THE GREEN HAND

III

THE GREEN HAND

Adventures of a Naval Lieutenant

BY

GEORGE CUPPLES

AUTHOR OF "THE TWO FRIGATES"

SANDS & COMPANY 23 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C. AND EDINBURGH.

V

LIFE OF GEORGE CUPPLES

(AUTHOR OF "THE GREEN HAND")

Excepting for one short episode—that, indeed, to which we owe "The Green Hand"—the life of George Cupples was almost devoid of those external incidents and vicissitudes which lend the interest of romance to biographical narrative. It is therefore possible, even within the narrow limits assigned to the present sketch, to satisfy reasonable curiosity regarding the mere facts of this distinguished author's career.

Cupples was, by virtue of two or three generations, a son of the manse. His grandfather, the Rev. George Cupples, was the minister of Swinton; and his father, who bore the same name, was also a minister. The George Cupples with whom we have to do was born at Legerwood, in Berwickshire, on the 2nd of August 1822. He was the eldest of the family, which consisted, including George, of three sons and one daughter. The father was a clergyman of orthodox views, and from the descriptions of him that have been left we may infer that the severity of his Calvinism had imparted a decided severity to his character. "He was much respected," says his son Joseph, "and, indeed, a good deal feared." The children were accordingly treated by him with rigid strictness, modified by their mother's greater leniency.

This stern master was George's only teacher during the first ten years of his life. His books were an Arithmetic, Cordery, Ruddiman's Rudiments, and Cornelius Nepos. In his tenth year he and his brother Joseph went to school at Earlston, "walking daily a weary four and a half miles and back again—to lessons at home!"

George was in his twelfth year when his father was "translated" to Stirling. While the family was settled VI here, the wish to go to sea seems to have grown in the boy's mind to a settled determination, fostered, it appears, by his reading of novels, of which he was extremely fond. He was sixteen years of age when his father, probably much against his will, allowed him to be apprenticed as a sailor. So it came about that the minister's son, nurtured on the classics and Calvinism with quite different purposes in view, made a voyage to India and back—an eighteen months' affair it turned out—as a ship's boy.

On the nature of his experiences we need not speak here, for whoever reads "The Green Hand" will understand it without further aid. As his biographer strikingly says: "It had a physical effect on him ... made him quiet and still in every expression, in every externality of life afterwards." At all events, the young adventurer returned home perfectly cured of his taste for the sea, petitioned his father to get his indentures cancelled, and declared he would content himself for the future on land.

Resuming his interrupted studies, he proceeded to Edinburgh University, where he took the Arts course. One of the professors was Wilson, the famous "Christopher North," for whom Cupples felt an admiration scarcely short of hero-worship, and of whom he afterwards wrote a "Memorial Sketch." Later on he went through the Divinity course, and had the privilege of sitting at the feet of the great Chalmers, of whom he always writes with enthusiasm.

But though prepared and equipped for the paternal calling, Cupples "recoiled from the stairs of the pulpit," more, it would seem, from a growing inclination to literature than from any heterodoxy in his religious views. He became a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, where his essay on Emerson appeared in 1848. In Maga also was first published "The Green Hand," that magnificent story of the sea which we are now sending forth, to delight and enthral, we feel sure, a new generation of readers. Two opinions may here VII be quoted of the story, to which each of our readers may afterwards add his own. George MacDonald pronounced it "the best sea-novel I have ever read"; and Clark Russell, whose right to speak on such a subject will scarcely be disputed, declares "it is the colours of 'The Green Hand' that I have nailed to my mast."

Cupples was a constant and unwearied writer. Much of his work was done for newspapers and periodicals, but even the most ephemeral of his productions bore testimony to the earnest and solid qualities of the man. That these qualities were duly appreciated is proved by the frequent kindly mention of him by men of the highest literary repute.

He was married, in 1858, to Ann Jane Douglas, an Edinburgh lady, who, though much younger than her husband, was singularly congenial in her tastes and pursuits. She has written a large number of books, mostly for children.

Even before the time of his marriage, Cupples suffered from the sequelæ of hip-joint disease, and all the remainder of his life he seems never to have been quite free from the burden of ill-health. His home during his literary career was in different parts of Edinburgh or its vicinity, latterly in Newhaven, where he succumbed to heart-disease on the 17th of October 1891. His tombstone testifies to the admiration of his friends for his "varied literary gifts, and his simple, upright, and reverent character."

One of the literary projects which Cupples had long cherished has been happily carried out since his death in the publication, by Messrs Blackwood, of a splendid volume on "Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters." This volume contains a fine portrait of the author, and also an interesting memoir, written by Dr. Hutchison Stirling, which is in itself at once a tribute and a testimony to the lasting impression which both the works and the character of George Cupples made upon cultured and critical minds.

IX

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

The popularity of "The Green Hand," both among seamen and others, as being true to life, has been wide. It has, however, been thought desirable to issue a revised edition, freed from various expressions now to a certain extent obsolete or otherwise unsuitable, so as to make it more thoroughly fit for juvenile readers.

Some considerable time has now elapsed since the period to which these adventures refer, not without producing a good deal of alteration in much that goes on at sea, most especially in the outward accessories of nautical life. The spanking frigate of former days, for instance, is now no more; her place being, to the eye at any rate, ill taken up by the ironclad screw-steamer. The mechanical appliances have been improved, particularly in the merchant service, as, for example, by the Patent-Reefing-Topsail, which is only one of the countless new helps to the seaman. In navigation, instead of now taking five, six, or seven months to reach Australia from this country, the captain of any clipper-line sailing ship would be ashamed of himself if he did not do it within three. Not to multiply cases, Jack himself has, as a rule, added the moustache to his exuberance of whisker; he thinks better than he used to do of these excellent institutions, the Sailors' Homes; he is frequently a temperance man, and has even been known to take the chair at a meeting for vindication of sailors' rights.

But the state of the case, from a plain practical point of view, is pretty well illustrated by an anecdote current at sea among forecastle story-tellers. According to them, a singular discovery was made, some forty years or so back, in Portsmouth harbour, aboard no less conspicuous a craft than that immortal three-decker hulk, H.M.S. Victory herself, when some alterations were being made down in her lower decks. There certain of the dock-yard people, having occasion to lift X a small out-of-the-way lazarette hatch, down on the after-part of the orlop, which had been long covered with old coils of hawsers or the like, were surprised to find a man lying beneath, who rubbed his eyes, stretched himself as if waking out of sleep, and was finally brought up on deck. From undoubted evidence, it turned out that he had been shut down in joke, under the effect of some strange potion, his rough messmates having, of course, intended to release him before long; but a sudden commotion of a more important nature had arisen, owing to which they had forgotten him

until too late, being themselves appointed on active service abroad. Hence it occurred that he had been left there, fast enclosed and asleep, ever since shortly after Trafalgar, when the Victory had come home with Nelson's body, and been paid off, dismantled, and moored in her place as a hulk. From a young reefer, this gentleman had meanwhile grown into a grizzled oldster, on midshipman's half-pay, not likely to have his services further required, seeing that the French had long ceased to offer battle afloat. He was, however, freely invited into professional society, where his opinions on the changes that had taken place were naturally much looked to. The things he is said to have principally remarked as new, were that pigtails had gone out of fashion; the midshipmen's messes were supplied with silver forks; boatswains—in stimulating the men at work—put more force into their language, less into their rattans, and that the leading-blocks of the mizzen-topsail-reef-tackles hung at the slings of the yard instead of being as formerly at the rim of the round-top; nor

did he ever feel sure that such changes were for the better. This yarn, with a good moral tacked on at the end, in one form or another, still affords entertainment to many a tarry audience in ships outward bound, at second dog-watch time, when rolling down the Trades; particularly if spun by some fluent ex-man-o'-war's-man from any of Her Majesty's iron-clads. The said moral generally being to the effect, that little difference is made in essentials at sea by progress in the mere shoregoing world.

In the following story no great amount of correction requires to be made in bringing it up to date; and, except in a few minor points, I have left this to be done by each juvenile reader for himself, supposing the case that he should XI ever find reason in his own professional experience. The terms larboard and starboard are both left in use throughout the book, although the former has long been replaced by the word port—which, in my time, was chiefly confined to the helm, when the resemblance of sound would always have been dangerous at a sudden emergency. The cry "All larbowlins ahoy!" no longer is added to the summons that rouses the sleepy watch below. But after everything is said, the main realities of sea-life continue to be what they were. There is constant truth in those grand words known to us all:

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save Thee—

Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play,

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow.

The strangeness of foreign sights and tropical wonders has not altered; nor the thrill of excitement amid tempest; wind and weather are no-way different; the sailor feels as much pride as ever in his ship's good qualities; the occasion of danger still brings out his manhood; hearts-of-oak will always be ready to man our floating bulwarks so long as Britain remains.

If it were only in order to express a hearty belief in this, I am glad to have had the opportunity afforded by the few words prefixed to a fresh edition of "The Green Hand." And to all you young readers who must ere long embark upon the troubled sea of life, success and a good voyage to you is the cordial wish of your sincere friend,

THE AUTHOR.

Edinburgh, August 31, 1878.

XIII

CHAPTER I

Ah! Come, old ship, give us a yarn!" said the younger forecastlemen to an old one, on board of an Indiaman then swiftly cleaving the waves of the western Atlantic before the trade-wind, and outward-bound, with a hearty crew and a number of passengers. It was the second of the two dog-watches; and, the ship being still in the region of evening twilights, her men, in a good humour and with leisure, were then usually disposed, as on this occasion, to make fast their roaming thoughts by help of a good yarn, when it could be got. There were plenty of individuals, amongst a crew of forty, calculated by their experience, or else by their flow of spirits and fancy, to spin it. Each watch into which they were divided had its especial story-teller, with whose merits it twitted the other, and on opportunity of a general reunion, they were pitted against one another like two fighting-cocks. The one was a grave, solemn, old North-Sea whaler, with one eye, who professed to look down with contempt upon all raw head-work, on navigation compared with seamanship,

and fiction against fact. As for himself, he rested all his fame upon actual experience, and told long dry narratives of old shipmates, of his voyages and adventures, and sometimes of the most incredible incidents, with a genuine briny gusto, which pleased the veteran stagers beyond expression. They were full of points of seamanship—expedients for nice emergencies, tacks, knots, and splices; he gave the very conversation of his characters, with all the "says he" and "says I"; and one long recital of the old 2 fellow's turned upon the question between himself and a new-fangled second-mate, about the right way to set up back-stays, in which he, the sailor, was proved correct by the loss of the ship. The other story-teller, again, was a Wapping man; a lively, impudent young Cockney, who had the most miraculous faculty of telling lies—not only palpable lies, but lies absolutely impossible; yet they were so sublimely told often, and he contrived to lug into them such a quantity of gorgeous tinsel ornament, as, in his happier efforts, decidedly

to carry the day against his opponent. The London hand had seen life too, of which, with respect to what is called the world, his competitor was as ignorant as a child. He had his sentimental vein, accordingly, in which he took the last love-tale out of some "Penny Story-Teller" or fashionable novel he had spelled over below, and made of it a parody that would have thrown its unfortunate author into convulsions of horror, and his critics into shrieks of laughter. The fine language of lords and ladies, of romantic heroines, or of foreign counts and bandits, was gravely retailed, and gravely listened to by a throng of admiring jack-tars; while the old whaler smoked his pipe sulkily apart, gave now and then a scornful glance out of his weather-eye, and called it "all high-dic' and soger's gammon."

On this occasion, however, the group for'ard did not solicit the services of either candidate, as they happened to have present among them a shipmate who, by general confession, "took the shine" out of both, although it was rarely they could get hold of him. "Old Jack," the captain's private steward, was the oldest seaman on board, and having known the captain when the latter went to sea, had sailed with him almost ever since he commanded a ship, as well as lived in his house on shore. He did not now keep his watch, nor take his "trick at the helm," except when he chose, and was altogether a privileged sort of person, or one of "the idlers." His name was Jacobs, which afforded a pretext for calling him "Old Jack," with the sailor's fondness for that Christian cognomen, which it is difficult to account for, unless because Jonah and St John were seafaring characters, and the Roman Catholic holy clerk St Nicholas was baptised "Davy Jones," with sundry other reasons good at sea. But Old Jack was, at any rate, the best hand for a yarn in the Gloucester Indiaman, 3

and had been once or twice called upon to spin one to the ladies and gentlemen in the cuddy. It was partly because of his inexhaustible fund of good-humour, and partly from that love of the sea which looked out through all that the old tar had seen and undergone, and which made him still follow the bowsprit, although able to live comfortably ashore. In his blue jacket, his white canvas trousers edged with blue, and glazed hat, coming forward to the galley to light his pipe, after serving the captain's tea of an evening, Old Jack looked out over the bulwarks, sniffed the sharp sea-air, and stood with his shirt-sleeve fluttering as he put his finger in his pipe, the very embodiment of the scene—the model of a prime old salt who had ceased to "rough it," but could do so yet if needful.

"Come, old ship!" said the men near the windlass, as soon as Old Jack came forward, "give us a yarn, will ye?" "Yarn!" said Jack, smiling—"what yarn, mates? 'Tis a fine night, though, for that same—the clouds flies high, and she's balling off a good ten knots sin' eight bells." "That she is, bo'—so give us a yarn now, like a reg'lar old A1, as you are!" said one. "'Vast there, mate," said a man-o'-war's-man, winking to the rest—"you're always a-cargo-puddling, Bill! D'ye think Old Jack answers to any other hail nor the Queen's? I say, old three-decker in or'nary, we all wants one o' your close-laid yarns this good night. Whaling Jim here rubs his down with a thought overmuch o' the tar, an' young Joe dips 'em in yallow varnish—so if you says nay, why, we'll all save our grog, and get slewed as soon as may be." "Well, well, mates," said Jack, endeavouring to conceal his flattered feelings, "what's it to be, though?" "Let's see," said the man-o'-war's-man—"ay, give us the Green Hand!" "Ay, ay, the Green Hand!" exclaimed one and all. This "Green

Hand" was a story Old Jack had already related several times, but always with such amusing variations, that it seemed on each repetition a new one—the listeners testifying their satisfaction by growls of rough laughter, and by the emphatic way in which, during a pause, they squirted their tobacco-juice on the deck. What gave additional zest to this particular yarn, too, was the fact of its hero being no less than the captain himself, who was at this moment on the poop quarter-deck of the ship, pointing out something to a group of ladies by the 4 round-house—a tall good-looking man of about forty, with all the mingled gravity and frank good-humour of a sailor in his firm weather-tinted countenance. To have the power of secretly contrasting his present position and manners with those delineated by Old Jack's episode from the "skipper's" previous biography, was the acme of comic delight to these rude sons of Neptune, and the narrator just hit this point.

"Ye see," began he, "'tis about six-an'-twenty year gone since I was an able seaman before the mast, in a small Indyman they called the Chester Castle, lying at that time behind the Isle of Dogs in sight of Grennidge Hospital. She was full laden, but there was a strong breeze blowing up that wouldn't let us get under weigh; and, besides, we waited for the most part of our hands. I had sailed with the same ship two voyages before; so, says the captain to me one day, 'Jacobs, there's a lady over at Greenwich yonder wants to send her boy to sea in the ship—for a sickening I s'pose. I'm a-going up to town myself,' says he, 'so take the small quarter-boat and two of the boys, and go ashore with this letter, and see the young fool. From what I've heard,' says the skipper, 'he's a jackanapes as will give us more trouble than thanks. However, if you find the lady's bent on it, why she may send him aboard to-morrow if she likes. Only we don't carry no young gentlemen, and if he slings his hammock here, you must lick him into shape. I'll make a sailor of him, or else a cabin boy.'