Chapter One.

The Surat Castle—Our Hero—A Rough Night in the Atlantic—After the Gale—Land ho!

In the early summer of the year of grace 1844 the Surat Castle, a fine clipper barque of 400 tons burthen, left the London docks on a voyage to the Cape of Good Hope, with a valuable cargo and several passengers, including a small draft of volunteers and recruits for the Saint Helena regiment. The Surat Castle traded regularly between the port of London and Table Bay, and so well-known was she as a fast-sailing, seaworthy vessel, with excellent accommodation, and such was the popularity and reputation of her commander and part-owner, Captain John Ladds, that many Cape gentlemen, who had occasion to make the trip to the old country and back every two or three years, preferred taking their passage in her rather than in the ordinary mail-packets.

Amongst the cabin passengers who were now returning to the Cape in the Surat Castle was a good-looking lad of sixteen—a fine, well-built youngster, with a cleanness of make and shape that bespoke muscular strength and activity combined, and whose sun-burned healthy face and clear well-set eye bore ample evidence that he was in capital condition; in fact, sound in wind as well as limb.

Thomas Flinders, for that was the lad’s name, was the only son of a retired major of the Cape Mounted Riflemen, who had, with the money realised by the sale of his commission, purchased a farm in the neighbourhood of Cape Town, and there settled down with his family, “turning his sword into a ploughshare.” On this farm Master Tom first saw the light of day, and there he lived until within a few weeks of his eleventh birthday, when Major Flinders, finding that his son and heir was becoming somewhat troublesome and self-willed, packed him off to England to be educated at Rugby, under the great and good Doctor Arnold, who was then in the zenith of his fame. Five years of public-school life—three under Doctor Arnold (Arnold died in 1842), and two under his successor—worked wonders with young Flinders, and developed him into a plucky, straightforward English lad, full of fun and exuberant spirits, but without a spark of vice in his composition; a gentleman in the truest and noblest sense of the word, holding in hearty contempt aught that savoured of meanness or “bad form.” Nor had the lad’s physical education been neglected, for he became a very fair hand at most outdoor games and sports; from fives to football, from quoits to hare-and-hounds, and could play rough-and-tumble with any boy of his own weight. And now Tom Flinders, having imbibed the regulation quantum of Latin and Greek and a modicum of mathematics, together with a very proper notion of his position as an ex-school-house boy and a member of the upper-fifth, had left Rugby for good, and was returning to the land of his birth under the nominal charge of Captain Ladds, who was an old friend of the major’s.

The early part of the voyage of the Surat Castle was unmarked by any incident worth recording. Stress of weather detained her in the Downs for some few days, but once clear of the Channel she met with favourable winds and (except in the Bay of Biscay) smooth seas, and so made a quick run to the island of Saint Helena, where she anchored off James Town in order to disembark her military passengers and replenish her fresh-water tanks and sea stock. At Saint Helena Tom had the opportunity of enjoying a run ashore and of visiting the empty tomb of the great Napoleon Buonaparte, whose remains had recently been removed from beneath the weeping-willows in Slane’s Valley (whither, nineteen years before, they had been carried by the grenadiers of the 66th Regiment) to their honoured resting-place within the walls of the Invalides.

But the Surat Castle remained at anchor only a short time, for as soon as the soldiers were clear of the ship, and the fresh provisions and water had been taken on board, Captain Ladds put to sea and shaped his course for Table Bay.

On the sixth evening after the barque left Saint Helena there was every indication of a change for the worse in the weather; away to the north-east the clouds were thick and threatening at sundown, and Captain Ladds, judging that a heavy gale lay behind them, ordered sail to be reduced. The breeze stiffening into a gale, everything was made snug for the night; the top-gallant masts and yards sent down, preventer-braces rove, the hatches battened down, and dead-lights shipped—preparations which bespoke no good tidings to the passengers; many of whom retired to their berths at a much earlier hour than usual. Nor did these preparations prove unnecessary, for gradually the wind increased until it blew with almost hurricane force, and before long the Surat Castle was scudding under bare poles, not a stitch of canvas showing, her storm-sails having been blown from their bolt-ropes or split into ribands.

The storm raged throughout the long hours of the night with undiminished fury, the lightning darting forth from the dark clouds illumined the whole firmament, and the thunder rolled continuously; whilst the sea, running mountains high, threatened every instant to engulf the gallant barque.

Tom Flinders had remained on deck, not caring to go to his cabin. This was the first big storm he had experienced, and he stood watching the gigantic and angry billows with mingled interest and awe.

“You had much better go below and turn in, my boy,” said Captain Ladds kindly, as a huge wave “pooped” the barque, and, sweeping along the deck, drenched Tom to the skin. “We have not had the worst of it yet, I can assure you. You might get washed overboard like poor Jennings was just now.”

“What! the bos’un?” exclaimed Tom, who was clinging to the brass handrail of the companion. “I am sorry to hear that! Do you think there’s much danger, Captain Ladds?” he added. “If so, I’d rather stop on deck—that is if you don’t object. I shouldn’t like to be drowned like a rat in a hole!”

Before the captain could reply to his young friend’s question a tremendous squall, with a shift of the wind, struck the barque, and immediately afterwards another heavy sea broke over her weather quarter, causing her to shiver from stem to stern. The half-doors of the companion burst open, and poor Tom, losing his grasp of the handrail, shot down the ladder head foremost, whilst it was only by a supreme effort that Captain Ladds saved himself from a similar mishap.

“The boy must have broken his neck!” was the captain’s anxious exclamation when he recovered himself. “Below there!” he continued, raising his voice and peering down the hatch. “Steward! Jackson, see to Mr Flind— oh, there you are, Tom! Are you much hurt?”

“Made my nose bleed, that’s all,” Tom replied, picking himself up. “I landed on a heap of blankets and was then pitched against the pantry-door. All the same I sha’n’t come on deck again; I think I had better turn in.”

“I think so too,” was the rejoinder. “A pretty figure you’ll cut to-morrow morning! Good night!”

“Good night, captain!” replied Tom, mopping away at his nose; and off he staggered to his berth.

It blew “great guns” for the next fifty-six hours, and the unfortunate passengers—Tom Flinders included—were reduced to a state of misery pitiable to behold. One and all were frightfully ill, and the steward and his assistant were run off their legs, and could no longer attend to their duties. The cabin now presented a scene of confusion and disorder that contrasted woefully with its usual comfortable appearance; the floor was strewn with the débris of the breakfast and dinner services—shattered plates and dishes, cups and saucers, glasses and decanters, whilst the piano had fetched away from the ring-bolts and lay on its “beam ends” with its front stove in.

At length the weather began to moderate, the heavy storm-laden clouds rolled away, and on the fourth night of the gale the stars shone out bright and clear. The wind continued to slacken, and the sea to go down, until dawn of day, when the sun rose once more in all his wonted splendour, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

At noon Captain Ladds and his chief mate brought out their quadrants and took an observation, when it was found that the storm had driven the barque far out of her course; much further indeed than the captain had thought. However, there was no help for it, the lost ground must be recovered, so all hands set to work to repair damages, and after many hours’ arduous toil through the night the Surat Castle had once more a taut ship-shape appearance, and was running before a favourable breeze which most opportunely sprang up in the morning.

And now by twos and threes the passengers appeared on deck to breathe again the invigorating sea air. Very pale and woebegone did those helpless mortals look, and listless was the manner in which they lolled about, until they were suddenly startled into a semblance of life and action by the unexpected cry:

“Land! land on the port bow!”

Chapter Two.

The Desert Island—A Happy Release.

The land, thus unexpectedly reported in sight, proved to be a small rocky island, which the second mate, after a careful examination through his glass, declared was inhabited.

“My eyes don’t often play me false,” said that officer to Captain Ladds, who had followed him into the fore-top; “and I’m a’most sartin that I can make out people moving about on yonder shore. Please to look for yourself, sir,” he added, handing his glass to the skipper.

“Yes—no—and yet—yes, I’m inclined to think you are right, Weatherhelm,” said Captain Ladds, bringing the mate’s glass to bear on the island. “But my eyesight is not so good as it was ten years ago, and I cannot be positive.”

“Ay, but I am, sir,” retorted the mate, who was a thorough outspoken “salt” of the old school; one who, having “come in through the hawse-holes,” had worked his way to his present position by acquiring a sound practical knowledge of his profession, and attending strictly to his duties. “It’s possible that the crew of some craft—probably a whaler, for we’re pretty well out o’ the track of other vessels—have been cast away there.”

“Quite possible,” the captain assented, “and we will stand in a little closer. It is our duty to make sure whether such is the case; for we have been mercifully preserved through one of the worst gales that I have ever experienced, and should therefore be all the more ready to render assistance to those who have been less fortunate.”

“That’s truth, sir,” rejoined old Weatherhelm, as they descended the fore-rigging, “and ’tis a pity that others don’t see things in the same light as you do. We hear a sight too much of distressed vessels being passed by, by those who could help ’em if they’d only the will.”

So the barque’s course was altered, and she stood towards the island.

When the passengers heard that there was reason to suppose the island was inhabited, their recent sufferings were forgotten in their excitement; and many and marvellous were the speculations amongst them, as to who, and what, the mysterious islanders could be.

One old gentleman declared that they must be savages—probably cannibals—and expressed his decided opinion that the captain had no business to go near them; he was immediately, and most deservedly, snubbed by the ladies, whereupon he retired to his cabin in high dudgeon. Another suggestion was, that some of the passengers and crew of the ocean steamer President (which left New York in March, 1841, and was never seen or heard of afterwards) might have escaped and got ashore on the island; and this notion found great favour with the fair sex, until Captain Ladds, on being appealed to, hinted that they were a few degrees too far to the southward to expect to fall in with any survivors of the long-missing ship—even if such survivors existed, which was not within the bounds of probability.

“No, my friends, there can be very little doubt that the President foundered off the banks of Newfoundland,” said he, with a mournful shake of the head; “and that poor Roberts and his crew and passengers went down in her. If there are people on yonder island, they will most likely prove to be the crew of some Yankee whaler.”

As the Surat Castle approached the island all doubt as to its being inhabited was dispelled, for standing on the summit of a conical rock were three wild-looking individuals frantically waving their arms. The barque was then hove-to, and one of the quarter-boats lowered.

“May I go in her, Captain Ladds?” asked Tom Flinders, all alive at the prospect of an adventure.

“Very well, my boy; only don’t get into mischief,” replied the good-natured skipper. “Remember that I promised your good mother to keep an eye upon you, and unless I can hand you over with a whole skin, I shall not dare show my nose at Rustenburg Farm.”

“No fear of my coming to grief, sir,” laughed Tom, as he went down the side and seated himself in the stern-sheets of the boat. “They taught us to take care of ourselves at Rugby!”

“But not to keep your legs in a gale of wind!” retorted Captain Ladds. “Don’t forget the header you took down the companion-ladder, young man! Are you ready, Mr Weatherhelm?”

“All ready, sir.”

“Then shove off, if you please; and mind that you are cautious in approaching the island.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” responded the officer. And at his command the bowman pushed off, and the sailors, bending to their oars, sent the light boat through the smooth water in a style that would not have discredited a man-o’-war’s crew.

It was now discovered that the land consisted of two low-lying rocky islets, divided by a narrow channel, the entrance to which was barred by a dangerous reef, over which the waves broke with considerable force; the southmost of the islets terminating in a lofty “sugar-loaf” peak. When within a hundred yards of the shore, Mr Weatherhelm ordered his men to rest on their oars, while he looked out for a likely spot to run the boat ashore. Just then a tall, gaunt man appeared from behind the sugar-loaf rock, and hailing the boat, pointed to a narrow strip of beach some yards away to his left.

“You can land there,” he shouted, in a husky voice. “Steer between those rocks right ahead of you—port a little—steady! now give way!”

The next moment the boat’s keel grated on the shingle, and the man ran forward to meet it. He was followed by a lad, apparently about Tom’s own age, and a young girl of eleven or twelve, whose long fair hair hung down her back almost to her waist, its golden colour contrasting strangely with her skin, which was so tanned by exposure to the fierce rays of the tropical sun, that the child was as brown as any gypsy.

The poor creatures looked thin and careworn; their cheeks were hollow, their eyes were unnaturally bright, and wore an anxious expression of mingled hope and doubt—an expression rarely seen except in the faces of those whose hearts have been sickened by hope long deferred. Their only garments consisted of a sack-like tunic made of goat-skin which reached some inches below the knee, but left the arms and neck bare.

With what delight and emotion did the castaways welcome their rescuers!

“Are you alone on this island?” inquired Mr Weatherhelm, wrapping his pea-jacket round the girl’s shoulders.

“We are,” the man answered, tears of joy and thankfulness coursing down his sunken, weather-beaten cheeks. “These are my children, and here have we been for more than twelve weary months. My name is Weston, and I was owner and commander of the Sea-mew, whaler, which was wrecked on this island after the crew deserted her.”

“Just what I thought!” exclaimed the old mate. “But we mustn’t waste time palavering; get your traps together—”

“They are here,” interrupted Mr Weston, holding up a battered tin deed-box. “This is all I care to bring away.”

“Then jump into the boat and let’s be off,” cried Weatherhelm. “Now, Missy! I’ll take care of you.”

The castaways needed no second bidding, and in another half-hour they found themselves safe on board the Surat Castle.

Captain Ladds received the unfortunate strangers with the utmost kindness, expressing his deep commiseration at their sorry condition, and heartily congratulating them on their providential release from their seagirt prison. Mr Weston thanked him in broken tones, but was too overcome with feelings of emotion to say very much, and presently he asked that he and his children might be allowed to retire to rest; so the captain took him down to his own cabin, whilst the lady passengers carried off the little girl, and Tom Flinders marched the boy to his single state-room, and insisted on his taking possession of the only berth.

Chapter Three.

Tom Flinders is reminded of the old saying—“The World is very small.”

The sun was high in the heavens when young Weston awoke next morning, and on turning his face to the light, the first object that his eyes rested upon was Master Tom Flinders, seated on a portmanteau, regarding him with pitiful looks.

“Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed our hero, colouring red as a turkey-cock, at being thus caught staring; “how do you find yourself this morning? You’ve had a jolly long caulk!”

For a moment young Weston appeared a little confused; but he quickly recollected the joyful events of the previous day, and feeling much refreshed by his protracted sleep, replied that he was all right, and would like to get up and go on deck.

“All serene!” said Tom; “turn out by all means; and while you’re washing, I’ll see what can be done in the way of clothes. There’s some water in the basin, and there’s my sponge and towels. It’s too late for you to have a tub, for the bath-room boy goes off duty at ten, and it’s now close on twelve.”

“Then I must have slept nearly twice the round of the clock!” cried the other in surprise.

“Going on that way,” laughed Tom, diving into his portmanteau and fishing out several garments. “My ‘duds’ are most of them packed away in my trunks,” he went on, “and they, you know, are down in the hold with the rest of the heavy luggage; but I’ll do my best to turn you out respectably. By the way, what’s your name?”

“George—George Maurice Weston.”

“Well, George, here’s a pair of white flannel ‘bags,’ and a ditto shirt—they’re my old cricketing ‘togs;’ but I thought they’d come in useful during the voyage, and so left ’em out. Here’s a jacket, rather the worse for wear, and that stupid fellow, the second steward, capsized a plate of soup over it the other night—see, there are the stains, down the right shoulder and arm! But you won’t mind that?”

“Not a bit,” put in George, taking the unlucky garment. “I’ve learnt not to be over particular.”

“There’s a collar, a cravat, and a pair of socks; and there’s a pair of shoes—nice, easy ones, too. Now, look alive, old chap; slip ’em on, and then we’ll go and get some grub.”

Rattling on in this manner, Tom helped his new friend to dress—or fitted him out “from truck to kelson,” as he expressed it; for Tom had become very nautical in his language since he joined the Surat Castle—and then surveyed him with a critical eye.

“Come, that’s not so bad! you look less like an ancient Briton now,” said he, crowning young Weston with a cricket cap upon which was embroidered the school-house badge. “Feel a bit queer though at first, eh, George Maurice?”

“Rather so,” George answered, wriggling himself. “The shoes and socks are the worst. You see I’ve gone barefoot for such a precious long time. However, I shall no doubt get accustomed to them in a day or two.”