Perhaps the title of this chapter may seem a little premature, since the last closed just after the arrival of the Sealark in San Francisco, but then sailors have a language and phrases entirely their own with regard to the events of life. For instance, when a seaman ashore has spent his money, he says he is “outward bound,” although he may have no immediate prospect of a ship to go away in. So the ship he may be in is “homeward bound” when in the port where she is loading, or is to load, for home, even though her cargo may be very slow in coming. Therefore in sailor parlance the Sealark was homeward bound.

Everything had settled down under the rule of Mr. Jenkins, who made an excellent recovery from his wound, and a no less excellent captain. All difficulties about the loss of the ship’s documents had been successfully arranged. Only the owners’ persistent inquiries by cable as to what had become of all the money drawn by the skipper could not be satisfied. The new captain could only tell the story of the voyage, and leave the owners to draw their own conclusions. And when it is remembered that they had engaged him on the strength of recommendations of his teetotalism, Christianity, and ability, their state of mind upon receiving Captain Jenkins’ report may be faintly imagined. But when they received from Mr. Brown his son Frank’s long letter describing in boyish but graphic language the exploits of the mate, and the shocking behaviour of the skipper all the passage out, they were fain to admit that things might have been far worse; with an incompetent mate, for instance, the ship might have still been in an island harbour eating her head off and paying nothing at all back.

I was once mate for three months in a brig that had been out from home two years, and had carried four cargoes at good freight, not one penny of which had ever reached the owner, a thrifty shipwright who had saved his money and bought this vessel. Not only so, but the brig was heavily in debt for money raised solely to supply the skipper with drink and etceteras. However, on board the Sealark they were now fast forgetting the miserable past, and only worrying to get away from this beautiful port of unpleasant memories. As soon as the skipper was able to get about, the boys approached him, and giving him their solemn promise not to run loose as they had in Levuka, again begged him to let them go ashore. They all had some funds from home, and naturally wished to see some of the sights of this amazing city.

He heard them out, and then said, “Now, lads, I feel that you’ve been punished quite enough, and I certainly don’t want to punish you any more. Moreover I don’t want to lose you, for I doubt if I shall get three men as good as you three youngsters are now (Heavens, how their backs stiffened!) Yes, you can go ashore, but remember; dress yourself in your best, and get out of Sailor Town at once, go right up town into the respectable quarters and come back before dark, or the chances are that you won’t come back at all. And I’d rather die than that should happen now.”

It wasn’t too long a sermon and they all took it to heart, avoiding the saloons and taking their meals in a good hotel. And as they always came on board in good time, and got into no scrapes, it became an established custom for them to go ashore on Sunday and Saturday afternoons, sometimes with the new mate, Mr. Cope, but oftener by themselves, until they felt quite at home in the Queen of the Pacific. To their amazement no one ever attempted to molest them. The only way that they could account for this was that they did not hang about low groggeries or slouch along the waterside half drunk, inviting the raids of those creatures of prey to whom every sailor is merchantable commodity. They enjoyed the city very much, and felt almost sad when the golden grain had filled their ship down to her loading marks and she was ready for sea.

Fortunately for them they did not need to worry about the providing of the new crew as their skipper did. His whole heart and soul revolted at the payment of the hideous blood-money to those fiends in human shape who batten on sailors. In vain he tried to arrange for a crew who should ship with him voluntarily, paying no more than the legal dues and getting the whole of what they earned. He was assured by everybody connected with the business, from the British consul to the seamen’s missionaries downwards, that it was impossible. That if he attempted to fight the boarding-masters’ ring, which really was superior to justice and the law of the United States as administered in San Francisco, he would only succeed in delaying his ship and in costing his owners a great deal more money, if indeed he did not lose his life, quite unnecessarily.

So he yielded, most reluctantly, and bought his crew as usual from the grinning scoundrels who had stolen them, and put to sea one fine afternoon with as sorry a set of sufferers as you could imagine. Not that they were as bad as sometimes may be seen, especially on board of American ships sailing from this port, or Portland, Oregon; but still they were poisoned, filthy, and sore, and of necessity quite unfit for their duty. A strong breeze awaited them outside, and when the tug cast off it was pitiful to see the efforts made by the poor fellows to obey the commands of the officers, for they did not know what sort of a ship they were in yet.

But it was a sorry business, and Frank found himself with a flush of pride mentally comparing himself at this time with the sea-sick bewildered youth, who, leaving Liverpool a year ago, felt that he did not care whether the ship sank beneath his feet or not, and doubted entirely the possibility of his ever being of any use. Now, he proudly reflected, he was able to show any of these unhappy men the way, there was practically nothing in the way of sail-handling he could not do, and that in seaman-like fashion, and if he came to anything he was not master of, he was never content until he had mastered it. So useful are the lessons learned in actual work compared with those that are based only upon theory.

The work for the lads and Hansen was of course very hard for the first few days, until the poor cosmopolitan wretches had recovered from the terrible effects of the poison they had taken in ’Frisco, but it gave them a status which they never lost again. For both Captain Jenkins and Mr. Cope (they had come away without a second mate, because one could not be obtained) were of that good stamp of man who, while they can be as kind as possible to sick men, will give no sympathy to loafers. And so when upon the recovery of all hands there were the usual attempts made to shift disagreeable tasks on to the lads, they were nipped in the bud, and the new-comers made to understand that there were no distinctions made there between one man and another if all knew their work, but if any could not do their work they would surely be put upon the dirtiest and most tiresome tasks going, not as punishment but of necessity.

Fortunately the attitude taken up and kept by the officers at the beginning was so wise and steady that there was no trouble. No men are quicker to see and take advantage of any disagreement between the captain and his officers than sailors are, and if once that evil is allowed to creep in, good-bye to all hope of discipline and comfort. And on the other hand no men are readier to see the good in a commander who knows his own mind and his work, and trusts his officers—not all honey one day and all vinegar the next. Such men, no matter what crews they have, can usually get the best out of them, although, of course, it is only reasonable that the handling of an incapable crew should give them a terrific amount of work and anxiety from which they would be free if only the men knew their duties.

There is one great blessing, which Frank and his chums now felt to the full, which is that a sailing-ship homeward bound from ’Frisco round Cape Horn has ample time before she gets down to the stormy latitudes to get her crew seasoned to what they are about to receive. All the way practically from ’Frisco to 30° S. she may reckon on fine weather, with plenty of variable winds for the handling of yards and sails, and ample opportunity to prepare for the stress of the mighty seas and the tempestuous gales of the great Southern Ocean, which must be coped with when rounding that far-reaching horn of America which stretches down nearly to the Antarctic ice.

Be sure that nothing was neglected in the Sealark. Her best suit of sails was bent, new running gear rove wherever needful, and all seizings, lashings, gaskets, and foot-ropes looked to in time, so that when at last the weather began to take on that stern appearance which marks the approach to the South Pole, all hands could console themselves with the thought that they were well fortified to meet anything in reason.

So they drew farther and farther south and to the westward withal, the weather becoming daily more grim and threatening in appearance, while the wind was restless and unsteady with a mournful note in it that was full of warning. Frank now began to recall some of their outward experiences in those regions, and to wish most heartily that they were well round the Horn and pointed for home. Nor was he to blame, for I never yet met any man who did not feel the same with regard to that terrible corner of the world. But whenever the subject was broached in the half-deck they always comforted themselves with the same conclusion, viz. that being homeward bound it would always be a fair wind for them.

At last in about 40° S. the wind dropped completely away, and left the good ship rolling heavily upon a black, greasy-looking swell, under a leaden sky, with a feel of snow in the air. Their thin blood felt this inclemency sorely, and they shivered with cold as well as with apprehension, while the short day drew to its dreary close and the heavy sky drooped deeper down upon them. Hour after hour dragged by in ever-growing gloom, until suddenly there was a lightening on the western horizon, a breath of colder air as if off an iceberg, and then a sensible increase in the motion of the ship, on the swell rolling up as a precursor of the storm.

“Square away the main yard,” shouted the captain, and amid the weird cries of the sailors the great spars swung slowly athwart her hull, the wind meanwhile increasing so rapidly that by the time her yards were trimmed she was going at the rate of five or six knots, and the whole network aloft was complaining as the gear was being drawn into its grooves, as if preparing for its heavy task.

In all the works of human ingenuity, I know of nothing finer to contemplate at its work than the top-hamper of a big sailing-ship under all canvas in a heavy press of wind. It is all so perfectly adapted to meet the uneven strains laid upon it, the stress of the various ropes and spars and shrouds are wonderfully distributed, and it towers to such a tremendous height above the comparatively insignificant hull, reaching up into the black howling night so proudly defiant of the might of the storm—no wonder that a brave sailor loves to “carry on” as we call it.

Steadily, swiftly rose the wind, and faster went the Sealark until at eight bells (eight in the morning) she had nearly reached her limit, being under maintopgallant-sail, any farther reduction of sail meaning reduced speed, no matter how hard the wind might blow. She was too foul to be fast, but she did her driven best, while the wind howled its wailing chorus, the mighty seas thundered past and aboard, and the lower rigging grew white with spindrift. But all quite normal and acceptable except for the bitter cold, until on the third day just at the sun’s setting there was a yell from the man on the look-out, and a sudden swinging of the vessel up into the wind with a tremendous thundering and bellowing of canvas suddenly released from steady strain, and shaken like dead leaves in the storm, and the Sealark surged closely past a gaunt and ghastly thing all jagged corners and covered with flying spray, the first wandering iceberg of the South. As Frank gazed at it and realised the possibilities of danger had it been seen a minute later, had in fact anything happened that would have prevented her from being sheered clear of this most terrible of all the dangers that beset the stormy ocean.

The bell struck and Frank’s watch was over. He went below, and flinging off his oilskins and sea-boots rolled into his bunk, his brain surging with pictures of black seas and rolling icebergs. But the sailor’s consolation, the thought of the faithfulness and ability of his shipmates on watch, came to soothe him, and succeeded so effectually that, in a moment or two it seemed, the voice of his berthmate Williams sounded stridently in his ears calling him from the depths of dreamland to take his trick at the wheel, and keep the Sealark on her steady course before the stern gale.

Steering away, he forgot the cold in his manful efforts to do his best. The little oval of light in the binnacle showed the heaving disc of the compass, but outside of that charmed circle all was as the outer dark, wherein nought was to be seen, and only the proximity of danger made itself felt. What a splendid education in high courage for a fine-spirited boy!

But now the gale took on a deeper note, a fiercer blast with every squall, and a blistering snow-squall came down and blotted out all things in a smother of white. It mattered little to Frank at the helm, as he had not been able to see anything but the compass for some time, except that it hardly melted fast enough off the warm glass of the binnacle to let him see clearly how her head was. There was, however, no doubt in his mind that she could not run much longer like this, for the wind had risen so much that he could hardly keep from being pressed against the wheel, in every squall the wind increased, and between them it did not take off to its former strength. So he was not surprised when he heard, like ghostly wailings in the dark, the cries of the men shortening sail, and in his heart he was glad that it was his trick at the wheel and not up there fighting with board-like canvas, getting thrashed black and blue, and feeling his finger-ends torn and bleeding with the struggle.

The time wore on, and still he was not relieved, still he heard occasional cries of labour, until at last, when he was thoroughly fagged, a ghostly figure glided aft and took the wheel from him saying, “Lucky young beggar. We’ve had a night of it and no mistake. She’s shortened down to two lower topsails and foresail, an’ I wish she was hove to, for I feel sure there’s a lot of ice about.”

It was Williams, whose young face looked haggard and worn in the fitful light from the binnacle, but who took up his task after the long fight with the sails like a veteran. He had come on a long way towards manhood since we first met with him, as some lads do under stress. Frank sped forward into his berth, and found Johnson sitting moodily smoking.

As he came in Johnson looked up and said, “Some people have all the luck. Fancy you standing quietly up there for four hours while we’ve been working—slaving—I feel as if my blessed arms were torn out by the roots. And I don’t like the look of things at all. Why don’t the old man heave to? Fancy runnin’ her like this when he knows what a lot of ice there is about. What’s that?”

As he spoke there was a long grinding quiver that ran through the whole ship and made their bowels tremble. Then it passed, and as so often happens all was still save for the gentle roll of the ship, as if the watchful genii of the storm were listening to hear what the sailors were doing in response to their grim warning.

Nothing happened further, it was just the ship grinding along the side of a small piece of brash ice. And Frank said, “Now, Johnson, get into your pew, we’ve got a watch’s sleep in front of us, and the poor devils in the starboard watch have lost theirs. An’ if you worry your head off you can’t help things happening. We’ve done our bit, and after we’ve had some sleep we’ll be ready to do it again, I hope. Well, here’s luck,” and with a swing Frank flung himself into his bunk, gave one contented sigh, and subsided into sleep. He had learned well the lesson of the sailor, as you see, to take what comes of good or ill with equal nonchalance, but to be ready for any fate.

The quiet of their sleep was broken at four bells (six o’clock) by a cry of “All hands,” and they bundled on deck into the piercing cold and driving sleet. It was heave-to, and no mistake, for the whole of the sea around them, as they found when day broke, was simply studded with icebergs, and to run any longer while it was dark was simply madness. I say nothing of the Providence by means of which they had run on through those black hours without mishap. But now, although the air was like liquid ice and blowing hard enough to pin a man against a rail and prevent him moving, it was absolutely necessary to get the remaining sail in, and Frank, wise through experience, only put on a suit of warm clothes with a thick sweater over all and no oilskins.

They clewed up the fore-topsail and foresail, eased off the fore-topmast staysail sheet and brought her to the wind. As she came up, the wind bore down on her like a gigantic hand, and she went over until her lee sheerpoles touched the water, and the waiting crew held their breath, wondering would she rise again. At last she reached her limit (I say nothing of the enormous seas that poured over her deck meanwhile, because that is so usual and obvious a matter that it does not deserve special notice), and all hands realised that the worst was over for the time. But oh! the capers she cut now that she was hove to. She rolled to windward until she scooped the whole ocean in, apparently, over her weather-rail, then over she went to leeward as if desiring to empty it out over the other side. Pointed her jibboom at the stars, and then aimed it at the sea-bed. And some ass said she laid to—like a duck!

Unfortunately it was necessary to get aloft and furl those sails—they could not be allowed to blow away, or breaking loose from the confining gear to endanger the masts, so, “Up you go, boys, and tie ’em up.”

Frank and Johnson kept together in the assault upon the fore lower-topsail, and, as there were eleven of them at it, and it isn’t a bad sail to handle after all, they soon got it snugged in and secured. But the foresail! It tore at its gear like a raving demon, and when they had got it partly in, she would lurch up into the wind on the scend of a sea, and away from their stiffened fingers it would go with a roar as if of triumph. During this conflict Frank was hardly conscious except of the necessity of keeping on until that sail was fast. His very intelligence became mechanical, and physical pain and weariness did not count as long as they did not disable him. And at last the great sail was furled.

Calling up all his energies, he descended to the deck and crept along until he reached the house, for he was parched with thirst, and felt that he must have a drink of water. There in the feeble flame of the lamp, after quenching his thirst, he had a sort of languid curiosity to see what ailed his fingers that they were so sore. And as he looked at them a sense of self-pity came over him like a wave—whoso has never felt it may legitimately be thankful—for all his finger-nails had been torn off by the desperate energy with which he had dug them into that obdurate sail. Then, with a fine gesture of contempt for bodily pain, he shook the slowly oozing blood from them and lit his pipe.

When a ship is snugged down to the limit the heart of the sailorman is freed from much care, because whatever happens there is little more “branching” possible, and that is what makes sailors unhappy. So every one was fairly content until the cold, grey dawn broke and revealed a scene that was enough to daunt the most hardy of them, not being whalers or accustomed to such sights. For all around as far as the eye could reach the sea surface was covered with massy heaps of ice, some raising their grim heads to a height of three or four hundred feet, others only just showing above the sea surface, but all tossing and heaving about in appalling confusion upon the stormy sea, and every one of them threatening destruction to the frail intruder upon their terrible conclave. The flying clouds seemed to reach down and tear themselves upon the summits of the heaving bergs, streaming off in long black lines like mourning weeds. And the furious waves dashed themselves frantically upon those icy masses as if outraged by their presence, and craving to destroy them. While in the midst of it all tossed the helpless ship, all unfitted for any such stern contact as now threatened her.

All that long weary day the seamen looked on at those heaving mountains, waited hopelessly for any sign of relief, and saw the gloomy day pass into night so black that all the horrors seen during the day were intensified by inability to see them at all. Yet men slept during their watch below as they always do, if the conditions will permit, all except the skipper, who never left the deck, so great was his anxiety for the safety of his crew. But even had he possessed the accumulated wisdom and seamanship and courage of a thousand sailors, under those circumstances he was powerless to do aught but wait and hope, and if one of those masses had collided with the ship, and penetrated her side so that she sank, the chances of saving one life would have been almost nil.

Nothing happened. The long, long night wore away, and the dawn broke with a brisk gale and a somewhat lightened sky, while to the wondering eyes of the watchers not a hummock of ice was visible anywhere. How joyfully the watch obeyed the call to loose the fore lower-topsail and foresail, and having set them, squared the yards and kept her away before the wind and sea for Cape Horn. So great was the change that all hands felt as if the weather had suddenly become fine and almost calm, the watch below turning in their sleep, and wondering at the cessation of their troubled dreams. And when the watch came on deck at eight bells, all hands were set to work to “pile the rags on her,” as we say, until she was speeding away again at her utmost gait for the turning-point of the voyage.

The good breeze held by day and night, and no further trouble was experienced from ice or sudden squalls. To the delight of everybody on board she passed the Diego Ramirez Islands without losing a ropeyarn, and almost immediately afterwards the hearts of everybody were gladdened by hearing the order given to haul up three points. “Starboard fore-brace,” shouted the skipper, and right cheerfully was he answered, while as the big ropes were drawn through the blocks, and the yards canted forward, the glad whisper went around the ship, “Homeward bound indeed at last.”

For that is another definition of being homeward bound which I omitted in my previous chapter. When a ship is on her homeward passage either from the Far East or Far West, whichever of the Capes she must double, she is not considered by her crew to be really homeward bound until having rounded it she begins to head northward, and the reason is so obvious that I shall not add further in unnecessary explanation. Then all hands agree tacitly that they will consider the worst of the passage over, ignoring entirely what the stormy North Atlantic may have in store for them at the close of their long journey. For have they not now the sweet amenities of the Trades before them, the long genial stretch across the depth of the South Atlantic, when for a week on end you need never touch a brace nor a halyard save to freshen the nip, and may devote all energies to making your ship look as spruce and trim as paint and varnish will make her after her long, long ocean journey?

All this Frank heard with quiet appreciation, although it was outside the range of his experience. But he was altogether happy at the change from the cold stern exercises of ship-handling, of wet clothes and heavy strivings with battering sails, to the softening pursuits of smartening up the rigging, rattling down, painting and varnishing. And to crown all he felt a growing delight in the thought that each placid day’s run was bringing him nearer the home which became daily a more distinct object to his mental vision, while the sense of having accomplished his first voyage with credit to himself grew with each closing day. Occasionally he felt impatient, wished that the sweet following wind would blow stronger instead of taking off as it was doing, and when at last after crossing the line the wind died away altogether, and left her rolling languidly upon the glassy surface of the ocean, he could hardly restrain his discontent. Johnson annoyed him, too, by his lugubrious forebodings of long-continued calms, of waiting about here, as he put it, until all the beautiful new paint which they had put on with so much pains should be washed off again.

The hindrance of the Doldrums, however, did not prevent their northern passage for a longer period than usual, and presently, with yards braced up on the starboard tack, the Sealark was stretching across the North Atlantic towards the brave west winds of the north, the last helpers on the homeward road. It was all very humdrum now to Frank, who felt quite a contemptuous indifference to weather, and forgetting, as youth will, the hard past, turned a deaf ear to the warnings of Williams and Johnson, who began to recall incidents of the last voyage wherein it seemed they had suffered more at the end than during all the previous months of the voyage.Behold them, then, at last clear of the north-east Trades, awaiting, as they had on the other side of the Horn, the change from fine to bad weather, from light variable breezes to strong steady gales with all their concomitants of cold, wet, and other discomforts, but with the knowledge of the homeland very near to cheer them up and nerve them to endure with cheerfulness. Just in the same way began the change. Only here they were accompanied on their pilgrimage by many another ship, and occasionally a huge steamship would come gliding past, receiving with just a flutter of her answering pennant their waving signals of request to be reported all well. These passings of rival ships, although most of them were steamers, aroused the feeling of envy in Frank, who wished he were in a faster ship; he could not brook the idea of being out-distanced, although there was a little consolation in the thought that some of them would give his dear ones the welcome news that he was returning soon.

So that he was entirely glad when a strong stern westerly gale arose, and began to drive the Sealark at her utmost speed due east and homeward. Every day now his spirits rose, and his duties, from being irksome and burdening his mind with a sense of servitude, grew lighter and easier as he thought of the rapidly lessening distance. Just a sight, no more, of Corvo, the northernmost outlier of the Azores, and it was past. And that night Hansen, entering the house, told them tales of runs made by sailing ships home from the Western Isles, proving that with such a breeze as they now had their passage might be reckoned by hours.

It is quite vain for me to attempt any description of the state of Frank’s mind just now, for I have often been baffled in trying to describe my own feelings under similar circumstances. But of all the joyful states into which we may happily come during life, I know of none more truly satisfying, elevating, and ennobling than when, having striven manfully for a certain worthy object, we get the goal in sight while yet we have the full capacity for enjoying the fruits of our labours. These fruits will never come up to the sweetness of our anticipations, but that matters nothing at all. In the whole round world there was no happier being than Frank when during his first trick at the wheel, after passing Corvo, he thought of the rapidly lessening distance between him and his home. He was full of worthy pride at his conscious ability to do anything that might be required of him, his health and strength were perfect, and he knew how he had grown by the awkward figure he looked in his clothes, and he had absolutely no misgivings about the future.

But he could not help wishing that it was a little warmer. The splendid following gale had a touch of northing in it, and the rolling mist-banks that swept over the ship every now and then seemed to soak into his very marrow, for his blood was yet thin from his long journey through the tropics. Fortunately he had a happy knack of remembering that everybody else on board was in just the same case, and felt that he could bear it as well as any of them. So although he did not “sing at the wheel” like the hero of Michael Watson’s song, being far too well disciplined for that, he felt as if he would very much like to, so high did his spirits rise. For all that he was very glad to be relieved and get some scalding tea.

And when with glowing pipes he and Johnson were yarning to Hansen afterwards, and Hansen said casually, “She’s pipin’ oop: I hope ve don’t gets any more vind as dis, ’noughs a plenty,” Frank burst out indignantly, “Why, you’re gettin’ to be a reg’lar old croaker, Hansen. I wouldn’t care if it blew twice as hard as this, as long as it doesn’t shift. She’d run a good lick under bare poles now.” Hansen looked at his pupil admiringly, but made no reply; he felt it was of no use attempting to damp the boy’s ardour.

Still the good ship ran on, the sail being gradually shortened, as compelled by the still rising gale, until Frank noticed the change in the colour of the water, even though the heavy sky gave little opportunity for discerning the difference. The weather grew steadily worse, and the gravity of the officers’ faces deepened; for since sighting Corvo they had been unable to get a peep at either sun, moon, or stars. And although a knowledge of the depth of water would have been of the utmost value, because with it and a sample of the bottom such as is brought up in the tallow at the end of the deep-sea lead (technically called the arming), it is such a terrible business, heaving to a flying sailing-ship which is running before a gale, to get that sounding that officers naturally shrink from it. They want to get home, and they feel that if they once heave to they may as well remain so, the work of shortening and making sail again being so great.

So they ran the risk with a load of terrible anxiety at their hearts, and the weather grew steadily worse, until she was under the two lower topsails and the fore-topmast staysail only, and running then at the rate of fully ten knots. No need now to tell the hands to keep a good look-out, for practically everybody in the watch were straining their eyes through the gloom and flying spray for sight of anything, and to their tortured fancy the Channel was just thronged with ships going in every direction.

At last it became intolerable to Captain Jenkins. He believed himself to be in mid-channel somewhere between St. Catherine and Beachy Head, but after five days of dead reckoning knew that he might easily be fifty miles out in his estimated position. So he decided at midnight to get a cast of the deep-sea lead, and having hove his ship to, he would let her remain so until the weather cleared. The evolution was performed most creditably, and the ship swung round into the wind quite easily. But it was then evident with what terrific force the wind was blowing.

And before the lead-line was passed along there was a yell from all hands, and a huge steamship came flying past so closely as almost to touch the Sealark. She seemed to leap out of the darkness and disappear instantly, but she left everybody on the Sealark shaking as if with the palsy. In truth it was one of those situations where man feels his limitations and his impotence, a time when the demon of uncertainty is gnawing at the very vitals.

Just at that dread moment there came out of the gloom and smother of spray a clear ringing voice, “D’ye want a pilot?”

Needless, surely, to give the answer. A boat bumped against the side, a rope was hurled, and a bulky figure swathed in oilskins clambered aboard, apparently out of the sea, for the water streamed off him at every pore.

“Good morning, sir,” said a cheery voice.

“Good morning,” replied the skipper. “Are you a Trinity pilot?”

“No, sir, but I can put you alongside a Trinity pilot for ten pounds.”

The skipper hesitated for a moment, not knowing how far he was away; but the weather was very bad and his anxiety fearful, so he accepted.

“All right, sir,” responded the pilot; “could you spare a bit o’ bacca and meat for my chaps. Times has been cruel hard lately.”

Several plugs of tobacco and pieces of meat were flung into the darkness and acknowledged by some invisible recipients, then the new-comer turned to the skipper and said, “Square away the main-yard, sir; put your helm up, my lad.”

The change was miraculous. He seemed to have brought fine weather with him. Only ten minutes after he took charge the Royal Sovereign light was sighted, and four hours afterwards the jovial pilot, who had wrought such a change in everybody that they all regarded him as a heaven-sent benefactor, hove her to in East Bay, Dungeness; and drawing his well, if easily, earned pay, took his leave.

Five minutes later the Trinity pilot was on board, the yards were trimmed again, and under a press of canvas the willing Sealark was speeding around the Foreland towards London. Here she soon lost the wind, and by daylight the weather had so far cleared that the outline of the land could plainly be seen, making Frank’s heart leap for joy. He noticed, too, with the utmost interest, the throngs of vessels of all kinds about, from barges to ocean steamships; but his attention, with that of all hands, was presently centred upon a small steamer, with two funnels set side by side, which ranged up alongside them, and whose skipper began a running fire of chaff with Captain Jenkins about the price to be paid for a tow up. After about half-an-hour of this and several feints to go away, the tow-boat was hired for twenty pounds to tow the vessel up to the docks, and see her safely bestowed therein. Whereupon the glorious order was given, “Get the tow-rope up,” an order which is obeyed with more cheerfulness than any other given on board ship.

In a very brief space the Sealark, with her sails all clewed up, was travelling in docile fashion at the rear of the tug, and all hands were busy clearing up decks and getting the ship ready for dock, working as if their very lives depended upon it. I am bound to say that Frank did not do much, he was too full of the wonder of his surroundings—the bosom of Father Thames in the heyday of his traffic. It was so entirely different from anything he had ever seen before; and when the vessel paused at Gravesend to exchange her Channel pilot for a river pilot, he was literally amazed at the crowded state of the river. However, little time was wasted there, for the skipper was anxious to save the tide at the Millwall Docks that night; so they were soon off again, threading their way through the multitudinous craft in the gathering dusk.

Gradually everything around became to Frank but a hurrying horde of phantoms, and he marvelled at the dexterity with which the pilot kept clear of his competitors, and never seemed to need to slacken speed. And then suddenly it all became one babel of confusion and uproar. There seemed to be vessels so closely packed around them as to leave them no room to move. Numberless voices yelled, in all sorts of tongues, no end of conflicting orders, till Frank’s head fairly whirled; and then he saw to his surprise that they were slowly passing between two walls of stone apparently barely wide enough apart to admit them. The shouting died away to a few quiet orders, and soon the Sealark glided gently into a berth prepared for her alongside of a stone-faced wharf. Hawsers and chains were taken on shore and secured, then hove tight on board; and when she was jammed so tight that she could not move, Mr. Cope said quietly, “Clear up decks, men.” That took but a very few minutes, then the long looked-for words were heard, “That’ll do, men,” and Frank’s first voyage was over.