his right hand. He was bidding farewell to the old ship, which suddenly went down with a heavy roll. Another moment, and only a few ripples remained to mark the spot where the Lively Poll had found an ocean tomb.

Chapter Three

Adrift on the Great Ocean

Sunshine gladdens the heart of man and causes him more or less to forget his sorrows. The day on which the Lively Poll went down was bright and warm, as well as calm, so that some of those who were cast away on the raft—after the first shock had passed, and while busily employed in binding the spars and making other needful arrangements—began to feel sensations approaching almost to hilarity.

Polly Samson, in particular, being of a romantic turn of mind, soon dried her eyes, and when called on to assist in the construction of a little place of shelter for herself on the centre of the raft, by means of boxes and sails, she began to think that the life of a castaway might not be so disagreeable after all. When this shelter or hut was completed, and she sat in it with her father taking luncheon, she told him in confidence that she thought rafting was “very nice.”

“Glad you find it so, Polly,” replied the captain with a sad smile.

“Of course, you know,” she continued, with great seriousness of look and tone, “I don’t think it’s nice that our ship is lost. I’m very very sorry—oh, you can’t think how sorry!—for that, but this is such a funny little cabin, you know, and so snug, and the weather is so fine; do you think it will last long, father?”

“I hope it may; God grant that it may, darling, but we can’t be sure. If it does last, I daresay we shall manage to reach one of the islands, of which there are plenty in the Southern Seas, but—”

A roar of laughter from the men arrested and surprised the captain. He raised the flap of sail which served as a door to the hut—Polly’s bower, as the men styled it—and saw one of the passengers dragged from a hole or space between the spars of the raft, into which he had slipped up to the waist. Mr Luke, the passenger referred to, was considered a weak man, mind and body,—a sort of human nonentity, a harmless creature, with long legs and narrow shoulders. He took his cold bath with philosophic coolness, and acknowledged the laughter of the men with a bland smile. Regardless of his drenched condition, he sat down on a small keg and joined the crew at the meal of cold provisions which served that day for dinner.

“Lucky for us,” said one of the sailors, making play with his clasp-knife on a junk of salt pork, “that we’ve got such a fine day to begin with.”

“That’s true, Bob,” said another; “a raft ain’t much of a sea-goin’ craft. If it had blowed hard when we shoved off from the ship we might ha’ bin tore to bits before we was well fixed together, but we’ve had time to make all taut now, and can stand a stiffish breeze. Shove along the breadbasket, mate.”

“You’ve had your allowance, Bob; mind, we’re on short commons now,” said Baldwin Burr, who superintended the distribution of provisions, and served out a measured quantity to every man. “There’s your grog for you.”

Bob Corkey growled a little as he wiped his knife on his leg, and accepted the allowance of “grog,” which, however, was only pure water.

“Are you sure the raft can stand a storm?” inquired Watty Wilkins of Philosopher Jack, who sat eating his poor meal beside him.

“Sure?” responded Jack, “we can be sure of nothing in this life.”

“Except trouble,” growled Corkey.

“Oh yes, you can be sure of more than that,” said Baldwin Burr; “you can always be sure of folly coming out of a fool’s mouth.”

“Come, come, Baldwin, be civil,” said Philosopher Jack; “it’s cowardly, you know, to insult a man when you can’t fight him.”

“Can’t fight him?” repeated Burr with a grin; “who said I couldn’t fight him, eh? Why, I’m ready to fight him now, right off.”

“Nevertheless, you can’t,” persisted the philosopher; “how could two men fight on a raft where there’s not room for a fair stand-up scrimmage between two rats? Come now, don’t argue, Burr, but answer little Wilkins’s question if you can.”