The Red Eric by R. M. Ballantyne (world of reading txt) 📖

perilous nature, and one which, in any other than the hopeless circumstances in which they were placed at that time, would have been regarded as the most desperate of forlorn hopes.

For fourteen souls to be tossed about on the wide and stormy sea, during many weeks, it might be months, in a small open boat, crowded together and cramped, without sufficient covering, and on short allowance of food, was indeed a dreary prospect, even for the men—how much more so for the delicate child who shared their trials and sufferings? Captain Dunning’s heart sank within him when he thought of it; but he knew how great an influence the conduct and bearing of a commander has, in such circumstances, on his men; so he strove to show a smiling, cheerful countenance, though oftentimes he carried a sad and anxious heart in his bosom. To the doctor and Tim Rokens alone did he reveal his inmost thoughts, because he knew that he could trust them, and felt that he needed their advice and sympathy.

The work progressed so rapidly, that in a few days more the boat approached completion, and preparations were being made in earnest for finally quitting the little isle on which they had found a home for so many days.

It was observed by the captain that as the work of boat-building drew to a close, Glynn Proctor continued to labour long after the others had retired to rest, wearied with the toils of the day—toils which they were not now so well able to bear as heretofore, on account of the slight want of vigour caused by being compelled to live on half allowance.

One evening the captain went down to the building yard in Fairyland, and said to Glynn—

“Hallo, my boy! at it yet? Why, what are you making? A dog-kennel, eh?”

“No; not exactly that,” replied Glynn, laughing. “You’ll hardly guess.”

“I would say it was a house for Jacko, only it seems much too big.”

“It’s just possible that Jacko may have a share in it,” said Glynn; “but it’s not for him.”

“Who, then? Not for yourself, surely!”

“It’s for Ailie,” cried Glynn gleefully. “Don’t you think it will be required?” he added, looking up, as if he half feared the captain would not permit his contrivance to be used.

“Well, I believe it will, my boy. I had intended to get some sort of covering for my dear Ailie put up in the stern-sheets; but I did not think of absolutely making a box for her.”

“Ah, you’ll find it will be a capital thing at nights. I know she could never stand the exposure, and canvas don’t keep out the rain well; so I thought of rigging up a large box, into which she can creep. I’ll make air-holes in the roof that will let in air, but not water; and I’ll caulk the seams with oakum, so as to keep it quite dry inside.”

“Thank you, my boy, it’s very kind of you to take so much thought for my poor child. Yet she deserves it, Glynn, and we can’t be too careful of her.”

The captain patted the youth on the shoulder, and, leaving him to continue his work, went to see Gurney, who had been ailing a little during the last few days. Brandy, in small quantities, had been prescribed by the doctor, and, fortunately, two bottles of that spirit had been swept from the wreck. Being their whole stock, Captain Dunning had stowed it carefully away in what he deemed a secret and secure place; but it turned out that some member of the crew was not so strict in his principles of temperance as could be desired; for, on going to the spot to procure the required medicine, it was found that one of the bottles was gone.

This discovery caused the captain much anxiety and sorrow, for, besides inflicting on them the loss of a most valuable medicine, it proved that there was a thief in their little society.

What was to be done? To pass it over in silence would have shown weakness, which, especially in the circumstances in which they were at that time placed, might have led at last to open mutiny. To discover the thief was impossible. The captain’s mind was soon made up. He summoned every one of the party before him, and, after stating the discovery he had made, he said—

“Now, lads, I’m not going to charge any of you with having done this thing, but I cannot let it pass without warning you that if I discover any of you being guilty of such practices in future, I’ll have the man tied up and give him three dozen with a rope’s-end. You know I have never resorted, as many captains are in the habit of doing, to corporal punishment. I don’t like it. I’ve sailed in command of ships for many years, and have never found it needful; but now, more than ever, strict discipline must be maintained; and I tell you, once for all, that I mean to maintain it at any cost.”

This speech was received in silence. All perceived the justice of it, yet some felt that, until the thief should be discovered, they themselves would lie under suspicion. A few there were, indeed, whose well-known and long-established characters raised them above suspicion, but there were others who knew that their character had not yet been established on so firm a basis, and they felt that until the matter should be cleared up, their honesty would be, mentally at least, called in question by their companions.

With the exception of the disposition to mutiny related in a previous chapter, this was the first cloud that had risen to interrupt the harmony of the shipwrecked sailors, and as they returned to their work, sundry suggestions and remarks were made in reference to the possibility of discovering the delinquent.

“I didn’t think it wos poss’ble,” said Rokens. “I thought as how there wasn’t a man in the ship as could ha’ done sich a low, mean thing as that.”

“No more did I,” said Dick Barnes.

“Wall, boys,” observed Nikel Sling emphatically, “I guess as how that I don’t believe it yet.”

“Arrah! D’ye think the bottle o’ brandy stole his-self?” inquired Briant.

“I ain’t a-goin’ fur to say that; but a ghost might ha’ done it, p’raps, a-purpose to get us into a scrape.”

There was a slight laugh at this, and from that moment the other men suspected that Sling was the culprit. The mere fact of his being the first to charge the crime upon any one else—even a ghost—caused them, in spite of themselves, to come to this conclusion. They did not, however, by word or look, show what was passing in their minds, for the Yankee was a favourite with his comrades, and each felt unwilling that his suspicion should prove to be correct.

“I don’t agree with you,” said Tarquin, who feared that suspicion might attach to himself, seeing that he had been the ringleader in the recent mutiny; “I don’t believe that ghosts drink.”

“Och! that’s all ye know!” cried Phil Briant. “Av ye’d only lived a month or two in Owld Ireland, ye’d have seen raison to change yer mind, ye would. Sure I’ve seed a ghost the worse o’ liquor meself.”

“Oh! Phil, wot a stunner!” cried Gurney.

“It’s as true as me name’s Phil Briant—more’s the pity. Did I niver tell ye o’ the Widdy Morgan, as had a ghost come to see her frequently?”

“No, never—let’s hear it.”

“Stop that noise with yer hammer, then, Tim Rokens, jist for five minutes, and I’ll tell it ye.”

The men ceased work for a few minutes while their comrade spoke as follows—

“It’s not a long story, boys, but it’s long enough to prove that ghosts drink.

“Ye must know that wance upon a time there wos a widdy as lived in a small town in the county o’ Clare, in Owld Ireland, an’ oh! but that was the place for drinkin’ and fightin’. It wos there that I learned to use me sippers; and it wos there, too, that I learned to give up drinkin’, for I comed for to see what a mighty dale o’ harm it did to my poor countrymen. The sexton o’ the place was the only man as niver wint near the grog-shop, and no wan iver seed him overtook with drink, but it was a quare thing that no wan could rightly understand why he used to smell o’ drink very bad sometimes. There wos a young widdy in that town, o’ the name o’ Morgan, as kep’ a cow, an’ owned a small cabin, an’ a patch o’ tater-ground about the size o’ the starn sheets of our owld long-boat. She wos a great deal run after, wos this widdy—not that the young lads had an eye to the cow, or the cabin, or the tater-estate, by no manes—but she wos greatly admired, she wos. I admired her meself, and wint to see her pretty fraquent. Well, wan evenin’ I wint to see her, an’ says I, ‘Mrs Morgan, did ye iver hear the bit song called the Widdy Machree?’ ‘Sure I niver did,’ says she. ‘Would ye like to hear it, darlint?’ says I. So she says she would, an’ I gave it to her right off; an’ when I’d done, says I, ‘Now, Widdy Morgan, ochone! will ye take me?’ But she shook her head, and looked melancholy. ‘Ye ain’t a-goin’ to take spasms?’ said I, for I got frightened at her looks. ‘No,’ says she; ‘but there’s a sacret about me; an’ I like ye too well, Phil, to decaive ye; if ye only know’d the sacret, ye wouldn’t have me at any price.’

“‘Wouldn’t I?’ says I; ‘try me, cushla, and see av I won’t.’

“‘Phil Briant,’ says she, awful solemn like, ‘I’m haunted.’

“‘Haunted!’ says I; ‘’av coorse ye are, bliss yer purty face; don’t I know that ivery boy in the parish is after ye?’

“‘It’s not that I mane. It’s a ghost as haunts me. It haunts me cabin, and me cow, and me tater-estate; an’ it drinks.’

“‘Now, darlint,’ says I, ‘everybody knows yer aisy frightened about ghosts. I don’t belave in one meself, an’ I don’t mind ’em a farden dip; but av all the ghosts in Ireland haunted ye, I’d niver give ye up.’

“‘Will ye come an’ see it this night?’ says she.

“‘Av coorse I will,’ says I. An’ that same night I wint to her cabin, and she let me in, and put a candle on the table, an’ hid me behind a great clock, in a corner jist close by the cupboard, where the brandy-bottle lived. Then she lay down on her bed with her clo’s on, and pulled the coverlid over her, and pretinded to go to slape. In less nor half-an-hour I hears a fut on the doorstep; then a tap at the door, which opened, it seemed to me, of its own accord, and in walks the ghost, sure enough! It was covered all over from head to fut in a white sheet, and I seed by the way it walked that it wos the worse of drink. I wos in a mortal fright, ye may be sure, an’ me knees shuk to that extint ye might have heard them rattle. The ghost walks straight up to the cupboard, takes out the brandy-bottle, and fills out a whole tumbler quite full, and drinks it off; it did, the baste, ivery dhrop. I seed it with me two eyes, as sure as I’m a-standin’ here. It came into the house drunk, an’ it wint out drunker nor it came in.”

“Is that all?” exclaimed several of Briant’s auditors.

“All! av coorse it is. Wot more would ye have? Didn’t I say that I’d tell ye a story as would prove to ye that ghosts drink, more especially Irish ghosts? To be sure it turned out afterwards that the ghost was the sexton o’ the parish as took advantage o’ the poor widdy’s fears; but