In the Track of the Troops by Robert Michael Ballantyne (big screen ebook reader TXT) 📕

prompt, good-humoured: I have seldom met a more agreeable man. He had been in the Northern navy of America during the last war, and had already introduced some of the discipline, to which he had been accustomed, amongst my small crew.

Bella was up on deck enjoying the sunset; so was my mother. Lancey was busy cleaning my fowling-piece, near the companion-hatch.

"It is charming," exclaimed my mother.

"So calm," said Bella.

"And settled-looking," remarked Nicholas, flipping the end of his cigar over the side.

"Mr Whitlaw does not appear to think so favourably of the weather," I remarked.

The skipper, looking gravely at a particular point on the horizon, said, in a quiet tone--

"The clouds are heavy."

"From which you judge that the fine weather may not last?"

"It may be so, but the indications are not certain," was his cautious reply.

That night we were in a perfect chaos of wind and water. The storm-fiend seemed to have reserved all his favours in order to give us a befitting reception. The sea roared, the wind yelled, the yacht--but why repeat the oft-told tale that invariably ends with "Biscay, O!" A week later and we were in a dead calm, revelling in warmth, bathed in sunshine, within the straits of Gibraltar.

It was evening. All sail was set. Not a puff of wind rendered that display available. The reef-points pattered as the yacht rolled gracefully from side to side on the gentle heave of the Mediterranean's bosom.

Sitting on a rug on the deck, between my mother and Nicholas, Bella said, in a low quiet tone, "This is perfect felicity."

"Agreed," said Nicholas, in a similar tone, with a puff from his cigar.

Bella referred to the calm, of course!

A sea-captain, sitting astride the bulwarks of his ship in the "Doldrums," far far away from Bella, said, in reference to a similar calm which had beset him for three weeks, "This is perfectly maddening," with many other strong expressions which we would rather not record; but Bella, of course, did not know that, and could not be expected to reflect on it. She was taken up with her own comforts at the time.

"My dear," said Mrs Childers, "I think I shall go to bed. Come with me. Good-night, Nicholas. Will you keep the skylight off to-night, Jeffry? It was too hot in our cabin last night."

"Of course I will," said I; "why did you not ring, and let me know that you would like fresh air? But I shall see to it to-night."

About eleven o'clock that night, I lay on one of the lockers of the main cabin, in a wakeful mood. Nicholas lay on the other locker, in that profound slumber which is so characteristic of healthy youth. His regular breathing was the only sound I heard, except the soft footfall of our skipper, as he slowly paced the deck.

Presently I heard another step. It advanced, and a low "Fine night, sir," apprised me that it was Lancey, who had come on deck to air himself after the culinary and other labours of the day, for he served in the capacity of cook and steward to the yacht.

"I wish you'd tell me about that expedition you was speakin' off to the master this morning," said Lancey.

"With pleasure," replied the skipper; "sit down here, and I'll spin it off to you right away."

I knew by the sound of their motions that they had seated themselves at the foot of the main-mast, just between the skylights of the two cabins, and feared that their talk might disturb my mother; but, reflecting that she must have got to sleep long ago, I thought it better not to disturb them, unless their talk should become too loud. As for myself, in my wakeful mood, their converse could not annoy me. After a time it began to interest me deeply.

"It was about the blowing-up of Southern ironclads, was it not?" said the skipper. As he spoke I could distinctly hear the puff, puff, of his pipe between each half-dozen words.

"_Just_ so," replied Lancey. "The master is uncommon fond of blowin's-up and inquirin' into the natur' of things. I never know'd another except one as beat 'im at inwestigation, but that one beat everybody I ever seen or heard of. He was a Scotch boy, named Sandy--"

"What was his other name?" asked the skipper.

"'Aven't a notion," replied Lancey. "We never called 'im anythink else. I don't believe he 'ad any other name. He said he was the son of an apothecary. No doubt the schoolmaster knew 'is other name, if he 'ad one, but he never used it, and we boys were content with Sandy. That boy, sir, seemed to me to know everythink, and was able, I believe, to do hanythink. He was a tremendous fighter, too, though not out o' the way as regards size. He could lick the biggest boy in the school, and when he made up his mind to do a thing, nothin' on earth could stop him a-doin' of it."

"Good," said the skipper, with an emphatic puff; "that's what we Americans call the power to go ahead. Did Sandy become a great man?"

"Don't know," answered Lancey. "He went a'ead too fast for me to foller. One day the master gave 'im a lickin'. He vowed he'd be revenged. Next mornin' early he got up an' smashed the school winders, redooced the master's desk to matchwood, an' walked away whistlin'. I never seed 'im since."

"Nor heard of him?"

"Nor 'eard of 'im."

"That was a pity," said the skipper, with a prolonged whiff.

"It was. But go on, Mister Whitlaw, with your hanecdotes. I couldn't rightly hear all you said to the master."

"It was about torpedo warfare we were talking," said the skipper. "You know that sort o' thing is only in its infancy, but the Americans, as usual, had the honour of starting it fairly into being."

"The `honour,' eh?" said Lancey; "h'm! well, I'm not so sure about the honour, but go on."

"Well, whether it be an honour or no, I won't dispute," returned the skipper, with a puff; "but of this I am sure, that during the late war between the North and South in America, torpedo practice was regularly brought into play for the first time, and the case which I brought before Mr Childers yesterday is only one of many which I could describe. I'll not relate the same story, but another and a better.

"About the beginning of the war, in 1862, the Confederates--these were the Southern men--blew up our ironclad, the _Cairo_, in which I lost one of my most intimate friends; and in 1864 they attempted to blow up the _Wabash_, and myself along with it. The _Cairo_ business was caused by sunk torpedoes. She was going up the Yazoo river at the time, and had lowered a boat to search for torpedoes, which were known to be sunk there. They succeeded in fishing up one, which was found to be an exploded one. Meanwhile the _Cairo_, having got rather too close in shore, backed out towards the middle of the stream, when two explosions occurred in quick succession, one close to the port-quarter, the other under the port-bow. The effect was tremendous. Some of the heavy guns were actually lifted from the deck. The captain instantly shoved the _Cairo_ on the bank, and got a hawser out to a tree to keep her, if possible, from sinking in deep water. The pumps, steam and hand, were set going immediately; but her whole frame, ironclad though she was, had been so shattered, that nothing could save her. Twelve minutes afterwards she slipped down into six fathoms water, giving them barely time to get out the boats and save the sick men aboard, and the arms. My friend was one of the sick, and the moving was ultimately the death of him, though no lives were lost at the time."

"You're not tellin' me crackers, are you?" said Lancey, in an incredulous tone.

"My good fellow," returned the skipper, "I wish that I were. The story is only too true, and I would it were the only one of the sort I had to tell. You can find a book in London, [see note 1] if you like, which tells all about this and the other torpedo work done during the late American war."

"Well, then," said Lancey, in the tone of an eager listener, while, by the tapping on the combings of the hatchway, I could distinguish that he was emptying his pipe, with a view, no doubt, to the enjoyment of another, "and what happened when they tried to blow _you_ up?"

"Well, you must know," resumed the skipper, "it was long afterwards, near the end of the war. I was in the US steamer _Wabash_ at the time. We were at anchor off Charleston, and we kept a sharp look-out at that time, for it was a very different state of things from the wooden-wall warfare that Nelson used to carry on. Why, we never turned in a night without a half sort of expectation of being blown into the sky before morning. It was uneasy work, too, for although American sailors are as good at _facing_ death as any men, they don't like the notion of death coming in on them, like a sneak below the waterline, and taking them in the dark while asleep. We were always on the alert, and doubly so at that time, for only a short while previously, the Confederates had sunk another of our ironclads, the _Housatonic_, with one of their torpedo-Davids,--little boats that were so called because, compared with the great ironclads they were meant to attack, they somewhat resembled David when he went out against Goliath.

"Well, as I said, the _Wabash_ was at anchor, and it was night--not very late, about ten; but it was very dark.

"Fortunately the deck was in charge that night of a young officer named Craven, and never was an officer worse named or better deserving to be called Courage. He had his wits about him. At the hour I have named, he observed something on the starboard-quarter, about 150 yards off. It resembled a plank on the water. In reality it was a torpedo-David. It was opposite the main-mast when first observed, going rapidly against the tide. At that moment it turned and made straight for the ship. Craven was up to the mark. He commenced with volleys of musketry; beat the gong for the crew to assemble at quarters; rang four bells for the engine to go ahead; opened fire with the watch and the starboard battery; and gave orders to slip the cable.

"His orders, you may be sure, were obeyed with promptitude. The gong sent every man from his hammock as if he had received an electric shock. Jack-in-the-box never came out of his box more promptly than each man shot up the hatchway. An exaggerated idea of the effect of torpedoes-- if that were possible--had got possession of us. We were at our quarters in a moment; the ship moved ahead; the chain slipped; and the torpedo-boat passed us about forty yards astern.