We had anchored in the river Irrawaddi, after a tedious passage up from Melbourne, having on board by way of a crew as fine a sample of Australian desperadoes as ill-luck in her worst temper ever brought together on board one ship. There were men of all possible nationalities, from the swarthy negro to the handsome but treacherous Levantine sailor; the latter by far the more dangerous animal of the two. The natural result of this awkward assortment was the ever-present feeling of mistrust, mutual and deep, that prevailed between these worthies and ourselves; this latter term including those few men that had not deserted from the ship while in Melbourne.

The passage from Australia to any East Indian port is, under favourable circumstances, a journey by no means to be despised. Glorious weather, grand sunsets, a smooth sea, gentle but steady winds, all combine to render this one of the most popular of routes. But with us this had not proved so. Like Ulyssus of old, we longed for the end of our voyage; and the more we desired, so much the farther away did our beloved Ithaca seem to retreat. The time dragged wearily on, and the sense of oppression grew greater.

At our mess-table this was less felt than anywhere else on board; owing mainly to the presence of one, the subject of this little story—dear old Tim Baylis. A noble fellow in form, and a rare combination of gentleness and strength, culture and hardihood. In a word, one of those men marked out by nature to shine starlike in a profession of danger like ours. Frank, generous, and unaffected, he had won our hearts from the moment he had joined the ship; and that trust he had not for an instant declined or betrayed. Fair weather or foul, gale or calm, Tim Baylis was ever the same, clear and decisive in action, and the life and soul of all when off duty. His lightest words and happy jokes formed the watchwords of the men, the magic of his character and his manner weaving a spell around the ship. None saw the danger that threatened, in the miserable assortment of men that called themselves 'the crew,' more than he; none tried so hard to weld the incongruous materials into shape and order more than he; but like many honest open natures, he had underrated the power of the passions he had set himself to calm, and the fire had but smouldered, that under other conditions would have broken forth long before.

But here we were safe off Rangoon, the first stage in the homeward journey accomplished in safety; and anchored in as good a berth in the river as any one could desire. Of course it was dull. Whoever rested at anchor a hundred yards from the shore, and did not find before the week was over, that this sort of thing was the very acme of dullness! The only thing we could do to relieve the monotony was playing everlasting games of whist; alternated by leaning over the poop-rails, and speculating on what the dark and tangled jungle held among its tall grass and leafy branches; the reverie perchance broken by the shrill shriek of some captured or dying animal; telling us in accents unmistakable, that beautiful as the mysterious jungle forest might be to the eye, it certainly would not be a desirable spot wherein to picnic. We had at last discharged our ballast, and liberty to both port and starboard watches had been granted. The short furlough had expired; and the men were turning up rapidly in little batches of threes and fours, of course pursued by the inevitable 'sampan-wallah,' or river boatman, whose frantic efforts to obtain extra 'backsheesh' usually found a rapid and summary recompense in the decided preponderance of kicks over 'pice' (AnglicÈ, halfpence), the last resource of impecunious Jack. Contrary to our expectations, most of our men came on board in a singularly sober state, so much so as to excite remark amongst all. It is a time-honoured custom to condone cases of over-refreshment on the various days of 'liberty' during a long voyage. John Tar—as time-honoured 'Jack' is now frequently dubbed—on that day drops his professional character, and, to use his own most forcible expression, 'lets go the painter,' and enjoys himself after his own peculiar fashion so long as his dollars or rupees hold out.

There had been a whisper floating about for the past two or three days, in that unaccountable way that whispers have of floating; the said whisper coming aft under the fostering care and protecting wing of Isaac the half-caste mess-room steward, thereby increasing twofold in its proportions while under transit, Isaac's powers of imagination being proverbial; and the gist of all this seemed to be that discontent about something reigned paramount in the forecastle, at least among its foreign occupants. Now, as luck would have it, we had had this sort of thing over and over again throughout the passage, and we had grown rather tired of it all; indeed, it had become too much like the cry of 'Wolf! Wolf!' to have any strong effect on our nerves, especially as nothing had ever come of it but talk, and very 'tall talk' too sometimes; but still no more than—talk.

Had there been any real grievance, there would have been some interest displayed; but somehow the 'casus belli' had a knack of vanishing when the matter came to be investigated; hence we had grown rather callous as to these perpetual complaints. Now, however, there seemed something more in the report than usual; but whether this was really so, or only owed its importance to Isaac's over-vivid imagination, it was hard to determine. So feeling secure in our nearness to the shore, we contented ourselves by awaiting some decisive action on the part of the malcontents. As it was, the Captain had gone ashore with the announcement that he intended to accept the proffered hospitality of the agent, a few miles out of town; and Tim Baylis and I were left on board, the former enjoying the dignity of full command.

This was just the time of the change of the monsoon, and evening shewed us that the hitherto calm and unbroken monotony would soon be visited by the demon of Storm in some one of its many phases. Warning banks of inky clouds were perpetually revealed by the brilliant streaks of lurid lightning that played among their depths. Still the ominous calm was unbroken save by the hoarse croak of frogs, eager for the coming rain. Erelong the welcome sound of 'eight bells' told of the end of the day for us; the men were soon mustered and dismissed, the final entry made in the log, and silence soon reigned fore and aft the ship.

Our hammocks were slung, Indian-coast fashion, in various positions under the poop awning; and very pleasant it was to lie at ease in the cool night-air, smoking and chatting. Tim seemed unusually silent this evening, more inclined to speculate and think, than to tell out aught from the fund of anecdote, curious and amusing, that he always was so ready to retail for our benefit.

'Charlie,' he said at length, 'I don't wonder at those niggers being so confoundedly superstitious and ghostly; a night like this makes one feel that there is something, of which we know nothing, at work above and around us. Just look out at those fiery clouds, and answer if there must not be a Power there, compared to which our grandest efforts seem no more than the croaking of yonder frogs.'

I replied generally, that the works of nature always shone forth clearly to those who looked upon them as the tokens of a Supreme Will.

Another blaze of dazzling brightness, resting on us for a moment, leaving us in denser darkness than before. The storm was certainly nearing us rapidly.

'Ah!' he said, referring to the contrast, 'how true a picture of life; that glowing light, just for an instant of time, like our own life, followed by the dense and unknown darkness of death. I am not one to believe in portents, Charlie; but I am sure that in these things, if one only read them aright, there lies much that may be taken to indicate that there is a grand life hereafter of completion and unity in the powers of mind and body though the truth of it may be kept from us in the darkness of the future. Yet after all it is only in moments like these that a man seems either to care for or notice them.'

My reply was lost in a burst of thunder, the first of any power we had yet heard, and with it came down the rain, as only it can rain in the tropics. I ran to the gangway, to be clear of the awning, and saw at once that a hurricane was close upon us. The whirling and eddying clouds flew at a vast pace across the sky; the low roaring of the wind, still very distant, confirmed any doubt on that point. I did not consider that there was any cause for alarm on the ship's account; we were in an excellent anchorage; and most of our 'top-hamper' was down on deck undergoing an overhaul. Still the awnings must be furled; so I hurried below for my oil-skin coat and 'sou'-wester.' Reaching the main-deck, I was startled by the sound of voices coming from a part of the ship where I knew they could have no business. Without pausing to listen, however, I descended the companion-stairs; the voices, now hushed in whispers, following after. At the fore-cabin door I encountered the scared face of Isaac, as white as his dark skin would permit. He was about to say something; but the cry of 'All hands on deck!' from Tim's lips rang out fore and aft; so I rushed on deck without waiting to hear what he had to say. My station, as second in command, being on the forecastle, I made directly for that point, and awaited the port-watch, in order to let go the second anchor. No one came! Where were the men? I heard voices aft. I saw the quarter-deck awning fly up in the air, released from the side-ropes. The hurricane had struck us by this time; we were leaning broadside over in an alarming manner, and rapidly dragging our single anchor towards the shore. Again I listened; I could distinguish the varied cries; they were not those of men at work. I soon knew. A fierce yell—a wilder shriek, borne along the gale. It was plain that the smothered volcano had broken forth at last. The men had mutinied! Seizing a belaying-pin from out the rail, I managed to knock the gear clear on the 'cat-head,' and thus releasing the starboard anchor, I ran aft, leaving the chair careering wildly over the windlass.

The odds were terribly against us; a set of men, each more reckless than his neighbour, pitted against a few poor fellows, taken at the utmost disadvantage. Added to this, the howling hurricane, the black darkness, and the utter impossibility of any signal being seen or heard twenty yards from the ship. I did not quite understand all this at the moment. I very soon did, however. No shot had as yet been fired, so no alarm could reach beyond by that means. Making for the indistinct struggling mass of human figures, I tried to reach Tim's side. I could just see him standing on the after-hatch, cutlass in hand, bravely keeping at bay a dozen or more of the mutineers, who vainly tried to force him back over the 'combings' of the open hatchway. In another confused heap I could just distinguish the third officer and boatswain; how armed, I could not see. My iron belaying-pin proved no bad weapon—short, round, and heavy, it was easily handled, and did good service. After all, one had no real chance against long thin knives in anything like close single combat.

How long this performance would have lasted, and the fearfully unequal conflict been kept up, it is hard to say, when the sound of cheering broke upon us. Pausing in the struggle for a moment, we became aware that the storm had ceased as suddenly as it had begun; in fact it was almost calm. Another instant, and the cheers resolved themselves into men swarming up the sides like bees on every quarter, cutlass in hand, hardly knowing what was the matter. It was soon over. Stepanos Zenos, George Marco, and Pedro Cenci secured in irons to the main-deck stanchions, the rest were soon powerless for much harm. A hurried explanation now ensued. It seemed that after I had rushed up on deck, in answer to the cry of 'All hands!' never heeding the boy Isaac or his scared face, the lad ran up after me, taking with him the cutlass that I afterwards saw in Tim Baylis' hand; in fact he gave it to him without word or comment. Running to the gangway, he had thrown himself into the boat belonging to our old sampan-wallah, Ramoon, who always remained alongside the ship ready for a call. Rousing the old man and seizing an oar, he let go the boat, which, released from the ship, glided swiftly down the stream; struck soon after by the hurricane or north-west squall, they nearly capsized, but managed to reach the mooring-chains of H.M.S. Pegasus, moored half a mile down the river. A rope being flung to them they boarded her, the boy Isaac telling his tale in broken accents and incoherent sentences; still, however, the officer of the watch made out enough of the lad's story to know that mutiny, and perhaps murder, were going on a short distance up the river; so without more ado, the order was passed for 'general quarters,' and two boats' crews piped away to 'board and relieve the stranger.' The squall luckily dropping at this time, they soon were alongside of our ship, Isaac acting as pilot, when they gave us the hearty cheer that had so joyed and surprised us.

But where was Tim Baylis all this time? Surely about the ship somewhere. No! We found him at last, lying at the bottom of that fatal hatchway, and a long knife-wound in his side, from which the dark blood slowly oozed. They brought him gently up, and laid him on the after-skylight; the rain had ceased, and the tropical moon shone down on the reeking deck, lending a weird clearness to every object around. He looked very calm, his dark clear-cut features looked very white and awful now.

We all stood around while the surgeon that had come with the relief party from the old Pegasus carefully probed and examined the wound. It was no use; his face told us silently there was 'no hope!' that dear old Tim Baylis would soon be at rest for ever. 'Hush! he is speaking.' Conscious once again, on board the ship he had defended with his life, the spirit of him we had learned to love so well seemed to return to us once again ere it went forth into that unknown 'darkness' he had spoken of so strangely and thoughtfully scarce an hour before. He said a few words to us all, reminding us of the many bright and happy days we had spent in times past together—days that had left their pleasant memories of the foreign shores by which they had been passed, mementos of a time gone by, but still fresh and vivid in our minds. Asking pardon of any, then, he might in thoughtless mirth unconsciously have wounded, and telling us when, in better days and more joyous scenes, we might chance to review the past and those who had peopled it, not to forget poor Tim, lying cold and dead on the banks of the Irrawaddi river. Turning painfully to me, he said in faltering words: 'See my dear mother, Charlie. Tell her all is over. Tell her that though the end has come while far away from her, I did not forget her love. Ask her to forgive my wilfulness, to think of me with pity. And Charlie, don't let those niggers haul me about before I'm buried. Good-bye, old fellow. How dark it is getting!'

We laid him next day in his grave in the European cemetery, under the shade of a spreading mango; a few fellows from the old Pegasus and ourselves looked last on his coffin; and before we sailed, had laid a double wreath on the already bright and flowering turf. Reader! should you ever bend your steps to the sacred city of the Great Pagoda, turn aside for a moment from the deepening shadows of its ancient temple, and reading the words on a little marble cross under the branches of the old mango-tree, pause, and think on the noble death of poor Tim Baylis.