THE PEARL DIVERS

AND CRUSOES OF THE SARGASSO SEA BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. (SURGEON ROYAL NAVY) AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE ROVER CARAVAN,” “FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT,” “THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD,” “FOR ENGLAND HOME AND BEAUTY,” ETC., ETC.

Birmingham: ELD & BLACKHAM, 63, 64, 65, Moor Street. TO MY COUSIN NELLIE WIFE OF DR. JOHN ROBERTSON OF ABERDEEN This Book IS DEDICATED WITH EVERY KINDLY WISH BY THE AUTHOR {vii}

A WORD TO MY BOY READERS

When my own boy and girls, who call me “Daddy,” read any of my books at home—and I am proud to say they all do—a question almost invariably asked is: “But do tell us, is it all true?”

I answer as best I can.

Now, no tale in the world is ever “all true”: it would not be a story if it were, would it?

Nevertheless I have knocked about all over the world so much, and made so many notes and observations, that I have my imagination to fall back upon less often than if I had stayed by the fireside all my life.

Now I want to tell you right away, that most of my people or heroes in this story have had their prototypes, and I have tried to paint them from the life.

The terrible Indian Mutiny was before my time{viii} in the service. I was not there, but the weird little Antonio Garcia I met afterwards at Bombay and elsewhere, and his mysterious glass eye was precisely as I have tried to depict it.

We got on friendly terms, and he told me many of his strange adventures on sea and land, and among the Coral Isles of the South Pacific Ocean.

Davie Drake and Barclay Stuart are bold English boys of a type I have often met with, and dearly love.

Teenie, the wee fisher lassie, was a great favourite of mine down at D——, on the south coast; and many a strange, fairy story I have had to tell her, to command.

I have never met a wiser, funnier, or more daring lassie than my pet Teenie; nor a more honest deserving couple than her parents. Muffie the cat was a pussy of mine own, and a great traveller. The first mate, Archie, was a messmate of mine in the old P——, and we sailed the Indian Ocean together, from the far-off Cape of Good Hope, the mountains of which in summer are draped with the crimson glory of splendid heaths and geraniums, to the Red Sea itself.

The fat boy, Johnnie Smart, was a loblolly boy of mine, and a droll one he was. I think I see him even now as I write.

And now just a word or two about the Sea of{ix} Sargasso, and I have done. One can hardly conceive of a more lonesome and mysterious region in all the world of waters; lonesome, because few ships or steamers come near it unless compelled; mysterious, because, entangled in these floating weeds, may lie a clue to many a sad secret of the sea.

Here boxes and barrels might be found by the score, with many strange odds and ends that have fallen overboard from far-away ships or been washed away by sweeping seas in the ocean’s great highway, each of which has a little tale of its own to tell. Here is a beef-tub, such as cooks use at sea. There would be no great difficulty in framing a story to fit that. Here is a boat’s oar. Where are the hands that held it last? Yonder is a boat floating bottom uppermost, but so covered with weeds and shells, that it might have belonged to Vanderdecken himself. Yonder, entangled in the slime, is a sailor’s hat, a sou’wester. Where is the wearer? Even echo does not answer, for this is the echoless sea. And yonder is a half-sunken mast. To the thick end probably a weight of shells and saline matter is attached, holding it down; but the cross-trees are above the weeds, and a spar that bobs and moves about like the head of a snake. Did drowning men once cling, we wonder, to those cross-trees, hoping against hope as they scanned the horizon for

the ship that never came, till despair{x} succeeded hope at last, and one by one they dropped into the hungry waves!

And here, in the midst of this silent sea, you might sometimes find a bottle, sealed and containing a letter, thrown overboard, mayhap, from a sinking ship—a letter breathing words of love and the sighs of a last farewell. That letter may describe the final scene in the voyage of a brave ship with a hopeful crew, which, years and years ago, sailed away from English shores and was never again heard of. Verily, the friends and relations of the sailor men who perished in the awful storm may have waited and hoped for long decades, and died at last in the belief that those they had so long prayed for, might at last be safe on some far-off lonely isle of the ocean.

But are all things dead in this silent sea? No, by no means. The weeds themselves are alive, and, strangely enough, although there is little shoal water here, nor soundings to be taken, small fishes may be seen gambolling about in the patches of weeds, and innumerable little crabs, which Nature has painted of the exact colours of the weeds among which they live, so that they may thus escape their enemies. Here, too, we find the tunny-fish, and now and then the fins of a great shark may be seen unsettling and stirring up the weeds.{xi}

Birds, too, are here—land-birds, that were blown away from their own bright far-off island, and have never been able to return, and never will. Such is the Sea of Sargasso, the strange and mysterious echoless ocean, from which few who have ever visited have lived to make their exit.

W. GORDON STABLES {xiii}{xii}

CONTENTS

{1}

CHAPTER I “WAS IT AN APPARITION?”

There was a dreary sough in the wind that night, as it blew cold and damp over the dull grey sea.

No one had seen the sun go down. It had disappeared behind banks of blue-black clouds, like rocks and towers, just fringing their tops with a lurid and burning copper hue as it sank and sank, till gloaming would have told one that the sun had set.

Along the top of the high cliffs that frowned darkling over the sea, young Barclay Stuart was trudging homewards to his mother’s cottage. In his right hand he swung a string of beautiful sea fish, over his left shoulder he bore his fishing-rod, and as he walked he sang to himself.

Barclay could not afford a boat to go out fishing from, though oftentimes the fishermen took him; but, as a rule, he scrambled among the rocks, over the most dangerous and deepest pools, with the daring of a crab. True, he had come to grief more than once, that is, if tumbling into a deep sea pool can be called grief. Bar the wetting, this was no grief to Barclay,{4} for he could swim just like a seal, under the water or with head above water; and although he had often to swim a quarter of a mile before he could find a landing place, he always came up, and out, smiling. He would then undress, wring his clothes, and put them on again to dry on his back.

Not more than fourteen was Barclay Stuart at the time our story begins. Quite a lovable sort of a lad—so everybody said who knew him, and that was the whole population of the pretty, old-fashioned village of Fisherton. (N.B.—I call it Fisherton, because that was not its name.) Fisherton lies away down on the south coast of Devon. Certainly not a very aristocratic village, but if the people are poor, they are both kindly and honest. In the little town itself the best houses belonged to the doctor and the parson, both of whom laboured with right goodwill, and did their duty to those beneath them. Doctor and parson were always friendly, and oft-times met in the sick-chamber. The parson would wait patiently till the medico had done with his work, then he would take a seat by the bedside, and administer those sweet words of Christian solace that are always so dear to the sick and the ailing. Parson Grahame was a cheerful man. Whatever cares he might have had of his own—and who is there in this world who has none?—he would fling to the

winds before he entered a house to pay a visit. He talked cheerfully and hopefully to the sick, and plainly too, never intoning his voice. Nevertheless he generally managed to carry the patient’s thoughts{5} away—and away, to a happier world than this, where grief is unknown, and where there is nought but joy and happiness.

At his own home, as often as not, you would have found the kindly parson with an old coat on, digging or hoeing in his garden.

With him, as with the doctor, Barclay was an especial favourite. The boy was one of the chief singers in the choir, and his sweet girl-voice could often be heard high and clear above the others. In fact, the lad was enthusiastic in all Church matters. But he was often found in Dr. Parker’s surgery.

He would come shyly into the laboratory, and say to the doctor, “Oh, give me something to do.”

Then the surgeon would laugh, and set him to pounding away at a mortar, with a pestle as big as the boy’s arm.

Barclay’s blue eyes would sparkle as he toiled away, and his face got so red, that the freckles that adorned his nose and cheeks quite disappeared for a time.

Then presently he would say, “Oh dear, I am tired, doctor. Please send me on an errand.”

The good doctor would laugh, but never refuse. Then away Barclay would go with a basket of medicine bottles on his arm, and he never made a mistake in delivery.

Moreover, he promoted himself to a sort of doctor’s lieutenant, and never failed to inquire how the patients were, and of his own accord brought back word to the doctor, “Old Mrs. This or old Mr. That was{6} better, or Mrs. So-and-So’s baby had been crying all night,” &c. &c.

This amused the doctor very much, but really the information was of great use to him. And Dr. Parker was not ungrateful. Neither mentally nor financially. I mean, that while he really liked the bold, well-built lad, with his fair hair and his freckled cheeks, he considered it his duty to pay him a weekly sum for his services. The doctor had a right good heart under his waistcoat. But he had one other reason for giving Barclay a wage: Mrs. Stuart lived in a rather small, but pretty cottage half-way up the wooded hill behind the village. She had been wealthy in her time, but her husband died, and lo! she suddenly found herself bereft of all the luxuries she had been used to. She had enough to buy the humble cot in which she now dwelt, and enough and no more to keep the wolf from the door. The whole household consisted of herself, her daughter Phœbe—younger than Barclay—Barclay himself, and a faithful old servant called Priscilla. She taught Phœbe herself; but the parson had taken Barclay’s education in hand, and a right clever and attentive

boy he turned out. At fourteen he really knew twice as much as any lad in the village of his own age.

Now Dr. Parker knew very well that the Stuarts were in straitened circumstances, and so he gave to Barclay for work done what he dared not have offered his mother in charity.

Living so close to the sea, and being so frequently{7} out with the fishermen, it is no wonder that he loved the ocean. He had a spice of romance in his character, and he was really speaking the truth from his very heart when, while swimming, as he did every morning, he would quote from Byron’s “Childe Harold” and say, with more enthusiasm perhaps than good elocution,

But let us return to that evening when, in the gloaming, we found young Barclay Stuart marching along from the cliffs with his fish on a string, and singing a bit of a song to himself.

There is always some good in the heart of that boy who can sing, unless indeed he sings the low, non-melodious chants of music-halls.

Presently Barclay stopped and looked at his catch.

“One, two, three—why, eleven altogether, all codlings, except two little red rock piggies;[1] won’t mother be pleased! The piggies mother and sister Phoebe can have; I’ll have a codling all to myself, and poor Priscilla won’t be forgotten.” He walked along at a brisker rate now till he remembered that he had not paid a visit to an old disused windmill that stood on a lonesome bluff some five hundred yards from Fisherton.{8}

“I’ll just have time to run that distance and see if the great white owl is at home. She knows that I know of her nest and her round white eggs, but she knows I won’t take them.”

Off he set.

There was twilight enough to see about him yet.

“They do say,” he muttered to himself, “there is a ghost in the old windmill. But my mother says, ‘It is all nonsense, child,’ and I would rather believe her than all the old wives in Fisherton.”

It will be observed that Barclay had a habit of talking to himself, as most sentimental lads who have few companions have.

He soon came in sight of the deserted windmill, towering black and dismal against the orange-yellow horizon.

He vaulted over the stile, and was quickly close up to the mysterious-looking structure. His friend the great white owl flew out from her nest and greeted him with her mournful call—

“Twhoo—whoo—whoo—whoo—oo—oo!”

Well, it was the best song the poor thing could sing, and Barclay liked to hear it.

The boy walked round the windmill just once. The great sailless, outstretched arms of the mill looked dark and weird against the sky as he gazed upwards, and he was just preparing to go, when to his surprise he perceived light glimmering through the seams of the old door.

His heart beat almost audibly, a cold perspiration{9} burst out on his brow, and his legs for a moment could barely support him.

But some instinct, which I cannot explain, caused him to almost throw himself against the door and dash it open.

If terror had seized him before, it was redoubled now. I am not sure indeed that the poor boy’s hair did not stir under his cap.

And little wonder either!

Here, before his round, staring eyes, stood against the farthest off wall a little rickety table, on which burned a single candle, stuck in a block of wood, and beside it on a stool a strange, strange little old man—or was it an apparition?

The creature looked up in wonder.

Poor young Barclay had just time to stammer out the words—

“Oh—h—are you the gho—gho—gho—ghost?”

Then he fainted and fell.{10}

CHAPTER II AT THE OLD WINDMILL

When Barclay Stuart again opened his eyes he found himself lying on a pallet of straw, and kneeling beside him the strange, weird little man whom he had mistaken for a ghost. He was bathing the boy’s brow with cold water.

“Better now, aren’t you, dearie?”

“Ye—es, but where am I?”

“Oh, in the old windmill.”

“And how did I come here?”

“Well, that I just can’t tell, you see. On your legs, I suppose. They are strong and sturdy ones, anyhow.”

“And you’re not really a—a—ghost?”

“Ghost? Never a ghost. You see, lad, one wants to be dead before he adopts the profession of ghost; and I’ve never been dead at all yet, though I’ve been pretty near death’s door more than once. Shake hands. There, that doesn’t feel like a ghost’s hand, does it?”

“No, I was a little fool to be frightened; but I’m better now. Is it dark? I want to get home to mother and Phœbe.”

“So you shall, dearie; and there is a great big, big yellow moon to let you see your way.{11}”

The boy’s face brightened at once. “I’ll have such a romantic story to tell mother and Phœbe when I get home,” he said laughingly.

The queer little man laughed too.

“I think,” he said, “you’re a clever boy. Who is Phœbe?”

“Oh, Phœbe is my sister, you know. And we live high up the hill yonder, in the white little cottage among the green, green trees and the wild flowers.”

“And what does your father do?”

“Oh, I don’t know what he does now.”

“Has he gone away, then?”

“Yes, years and years ago. He went to heaven, you know, and I don’t know what they do there.”

“Poor boy!”

“And we used to be very rich when I was young, and had lots of carriages, and lots of fine things, but now——”

The lad sighed, and a tear glistened in his eye.

“Now,” he added, with all the frankness of boyhood, “I think mother is just pretty poor, though she never says so.”

“Well, now I must let you go. Will you come and see me here to-morrow at twelve?”

“What! do you live here?”

“No, but I’m going to.”

The boy opened his blue eyes very widely indeed, and stared wonderingly at the little man.

“What! live in an old windmill?{12}”

“Yes, lad, yes. I’m a student, you know, and I want quiet, and this old house will just suit me. I’m going to work out some wonderful problems. Then I’m going to make a big, big fortune. And pray, boy, what are you going to be?”

“Well, you know, Dr. Parker wants to take me as an apprentice, but I don’t like nasty physic, and so I’m going to be a sailor.

“You know that verse, sir, I suppose. But it isn’t fresh at all. It’s dreadfully salt, because when I have fallen off a rock I have swallowed big mouthfuls of the water, and oh, it was nasty!

“Yet I love the sea all the same, and the beautiful birds that go skimming and wheeling over it or float on the blue smooth water. Oh, shouldn’t I like to be a sea-bird, just. That is, you know,” he added, after a pause, “if mother and Phœbe could be sea-birds too. Then we would all fly away together and be happy ever after.”

The queer little man laughed.

It wasn’t an ordinary laugh his. It was a kind of weird cachinnation in a piping voice. I have heard just such laughter proceeding from the dark recesses of gloomy forests in Africa. Birds, perhaps. Perhaps apes or baboons. But this little man’s voice seemed to be far, far older than himself.

“And now, dearie,” he said, “do you feel strong enough to go home?{13}”

“Oh yes.”

“Shall I help you up?”

“No, sir, I’m a man. I’m fourteen.” Then he sprang to his feet and prepared to start.

“Good night, dearie.”

“Good night, sir.” And away went Barclay Stuart.

I think he ran home all the way at a kind of swinging trot.

“My dear Barclay,” said his mother, “we were feeling so uneasy about you.”

“Ah! but see what a string of fish I have. And they were all so hungry. And—so am I, mother. Oh, I’ve such a jolly queer adventure to tell you about. But I’m so hungry, I must keep it till after supper.”

Phœbe was a child of ten, with hazel eyes and long flowing locks of beautiful auburn hair.

She had had her supper long ago, but she must needs sit down opposite her brother to talk or prattle to him and see him eat. This little lass had a skin like alabaster, as auburn-haired girls nearly always have. But her cheeks were rosy, and so were her lips.

A most intelligent child, and always cheerful and full of merriness and life.

Phœbe thought there was no one in all the wide, wide world half so clever, so brave and handsome, as her brother Barclay, and the boy fully reciprocated the fondness she bestowed upon him.

Well, as soon as supper was over Barclay got a foot{14}stool and sat down by the fireside by his mother’s knees. Phœbe squatted on the hearthrug beside the great honest-faced tabby. Then the lad told them all about his adventure in the old windmill. He told his little story graphically, and embellished it almost theatrically, but he spoke nothing but the truth.

When he finished by saying that he was going to meet the little man next day at twelve, a shade of uneasiness spread over Mrs. Stuart’s face.

“I think, Barc,” she said, “you had better not go. Who can tell what this strange being may be?”

“Oh, he’s not a ghost anyhow, mother. His hand is as hard as yours or mine, and you could run right through a ghost, you know.”

“No, boy, I didn’t mean that he might be a ghost, but he may be some evil man.”

“Oh no, mother. He was so, so kind and gentle, and besides, I promised.”

“Well, dear boy, if you did promise, you must go, and I know you’ll take care of yourself. Now, Priscilla, if you’ll bring the Book we’ll have prayers.”