The Coxswain's Bride by Robert Michael Ballantyne (top 20 books to read .TXT) 📕

meant to be confidential. "Bless your heart, I've seen that woman under all circumstances, but although she's timid by nature, an' not over strong in body, I've never seen her give in or fairly cast down. No doubt she was pretty low last night, poor thing, but that was 'cause she was nigh dead wi' cold--yet her spirit wasn't crushed. It's my solemn conviction that if my Peggy ever dies at all she'll die game."

With a profound sigh of satisfaction at having thus borne testimony to the rare and admirable qualities of his wife, the worthy man applied himself to his oar with redoubled vigour.

It is quite a pleasure in this censorious world to see any man absolutely blind to his wife's faults, and thoroughly awake to her good qualities. The opinion formed of Peggy--by Mrs Massey and Mrs Hayward respectively, did not quite coincide with that of John Mitford.

"How did you get on with poor Peggy last night, Eva?" asked Dr Hayward of his wife, in an undertone, as they breakfasted that forenoon beside the tiller, while the rest of their companions were similarly engaged in the middle of the boat, and at the bow.

"Pretty well, Tom, but she's troublesome to manage. She is so unusually timid, poor creature, so prone to give way to despair when things look bad, yet so sweetly apt to bound into high spirits when things are looking hopeful,--and withal, so amusingly garrulous!"

Strange to say, at the very moment that this was uttered, Nellie was remarking to her husband in a low tone that, "poor Peggy was quite a puzzle, that she was all but dead at one moment, and quite lively at another, that she professed to be all submission, but was as obstinate as a pig, and that her tongue--soft though it was--went like the clapper of a mill!"

We have referred to breakfast, but the meal spread before the castaways hardly merits that name, for it consisted of only a small slice of pork to each; a few pieces of ship's biscuit that Slag had discovered in his pockets; and a cup of water drawn from the pond which had accumulated in a hollow of the tarpaulin during the night.

"It is lucky that one of the pieces of pork happened to be cooked," observed Dr Hayward, as he served out the allowance, "for I would have been sorry to break into the preserved meat tins till forced to do so. We must keep these as a reserve as long as possible."

"Right you are, sir!" said Slag, with his mouth full, while with a clasp-knife he carefully cut off another morsel to be ready, "right you are! That 'minds me when we was starvin', me and my shipmates in the Arctic regions, so as our ribs was all but comin' through our skins, an' we was beginnin' to cast an evil eye on the stooard who'd kep' fatter than the rest of us somehow, an' was therefore likely to prove a more satisfyin' kind o' grub, d'ee see--"

"I say, Joe," said Hayward, interrupting, for he feared that Slag's anecdote might not tend to render the pork breakfast more palatable.

"Sir?" said Slag.

"Will you just go to the bow and take a squint ahead? I think there seems to be something like an end o' the cliffs in view--your eyes are better than mine."

Slag swallowed the mouthful on which he was engaged, thrust after it the morsel that was ready to follow, wiped the clasp-knife on his thigh, and went forward to "take a squint."

It turned out that the "end" of the cliffs which the doctor had only supposed possible, was a reality, for, after a long gaze, Slag turned and said--

"Your eyes are better than you think, sir, for the end o' the cliff is visible, an' a spit o' sand beyond is quite plain."

As this report was corroborated by Bob Massey, and then by all the other men, it sent a thrill of gratitude into the hearts of most of the party--especially the women, who, having lain so long wet and almost motionless, were nearly benumbed in spite of the sunshine. Longer exposure, indeed, would probably have proved fatal to poor Mrs Mitford, possibly also to Mrs Hayward, who was by no means robust. As for our coxswain's wife, having been reared among the health-giving breezes of the sea-shore, and inured from infancy to exposure and hard work, she suffered much less than her female companions, and busied herself a great part of the time in chafing their cold limbs. In doing this she reaped the natural advantage of being herself both warmed and invigorated. Thus virtue not only "is," but inevitably brings, its own reward! Similarly, vice produced its natural consequences in the case of Black Ned, for that selfish man, being lazy, shirked work a good deal. It is possible to pull an oar in such a way that, though the rower may be apparently doing his best, he is, in reality, taking the work very lightly and doing next to nothing. Acting in this way, Ned Jarring became cold when the sleet and spray were driving in his face, his blood flowed sluggishly in his veins, and his sufferings were, consequently, much more severe than those of his comrades. Towards the afternoon of that day, they rounded the spit of sand mentioned by Joe Slag, and came upon a low-lying coast. After proceeding a considerable distance along which, they discovered a good harbour. This was fortunate, for grey clouds had again covered the sun and a bitter east wind began to blow.

"Thank God, Eva," said Hayward, as he steered into the bay, "for if we had not come upon this harbour, your strength and that of poor Peggy, I fear, would have failed, but now you'll be all right in a short time."

"Oh, no, sir, I don't think as _my_ strength would fail," said Peggy, in a feeble voice, for she had overheard the remark. "Not that I shouldn't be thankful all the same, I allow--for thankfulness for mercies received is a dooty, an' most on us do fail in that, though I say it that shouldn't, but my strength ain't quite gone yet--"

"Stand by, Slag, to fend off with your oar when we get close in," said the doctor, interrupting Peggy's discourse.

"Have any of you got matches in your pockets?" asked Massey, clapping his hands suddenly to the various receptacles about his person, with a look of unwonted anxiety.

"Ye may well ax that, Bob," said O'Connor, using his own hands in the same way. "Cold, wet weather, and no house! It 'ud be death to the women, sure, av--"

"Here you are!" shouted Tomlin in a burst of triumph, in spite of his naturally reserved disposition.

He held up a box of vestas which, being a smoker, he fortunately had in his pocket.

"I hope they ain't wet," remarked Black Ned, suggestively.

"Wrap 'em well up," said Slag.

Tomlin drew out his handkerchief and proceeded to do so. At the same moment the boat's keel grated softly on the shingly shore.


STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8.

Seldom have the mysterious sparks of life been sought for more anxiously, or tended and nursed with greater care, than were the little sparks of fire which were evoked with difficulty from Tomlin's match-box.

Drizzling rain had commenced just as the wrecked party landed. The tarpaulin had been set up as a slight, though very imperfect, shelter; the ground underneath had been strewn with twigs and grass, and a large pile of dead branches had been arranged to receive the vital spark before any attempt was made to create it.

"Everything must be quite ready, first," said Hayward to Tomlin, "for our very lives depend, under God, on our securing fire; so keep the matches snug in your pocket till I ask for them."

"I will," replied Tomlin, "D'you know it never occurred to me before how tremendously important the element of fire is? But how will you ever manage to make the branches catch, everything being so thoroughly soaked?"

"You shall see. I have had to make a fire in worse circumstances than the present," returned Hayward, "though I admit they are bad enough. Have you got the small twigs broken and ready, Slag?"

"All ready, sir."

"Now look here, Tomlin."

As he spoke, the doctor picked up a dead but wet branch, and, sheltering himself under the tarpaulin, began to whittle it with his penknife. He found, of course, that the interior of the branch was dry. The thin morsels which he sliced off were handed to Slag, who placed them with great care in the heart of a bundle of very small twigs resembling a crow's nest. A place had been reserved for this bundle or nest, in the heart of the large pile of branches lying on the ground. Meanwhile, Slag held the nest ready in his hands.

"Now, Tomlin, get out your matches," said the doctor.

With the utmost care the anxious man unfolded the kerchief, and, opening the box, looked into it earnestly.

"Wet?" asked Hayward.

Tomlin shook his head. "I fear they are." He took one out, while the whole party assembled round him to note the result.

The first match dropped its head like a piece of soft putty when scraped on the lid. The second did the same, and a suppressed groan escaped from the little group, for it could be seen that there were not more than ten or twelve matches in the box altogether. Again and again a match was struck with similar result. The fifth, however, crackled a little, and rekindled, sinking hope in the observers, though it failed to kindle itself. The seventh burst at once into a bright blaze and almost drew forth a cheer, which, however, was checked when a puff of wind blew out the new-born flame.

"Och! let Bob Massey try it!" cried O'Connor. "Sure he's used to workin' in throublesome weather."

"Right, boy," said Slag, "hand it to the coxs'n."

Tomlin readily obeyed, only too glad to get some of the failure shifted to other shoulders.

Massey readily undertook the task, and success attended his first effort.

"I knowed it!" said Nellie, in a quiet tone, as she saw the bright flame leap up and almost set her husband's beard on fire. "Bob never fails!"

The burning match was quickly plunged into Hayward's handful of shavings, which blazed up as he thrust it into Slag's nest; and Slag, holding the nest with the tender care of a loving sick-nurse, and the cool indifference of a salamander, till it was a flaming ball, crammed it into the heart of the pile of sticks. Tremendous was the volume of smoke that arose from the pile, and anxious were the looks riveted on it.

"Sure ye've smothered it intirely," gasped O'Connor.

"Oh, me!" sighed Peggy in a voice of mild despair.

"No fear, it's all right," said Massey, in a confident tone, while Joe Slag, on his knees, with cheeks inflated and nose all but kindling, blew at the glowing heart with unwearied determination, regardless alike of friend and foe.

"It's going to do," remarked John Mitford in his most dismal tone.

"Any child might tell that," said Nellie, with a light laugh.

The laugh seemed infectious, for the whole