Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (free e reader txt) 📖

Schopenhauer's Metaphysical

Propensity With Man.

 

The Familiar Aphorism Of Statius:  Primus In Orbe Deos Fecit

Timor,  Points To The Relation Of Animism First To The Belief

In Ghosts,  Thence To Polytheism,  And Ultimately To

Monotheism.  I Must Apologise To Those Of The Transcendental

School Who,  Like Max Muller For Instance (Introduction To The

'Science Of Religion'),  Hold That We Have 'A Primitive

Intuition Of God'; Which,  After All,  The Professor Derives, 

Like Many Others,  From The 'Yearning For Something That

Neither Sense Nor Reason Can Supply'; And From The Assumption

That 'There Was In The Heart Of Man From The Very First A

Feeling Of Incompleteness,  Of Weakness,  Of Dependency,  &C.' 

All This,  I Take It,  Is Due To The Aspirations Of A Much

Later Creature Than The 'Pithecanthropus Erectus,' To Whom We

Here Refer.

 

Probably Spirits And Ghosts Were Originally Of An Evil Kind. 

Sir John Lubbock ('The Origin Of Civilisation') Says:  'The

Baying Of The Dog To The Moon Is As Much An Act Of Worship As

Some Ceremonies Which Have Been So Described By Travellers.' 

I Think He Would Admit That Fear Is The Origin Of The

Worship.  In His Essay On 'Superstition,' Hume Writes: 

'Weakness,  Fear,  Melancholy,  Together With Ignorance,  Are The

True Sources Of Superstition.'  Also 'In Such A State Of

Mind,  Infinite Unknown Evils Are Dreaded From Unknown

Agents.'

 

Man's Impotence To Resist The Forces Of Nature,  And Their

Terrible Ability To Injure Him,  Would Inspire A Sense Of

Terror; Which In Turn Would Give Rise To The Twofold Notion

Of Omnipotence And Malignity.  The Savage Of The Present Day

Lives In Perpetual Fear Of Evil Spirits; And The

Superstitious Dread,  Which I And Most Others Have Suffered, 

Is Inherited From Our Savage Ancestry.  How Much Further Back

We Must Seek It May Be Left To The Sage Philosophers Of The

Future.

 

 

Chapter 7 Pg 35

 

 

The Next Winter We Lay For A Couple Of Months Off Chinhai, 

Which We Had Stormed,  Blockading The Mouth Of The Ningpo

River.  Here,  I Regret To Think,  I Committed An Act Which Has

Often Haunted My Conscience As A Crime; Although I Had

Frequently Promised The Captain Of A Gun A Glass Of Grog To

Let Me Have A Shot,  And Was Mightily Pleased If Death And

Destruction Rewarded My Aim.

 

Off Chinhai,  Lorchers And Fast Sailing Junks Laden With

Merchandise Would Try To Run The Blockade Before Daylight. 

And It Sometimes Happened That We Youngsters Had A Long Chase

In A Cutter To Overhaul Them.  This Meant Getting Back To A

Nine Or Ten O'clock Breakfast At The End Of The Morning's

Watch; Equivalent To Five Or Six Hours' Duty On An Empty

Stomach.

 

One Cold Morning I Had A Hard Job To Stop A Small Junk.  The

Men Were Sweating At Their Oars Like Galley Slaves,  And

Muttering Curses At The Apparent Futility Of Their Labour.  I

Had Fired A Couple Of Shots From A 'Brown Bess' - The Musket

Of The Day - Through The Fugitive's Sails; And Fearing

Punishment If I Let Her Escape,  I Next Aimed At The Boat

Herself.  Down Came The Mainsail In A Crack.  When I Boarded

Our Capture,  I Found I Had Put A Bullet Through The Thigh Of

The Man At The Tiller.  Boys Are Not Much Troubled With

Scruples About Bloodguiltiness,  And Not Unfrequently Are Very

Cruel,  For Cruelty As A Rule (With Exceptions) Mostly

Proceeds From Thoughtlessness.  But When I Realised What I

Had Done,  And Heard The Wretched Man Groan,  I Was Seized With

Remorse For What,  At A More Hardened Stage,  I Should Have

Excused On The Score Of Duty.

 

It Was During This Blockade That The Accident,  Which I Have

Already Alluded To,  Befell My Dear Protector,  Jack Johnson.

 

One Night,  During His And My Middle Watch,  The Forecastle

Sentries Hailed A Large Sampan,  Like A Thames Barge,  Drifting

Down Stream And Threatening To Foul Us.  Sir Frederick

Nicholson,  The Officer Of The Watch,  Ordered Johnson To Take

The Cutter And Tow Her Clear.

 

I Begged Leave To Go With Him.  Sir Frederick Refused,  For He

At Once Suspected Mischief.  The Sampan Was Reached And

Diverted Just Before She Swung Athwart Our Bows.  But

Scarcely Was This Achieved,  When An Explosion Took Place.  My

Friend Was Knocked Over,  And One Or Two Of The Men Fell Back

Into The Cutter.  This Is What Had Happened:  Johnson Finding

No One In The Sampan,  Cautiously Raised One Of The Deck

Hatches With A Boat-Hook Before He Left The Cutter.  The Mine

(For Such It Proved) Was So Arranged That Examination Of This

Kind Drew A Lighted Match On To The Magazine,  Which Instantly 

Chapter 7 Pg 36

Exploded.

 

Poor Jack! What Was My Horror When We Got Him On Board! 

Every Trace Of His Handsome Features Was Gone.  He Was Alive, 

And That Seemed To Be All.  In A Few Minutes His Head And

Face Swelled So That All Was A Round Black Charred Ball.  One

Could Hardly See Where The Eyes Were,  Buried Beneath The

Powder-Ingrained And Incrusted Flesh.

 

For Weeks,  At Night,  I Used To Sit On A Chest Near His

Hammock,  Listening For His Slightest Movement,  Too Happy If

He Called Me For Something I Could Get Him.  In Time He

Recovered,  And Was Invalided Home,  And I Lost My Dear

Companion And Protector.  A Couple Of Years Afterwards I Had

The Happiness To Dine With Him On Board Another Ship In

Portsmouth,  No Longer In The Midshipman's Berth,  But In The

Wardroom.

 

Twice During This War,  The 'Blonde' Was Caught In A Typhoon. 

The First Time Was In Waters Now Famous,  But Then Unknown, 

The Gulf Of Liau-Tung,  In Full Sight Of China's Great Wall. 

We Were Twenty-Four Hours Battened Down,  And Under Storm

Staysails.  The 'Blenheim,' With Captain Elliott Our

Plenipotentiary On Board,  Was With Us,  And The One

Circumstance Left In My Memory Is The Sight Of A Line-Of-

Battle Ship Rolling And Pitching So That One Caught Sight Of

The Whole Of Her Keel From Stem To Stern As If She Had Been A

Fishing Smack.  We Had Been Wintering In The Yellow Sea,  And

At The Time I Speak Of Were On A Foraging Expedition Round

The Liau-Tung Peninsula.  Those Who Have Followed The Events

Of The Japanese War Will Have Noticed On The Map,  Not Far

North Of Ta-Lien-Wan In The Korean Bay,  Three Groups Of

Islands.  So Little Was The Geography Of These Parts Then

Known,  That They Had No Place On Our Charts.  On This Very

Occasion,  One Group Was Named After Captain Elliott,  One Was

Called The Bouchier Islands,  And The Other The Blonde

Islands.  The First Surveying Of The Two Latter Groups,  And

The Placing Of Them Upon The Map,  Was Done By Our Naval

Instructor,  And He Always Took Me With Him As His Assistant.

 

Our Second Typhoon Was While We Were At Anchor In Hong Kong

Harbour.  Those Who Have Knowledge Only Of The Gales,  However

Violent,  Of Our Latitudes,  Have No Conception Of What Wind-

Force Can Mount To.  To Be The Toy Of It Is Enough To Fill

The Stoutest Heart With Awe.  The Harbour Was Full Of

Transports,  Merchant Ships,  Opium Clippers,  Besides Four Or

Five Men-Of-War,  And A Steamer Belonging To The East India

Company - The First Steamship I Had Ever Seen.

 

The Coming Of A Typhoon Is Well Known To The Natives At Least

Twenty-Four Hours Beforehand,  And Every Preparation Is Made

For It.  Boats Are Dragged Far Up The Beach; Buildings Even

Are Fortified For Resistance.  Every Ship Had Laid Out Its

Anchors,  Lowered Its Yards,  And Housed Its Topmasts.  We Had 

Chapter 7 Pg 37

Both Bowers Down,  With Cables Paid Out To Extreme Length. 

The Danger Was Either In Drifting On Shore Or,  What Was More

Imminent,  Collision.  When Once The Tornado Struck Us There

Was Nothing More To Be Done; No Men Could Have Worked On

Deck.  The Seas Broke By Tons Over All; Boats Beached As

Described Were Lifted From The Ground,  And Hurled,  In Some

Instances,  Over The Houses.  The Air Was Darkened By The

Spray.

 

But Terrible As Was The Raging Of Wind And Water,  Far More

Awful Was The Vain Struggle For Life Of The Human Beings Who

Succumbed To It.  In A Short Time Almost All The Ships Except

The Men-Of-War,  Which Were Better Provided With Anchors, 

Began To Drift From Their Moorings.  Then Wreck Followed

Wreck.  I Do Not Think The 'Blonde' Moved; But From First To

Last We Were Threatened With The Additional Weight And Strain

Of A Drifting Vessel.  Had We Been So Hampered Our Anchorage

Must Have Given Way.  As A Single Example Of The Force Of A

Typhoon,  The 'Phlegethon' With Three Anchors Down,  And

Engines Working At Full Speed,  Was Blown Past Us Out Of The

Harbour.

 

One Tragic Incident I Witnessed,  Which Happened Within A Few

Fathoms Of The 'Blonde.'  An Opium Clipper Had Drifted

Athwart The Bow Of A Large Merchantman,  Which In Turn Was

Almost Foul Of Us.  In Less Than Five Minutes The Clipper

Sank.  One Man Alone Reappeared On The Surface.  He Was So

Close,  That From Where I Was Holding On And Crouching Under

The Lee Of The Mainmast I Could See The Expression Of His

Face.  He Was A Splendidly Built Man,  And His Strength And

Activity Must Have Been Prodigious.  He Clung To The Cable Of

The Merchantman,  Which He Had Managed To Clasp.  As The

Vessel Reared Between The Seas He Gained A Few Feet Before He

Was Again Submerged.  At Last He Reached The Hawse-Hole.  Had

He Hoped,  In Spite Of His Knowledge,  To Find It Large Enough

To Admit His Body?  He Must Have Known The Truth; And Yet He

Struggled On.  Did He Hope That,  When Thus Within Arms'

Length Of Men In Safety,  Some Pitying Hand Would Be Stretched

Out To Rescue Him,  - A Rope's End Perhaps Flung Out To Haul

Him Inboard?  Vain Desperate Hope!  He Looked Upwards:  An

Imploring Look.  Would Heaven Be More Compassionate Than Man? 

A Mountain Of Sea Towered Above His Head; And When Again The

Bow Was Visible,  The Man Was Gone For Ever.

 

Before Taking Leave Of My Seafaring Days,  I Must Say One Word

About Corporal Punishment.  Sir Thomas Bouchier Was A Good

Sailor,  A Gallant Officer,  And A Kind-Hearted Man; But He Was

One Of The Old School.  Discipline Was His Watchword,  And He

Endeavoured To Maintain It By Severity.  I Dare Say That,  On

An Average,  There Was A Man Flogged As Often As Once A Month

During The First Two Years The 'Blonde' Was In Commission.  A

Flogging On Board A Man-Of-War With A 'Cat,' The Nine Tails

Of Which Were Knotted,  And The Lashes Of Which Were Slowly

Delivered,  Up