Born to Wander: A Boy's Book of Nomadic Adventures

Book Three – Chapter Three
Here and There in Many Climes

 
“Heaven speed the canvas gallantly unfurled,
To furnish and accommodate a world,
To give the pole the produce of the sun,
And knit unsocial climates into one.”
 
 
    “The luxuries of seas and woods,
The airy joys of social solitude,
Famed each rude wanderer.”
 

Scenes: The shores of South America. The lonely isles of the Pacific, Antarctic Ocean, and Antarctic ice.

If my young reader took an ordinary sized map or chart of the world he could follow with eye or finger the route, en voyage, taken by our wanderers for the next few months, till we find them amid the lovely scenery briefly depicted above. Southwards along the eastern shore of South America, but keeping well to sea, and only seeing the wild romantic coast, now and then lying like a blue-grey storm-cloud on the horizon, sailed the Gloaming Star. Leaving the Falkland Islands on the port beam, they passed the Straits of Magellan, not venturing in them now; and reaching farther southward, after encountering a terrific gale of wind which tried the timbers of the bonny barque and the mettle of her gallant tars, after having narrowly escaped being crushed during a dismal fog by heavy ice, they succeeded in weathering the Cape, and stretched away north now, once more along a wild coast – its mountains towering to the moon – and after many, many dreary weeks at sea, they landed at the wonderful isle of Juan Fernandez, celebrated, as all know, for having been the prison isle of Alexander Selkirk, the hero of that best of boys’ books – “Robinson Crusoe.”

The hut was still there, and many another curious memento of the sailor hermit, and strange thoughts passed through the wanderers’ minds as they walked on the very beach where, according to Defoe, his hero had seen the footstep in the sands.

North and west they went now, and in a few weeks fell in with the trade-winds, although they were not of too great force to prevent stunsails being carried alow and aloft.

Bounding over that lovely sea, the Gloaming Star looked like some beautiful sea-bird.

Whatever might come of it, our heroes were determined to see something of the Sandwich Islands. But there was danger in their doing so. For but few white men ever ventured there in those days.

About Savages

There are, according to my own experience, very great differences, not only in physique, but in mental qualities, betwixt the savages – as they are called – of different parts of the world, and even between different tribes who live in the same vicinity, or within a few hundred miles of each other. Look, for example, at the good-natured simplicity of the Eskimo Indians, and compare it with the wild, cruel nature of the Red men of the Rockies, or forest lands of the Far West. Or witness the innocent, harmless nature of the tribes who dwell south of the Equator on the eastern shores of Africa, as compared with the treacherous ferocity of the Somali Africans, who live but a little way north.

Yet there is a right way and a wrong way of dealing with even the wildest tribes of what I may call fighting savages. There are certain peculiarities of character which are common to all, and at which, seeing the manner of life they lead, we cannot wonder. They are all suspicious, especially as regards the intentions of white men – or “white demons” as we are sometimes called – landing on their coast. They are all greedy, all superstitious in a high degree, and all lawless, and easily inclined to give vent to unbridled passions of any kind. All these traits of character must be borne in mind by any one going amongst them. Nor must it be forgotten that they are most observant. They cannot perhaps speak or understand a word of your language, but they can read your face and eye, and almost know your thoughts therefrom. To show fear among them is fatal to all success of intercommunication; even to feel fear is bad enough, for you can hardly hide it from their scrutiny. You must be cool, determined, and kindly withal, but bear yourself as if it were a matter of the greatest indifference to you whether you have their friendship or not. You must not so much woo them as conduct yourself in a manner that will cause them to woo you and seek your good will. It is all, you see, a matter of fact. And I have landed among savages with my hands in my pockets, when, had I carried arms, even a stick, I should have been speared to death in a very short time.

Captain Blunt was wise as regards savages, and he imparted his wisdom to Our heroes, Douglas and Leonard, at dinner one beautiful evening – just the night before they reached the Sandwich Islands.

At New York they had bought large quantities of beads, also knives and hatchets, and these, or rather a portion of them, came in handy in their intercourse with the natives.

They had already passed, on the wings of a favouring breeze, very many little islands, some mere coral reefs green-fringed with trees, looking as if they were afloat in the sea or in the sky’s blue. But although they had seen natives both in canoes and on the beach they had made no attempt to communicate with the Gloaming Star.

Men were kept constantly in the chains, and when the water became too shallow, or breakers ahead were seen frothing on a shallow green reef, her way was stopped and the course altered. By night they often cast anchor.

I wish I had the power to describe in words a thousandth part of all the beauty they saw about and around them in this enchanting ocean, in sky, on shore, and in the water itself. The marine gardens, with their many-coloured corals, their waving wealth of tinted seaweed, the strange-shaped and curious fishes, the lovely medusae and marvellous shell-fish, some beautiful as a dream, others more hideous than a nightmare; the bright inexpressible blue sky above, the azure ocean beneath, patched here and there with sheets of green or grey, where cloud shadows fell or where the banks shone through, and last, but not least, the thousand isles, each more delightful to behold than another, all formed a scene, or series of scenes, that to cast eyes on but once is to look back to with pleasure ever after.

I have it not on record at which of these islands our wanderers first landed. It was a large one, however, and, to commence with, they had but a cool reception.

For days they ventured no farther than the beach, so threatening was the aspect of the natives. But by degrees their confidence was won, then all was hospitality, all was safety on the island, far into its very interior. Having once made friends with the white men, these poor savages thought they had dropped from the sky, and vied with each other in their kindness towards them. They brought them kids and fowl and fruit and flowers, and escorted them through the forests, to glorious glens, across streams and little lovely lakes embowered in trees, festooned and hung with wild climbing flowers, and to cataracts whose waters as they tumbled over the rocks made drowsy music in the summer sunshine.

 
“Was nought around but images of rest,
    Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence cast
    From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green.
Meanwhile unnumbered glittering streamlets played,
    And hurled everywhere their waters’ sheen;
That as they bickered through the sunny glade,
    Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.”
 

They stayed for months at the Sandwich Islands, and their residence among the wild natives exemplifies in a remarkable way two facts – first, that the influence of the white man over the savage is very great and very potent; and secondly, that almost anything can be done by means of kindness and sincerity. Our heroes were sincere, and these poor black folks were quick to perceive it.

It is but fair to Captain Blunt and his party to state that they did not leave the islands without telling its inhabitants the beautiful Biblical story of the world, of the creation, the fall, and of Redemption through a Saviour’s love. And one never knows what good fruits may not be borne of a few seeds thus let fall even among darkened savages.

And now we return to the scene of the first chapter of this book, where we left Leonard and Douglas pacing the storm-swept decks of the Gloaming Star, night falling, and the wind blowing high and cold from off the Antarctic ice.

They had sojourned and had many adventures among the snows of the far, far north, where in summer “Daylight never shuts its eye,” and they were now to have a peep at the other pole.

For days and days they cruised along the edge of the great icefields here, and very different they found them from anything they had ever seen before. The edge of the main body was one vast indented glacier of glittering crystal, rising sheer up from the ocean beneath it. From the top of this enormous icy cliff an immense field of snow stretched away southwards, rising, in some places, mountains high, so that they could not be certain that it was not actually land they were looking on. The ice-rocks shimmered in the sun’s rays in all the colours of the rainbow, with a beauty that at times was dazzling to behold.

The detached icebergs that floated off this strange weird-looking coast were less jagged than those of the North Pole. Very often they were immense square snow-clad blocks. They were nearly all very large. Here comes floating along, slowly moving up and down, a good representation of a cathedral without a spire. Behind, a library of books piled one above the other, truly a Titanic collection, for every volume is as large as a church, yet the representation is faithful. But what comes behind? A giant’s head upreared above the black water; eyes and nose and all are perfect, and it is bigger than the Egyptian Sphinx, while in the rear of this pyramids innumerable, and lo! as they pass these they come upon – what? They may well ask what. A soldiers’ camp, sure enough, larger than any at Aldershot. But there are no soldiers about, only the white and shapely tents all afloat on the deep dark sea.

A Strange Change

Yet in one week’s time a wondrous change came over the spirit of the scene.

The great whales, the mighty sharks, and the huge sea-elephants, that for days they had seen tumbling and wallowing in the waters round the vessel, suddenly disappeared, and even the birds ceased to go whirling and screaming through the air, and one evening they seemed sailing into the blackness of darkness. There was a good breeze behind them, but as night fell – and it came on before its time – so did the wind. And so the ship lay becalmed, or nearly so. No one went to bed that night. The darkness was a darkness that could be felt; the air was close, sulphurous, oppressive, and at midnight the stillness was broken by explosions of thunder so terrific as to appal the boldest heart on board. Then the darkness was illuminated by one vast sheet of flame, that shot upwards from the horizon some miles inland among the ice, carrying with it smoke and steam and great boulders that burst in the air with a noise like the loudest artillery.

They were undoubtedly witnessing a volcanic eruption on a terribly grand scale.

All that night it continued, while the noise of the thunder and the explosions grew louder and louder, and the flames and lightning increased in vividness. When at last the clock hands pointed to the hour of daybreak it still was dark, as far as sunlight was concerned; the sea was perfectly calm, though every now and then strangely moved, so that the ship was shaken from stem to stern.

Ashes, too, began to fall till they lay inches deep on the deck, and it was almost impossible to breathe. At the same time stones fell around them, hissing and spurting and throwing up volumes of steam as they reached the water.

It was an awful scene, a never-to-be-forgotten time.

But despite the want of wind, Captain Blunt determined not to be idle. Boats were got out, and the ship was slowly towed northwards direct. All that dark and fearful day, and even by the glare of volcanic fires on the dismal night that succeeded, the men rowed and rowed as for dear life, and about nine o’clock next morning they saw the sun. It was gleaming like a great crimson ball through the ash-laden air, but there it was – the sun; and not a heart of all the crew was there that did not rejoice, not a soul, I’m sure, that did not breathe its thanks to Him Who rules on earth and sea.

Once More in Summer Seas

This is a chapter of changes, the reader may say. From the dreary scene I have just tried – in all too feeble language – to describe, wafted on the wings of a favourable breeze, the Gloaming Star sailed northward and west, and ere many weeks had elapsed the good ship was once more sailing over summer seas, with the dangers they had escaped in the Antarctic regions dwelling in their minds only like dreams of yesterday.

Ah! but soft, sweet, and balmy was the breeze that now filled the sails, and wondrous were the curious creatures they saw day after day. Some may think that when a ship is far away at sea, with no land nor sail in sight, there can be little to look at and admire. But there is, for nature is everywhere in this bright world of ours, and real solitude nowhere.

Not a day now passed without strange birds coming about the ship. Sometimes these were evidently winged wanderers from some far-off land, that had been blown to sea by a gale, for they were sadly tired, and looked woebegone as they alighted on the yards. Others were curious, dark birds of the swallow tribe. They alighted on the ship quite as a matter of business, and chirped little songs to the crew as they perched aloft, as if thankful and joyous because of the rest. Then away they went again, south or north as the case might be.

There were Cape pigeons, and great cormorants, and wild gannet-like birds, that it was pleasant to watch as they descended from the clouds, swift almost as a thunderbolt, and disappeared beneath the waves, presently, perhaps, to emerge with their prey. Then there were fulmar petrels, that went darting about the waves, and were said by the sailors to catch the flying-fish, and to forebode the coming of storms, the lovely, pearly-white bird, which once seen can never be forgotten, the molly hawk, and the great dusky albatross itself, of which – built upon the superstition of sailors – Coleridge writes so charming a tale, and which the ancient mariner shot so cruelly, causing such dire and terrible sorrow to the vessel and all on board; albeit, it had brought them the best of good fortune, for it saved them from the ice, and —

 
“A good south wind sprung up behind,
    The albatross did follow.
And every day, for food or play,
    Came to the mariner’s hollo!
 
 
“In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
    It perched for vespers nine,
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
    Glimmered the white moonshine.”
 

The albatross is a stately and noble bird, and the stretch of its wings has been known to be fully twelve feet from tip to tip. The creature, they tell me, will devour the dead, but never touch a living man.

The fish and marine monsters they saw on this sunny voyage were sometimes most lovely, sometimes hideous in the extreme. Giant rays, the skins of which would have been big enough to have carpeted a schoolroom; great whales and sharks innumerable, – the blue shark, the white shark, and the large basking shark, which really seems to go asleep on the warm surface of the water.

Land ho! was the hail from the masthead one beautiful morning, and they had all been so long at sea that they certainly were not sorry to hear it.

But what land was it? And could they find water, fruit, and fresh provisions on it?

Book Three – Chapter Four
The Unknown Land

 
“After the sea-ship, after the whistling winds,
After the white-grey sails, taut to their spars and ropes,
Below a myriad, myriad waves hastening, lifting up their necks,
Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship,
A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments,
Following the stately and rapid ship, in the wake following.”
 

Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

Scene: The Gloaming Star standing in towards the land, which looks like a long low greenish cloud on the horizon. The sky is a burning blue, the day is hot and sultry, and the pitch boils in the seams of the deck. Land birds, some very pretty, and hosts of butterflies as large as small fans, and surpassingly radiant in colour, are hovering about the vessel. Medusae, like open umbrellas, and whose limbs seem studded with gems, float around the ship, while now and than huge turtles can be seen, each one as big and as broad as a blacksmith’s bellows.

The log before me is so water-stained, so yellow with age, and so worn, that I cannot make out – do what I may – the latitude and longitude of the Gloaming Star at this particular time. But from all I have read and from all I know of these oceans and islands, I think the land now in sight must have been either Tasmania itself or some of the isles not far off. Seeing, on a nearer approach, no signs of a harbour, nor any deep water, only the white foaming breakers booming on a low sandy beech; and the green woods beyond, and the wind coming on to blow higher and higher from the west, they put to sea again, and stood away still farther north.

In the morning, land was in sight again, and not far off, and the coast was rocky and wild; the wind, too, had gone down considerably, so sail was made, and seeing a wide gap in the rocks they made for it, and found themselves in an hour’s time in a lovely wood-girt bay. But wood is too tame a term to apply to it. Primeval forest is surely better. Never before had any one on board beheld such wondrous trees, nor such a wealth of vegetation. The ferns, which were of gigantic size, were a special feature in this tree-scape, while immense climbing plants, with gorgeous hanging flowers, made an intricate wildery of this forest land. Great flocks of pigeons sometimes rose into the air, which they almost darkened. Ibises grey and red sat and nodded on the rocks, looking like rows of soldiers and riflemen, while the woods resounded with the cries of strange birds and the chattering of innumerable monkeys.

Boats landed about noon, and came off laden with fruit, but they could find no water that was not brackish.

An expedition was accordingly got up to go farther inland and search for it. Both Leonard and Douglas went with it. They were fortunate enough to find a running stream. The casks were filled, and after a rest, they were preparing to return, when a wild war-whoop rent the air, and they found themselves suddenly confronted by a dozen nearly naked savages, armed with club, and spear, and shield. The march shore-wards, however, was commenced, and carried out in perfect order, the natives following slowly on after them, and threatening their rear. They grew bolder when they noticed the intention of the men to embark with their casks. Spears were thrown, and more than one man was wounded. Then Leonard and Douglas lost their patience and fired. Two savages bit the dust. The others stood as if petrified. They had evidently never heard of or seen such a thing as a gun before. Then recovering themselves, with one unearthly shriek they turned and fled away into the darkness of the forest.

Nothing was to be gained by stopping here and fighting those dusky sons of the woods, so anchor was got up that evening, and the Gloaming Star resumed her voyage. Although the ship was still, to some extent, scarce of water, they trusted to future good fortune, as brave sailors were in the habit of doing in those days.

After coasting about for nearly a fortnight, with variable winds, land breezes, sea breezes, and even half-gales, they found themselves one forenoon once more approaching the land. The wind was fair, the day was fine, and men were kept constantly in the chains lest, the water suddenly shoaling, the vessel might get stranded.

There was plenty of dash and “go” about Captain Blunt, but no such thing as rashness, a quality which in a commander is oftentimes fatal, and involves the loss of many a gallant ship and thousands of lives annually.

Strange birds such as they had never seen before kept constantly wheeling and screaming around the vessel, and there were stranger creatures still in the water. They had all heard of sea-serpents or of the sea-serpent, but here they were on this particular bank in scores and in hundreds, gliding along in the water or floating in knots – ugly-looking flat-tailed creatures, though of no great size. I have heard of a lieutenant having been killed by the bite of one of these strange snakes; at the same time I can hardly believe it. The story, briefly told, is as follows: —

Bitten by a Sea-Snake

It was in the gun-boat B – some few hundred miles south of Bombay in the Indian Ocean. Lieutenant Archer was asleep in his cabin in the afternoon, just after luncheon, and the day being fine and the weather fair when he lay down, he had opened his little port for fresh air; in other words, he had pulled the scuttle out. One of those sudden squalls, however – so common in this lovely sea – came down on the ship just as she was about to cross a coral bank infested with these serpents.

The tramping noise on deck, the rattle of ropes overhead, and the flapping of sails and shouting of orders might have failed to waken Archer – he was used to it – but something else did. No, not a snake; the snake comes in afterwards. But he shipped a sea through the scuttle which deluged the bed. The officer sprang out, put in and fastened the scuttle, shook the rug, and then himself as a big dog might have done, and quietly turned in again. He got up to keep the first dog-watch, and on putting his hand down to take up his jacket the terrible sea-viper struck him. It is said he was almost instantly paralysed with terror and pain. The doctor found him, pale, perspiring, with starting eye-balls, and almost bloodless, and nothing could rally him, for he sank and died.

Now I give the story as I got it. It may be true. It may be like some of Rory O’Reilly’s yarns, worthy of credence as far as one half goes, the other half being left for the story-teller himself to make the best of.

It was strange now that, although far away among the woods they had seen the smoke of fires, on landing with men to dig wells and search for water, not a sight of a human being could be seen. They dug well after well, but all were brackish.

So this island had to be deserted.

The next place they came to swarmed with natives, and very fine-looking fellows they were, armed to the teeth, however. They obstinately refused to hold any palaver with the officers or crew of the Gloaming Star. Even the display of beads did not tempt them, and although here were streams of fresh water, it was ultimately decided to sail away and seek for it on other and probably more hospitable shores.

It is impossible to chronicle all the wanderings of our heroes in those lovely islands, and their cruises round their coasts, but all summer long off and on they voyaged in their midst. Then came the autumn – which is contemporaneous with our spring – and higher winds began to blow, and the weather got sensibly cooler and more pleasant.

There was no dearth of fresh provisions anywhere, there was fish in the sea and game on shore, and although the dangers they had to incur in search of water were sometimes great, they succeeded in getting it nevertheless.

One day about the middle of February they found themselves approaching a beautiful though small island, which, as it was well-wooded and hilly, gave promise not only of water, but of a supply of good things for the larder as well. The weather was not quite so clear, however, as usual. As the wind seemed freshening and blowing towards the land, the Gloaming Star altered her course, and towards evening found herself at the lee side of this terra incognita, when she dropped anchors, being sheltered on one side by the rocks, and on another by a long spit of land, covered with shingle, that jutted out into the sea.

There was no smoke to be seen among the trees, no huts near the shore, never a sign of human life anywhere. The island was as much their own as Robinson Crusoe’s was.

Leonard and Douglas with a boat’s crew of five men landed in the afternoon, and after making their boat fast to the trunks of some mangrove trees, that grew near the spit of land, they went away into the interior on a prospecting expedition.

They found the island far more lovely than they could have imagined in their wildest dreams. It was indeed a garden of nature – hills and glens, woods and waters, and even inland lakes, foaming cataracts, wondrous trees, and climbing flowers of every shape and colour. Birds and strange beasts, but nothing apparently hurtful or venomous. And yet all was in the smallest compass.

No wonder that the sun was almost setting before – laden with delicious fruit – they began to make their way back to the beach.

A Fearful Gale

As long as they were in the shelter of the trees and hills, they had no idea how high it was blowing, but as soon as they gained the beach things appeared in their true light. The sea, even with the wind blowing off the land, was houses high, and like a snow-field with the froth and spume that covered it. The Gloaming Star could hardly be seen in the midst of the spray and even green seas that dashed over her.

As they gazed despairingly towards her, the gale suddenly increased to tenfold its former violence. The waves now made a clean breach over the spot of land that sheltered the ship, if shelter it could be called. Gravel, sand, earth, and dead branches were torn off the ground and hurled into the air; it got darker and darker; the lightning played quick, vivid, and bright everywhere about them; and high over the roaring of wind and water rose the deafening rattle of thunder. While trees were being uprooted in the woods, or snapped like twigs, and the whole island was shaken to its very foundation, Leonard and his party were creeping on all fours to the shelter of a rock, and night fell just as they found themselves safe inside a cave on the sea-beach.

All that night the wind howled and roared, and the rain came down in torrents. Sleep was out of the question, for the thunder was constant, and by the glimmer of the lightning’s flash they could see each other’s blue, pale faces as they crouched on the sandy floor of the cave.

Morning broke at last, and the wind went down, the sun rose and shone luridly over the heaving waters, and they stood together on the sea-beach – alone!

The Gloaming Star was nowhere to be seen, but whether she broke her moorings, and drifted out to sea to founder, or whether Captain Blunt had thought it would be safer to run before the fearful gale, they could not guess.

The wind still blew stiff, but the force of the hurricane was spent. They went to the place where the boat had been left. It had been smashed to pieces, hardly a timber was left, and the keel stuck up out of a sandbank, beside the tree to which the painter had been attached.

Leonard looked at Douglas, and Douglas at Leonard, and both smiled, though somewhat sadly. The same thoughts were evidently passing through the minds of each.

“Well,” said Douglas, “if the ship is safe, and I believe she is, she is sure to come back for us.”

“And a few days or even weeks in so beautiful a place won’t hurt,” said Leonard.

“This is like being marooned, isn’t it, gentlemen?” one of the sailors remarked.

“Well, it is being marooned by fortune, but we must make the best of it.”

In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as “fail.” There should not be, at all events; and so these deserted sailors at once set about making the best of a bad job.

They had hope in their hearts – which were stout ones all of them – and after a bit they quite enjoyed their Crusoe life.

They had axes, and spades, and knives, and guns, and plenty of ammunition; but even had they possessed none of these tools, they could have lived on the fruit that grew so abundantly everywhere, on bushes on the hills, and on trees in every glade and glen.

As gales of wind or hurricanes might come again and level the strongest hut they could build, they determined to become for a time cave-dwellers. They searched for, and found farther inland, and up on a terrace in the side of a woody hill, just the place that would suit – a large, dry, lofty cave in sight of the sea. They at once set about fitting it up for a dwelling. The floor was covered deep in silvery sand. Nothing could be better, whether to squat in by day, or sleep on by night. The entrance to the cave was built up with felled trees, leaving only a small entrance for light, and a doorway. Thus the dwelling-house was speedily completed.

“Why not,” said Leonard, “fortify this terrace?”

“Good,” replied Douglas; “we have nothing else to do, and I can’t forget that footstep in the sand of Crusoe’s Isle.”

“And as we never know what may happen,” continued Douglas, “I propose that we store our guns and ammunition, and trap game for our food.”

This proposal was carried unanimously.

Some of the men were clever trappers, and others were good fishermen, so there was no want of food, and water was abundant.

On the sea-beach a fire was kindled, and day and night this was kept up, sentries being always posted here, armed.

The rampart was soon completed round the terrace, and a strong one it was.

A whole week had gone, and as yet nothing had been seen of the Gloaming Star, and the hopes of our heroes began to get very low indeed.

A whole week, then another and another. Their hearts sank with each recurring day. They got tired even of the beauty of the island, and tired and sick of gazing always out to the sea, which looked to them now so void and merciless. They envied even the sea-birds, that seemed so happy and joyous, and whom nothing could imprison.