The White Squall. John C. Hutcheson
Eastman than “the young rascal,” as the doctor persisted in naming me, “who tried to break his neck by galloping down Constitution Hill, but couldn’t because it was so tough!”
All this while, dad had said nothing to me either about selling the estate or of my going home to school; but one morning when I was able again to mount on the back of poor Prince, who had grown quite fat during his long stay in the stable, he told me that I might accompany him, if I liked, to Grenville Bay, on the other side of the island. Dad said that there was a large merchant vessel lying off there, loading sugar from one of the plantations, and he wished to consult the captain about sending home some bags of cocoa in her. He added, that we would probably have to go off to her in a boat.
This was about a week after the doctor had released me from my hammock-prison; so, as I had not as yet had a canter on Prince since my unlucky escapade, it may be imagined with what delight I prepared for the excursion, as, independently of the pleasure of a long country ride with dad, who was one of the jolliest companions anybody could be out with, I had never been on board a real ship before. I had frequently observed vessels at a distance from the shore, when anchored in the Carenage, as the harbour of Saint George is called, or else sailing round the coast inwards or outwards bound, but had never inspected one closely.
“Golly, Mass’ Tom, dis sight am good for sore eyes!” cried Jake, laughing from ear to ear with joy at seeing me well again. “Me nebber fought you ebber lift leg ober Prince again!”
“Oh, I’m all right,” I said gleefully, jumping into the saddle in my old style, the pony going off instanter at a canter in his customary way.
“Take care, Tom, take care!” cried my mother after me anxiously; so, to ease her alarm at my venturing too much for one who had so recently been an invalid, I reined in Prince, and as soon as dad had mounted Dandy, we started away at a steady jog-trot, Jake following up close behind the heels of the horses, with which he could at any time keep pace when put to it, even when we went at a gallop.
Dear me! I shall never forget that ride.
Part of our way was past a wide stretching extent of primeval forest that clothed the mountain-side with green. Here were wonderful specimens of trees, some of which would rival the oaks of England—aye, even those in Windsor great park! There was the sandbox, whose seeds are contained in an oval pod about the size of a penny roll; which when dry bursts like a shell, scattering its missiles about in every direction; the iron-wood tree, which turns the edge of any axe, and can only be brought low by fire; the caoutchouc-tree with its broad leaves and milk-white sap, the original source from which all our waterproof garments are made. Besides these were a host of others, such as the avocado pear, soursop, sapodilla, and sapota, all of which, in addition to their size and grand appearance, bear excellent fruit. But it would have puzzled anyone to explore this almost impenetrable forest growth without the aid of a cutlass to clear the path; for, tall vines, like ship’s cordage, hung from the limbs of the trees and knitted their branches together in the most inextricable fashion, the lianas rooting themselves down into the earth and then springing up again for fresh entanglements, in the same way as the banyan-tree of India spreads itself.
This was the outlook from one side only of our route. On the other were to be seen patches of sugar-cane, planted with almost mathematical regularity and looking like so many fields of some gigantic species of wheat; green plantations of cocoa, with their ripe yellow fruit showing out between the leaves, similar to that of ours at Mount Pleasant; and several detached gardens, where the negro squatters were cultivating their yams and tanias, or else preparing their farina for cassava from the root of the manioc plant. The process consisted in first squeezing out, by means of an old sack and a heavy stone for a press, the viscid juice, which is a strong poison—the same, indeed, with which the Caribs used to tip their arrows in the old days of the aborigines—and then baking the flour on a griddle over a charcoal fire.
Passing through this varied scenery on either hand, our road led presently downwards through a series of valleys, clothed with vegetation and smiling in flowers. We crossed now and again some little stream rippling along over its pebbly bed, wherein were crawfish and tiny things like whitebait playing amongst the water-cresses that grew over the banks; until, at last, we reached a wide horse-shoe bay facing the wide blue sea, that stretched out to the distant horizon, laving its silver sand with happy little waves that seemed to chuckle with a murmur of pleasure as they washed the shore in rhythmical cadence.
There was but a single vessel here, and she was riding at anchor out in the offing some two miles from land, looking quite lonesome by herself in the distance.
She was a barque of some four or five hundred tons, with a broad, bluff-bowed hull that rose well out of the water on account of her not having completed loading her cargo. There was a long row of white ports along her side; and, as she rolled with the motion of the ground-swell, now setting inshore with the wind, she showed her bright copper sheathing almost to her keel.
“Is that the ship, dad?” I asked my father, gazing at her with longing eyes and wondering how we were to reach her.
“Yes, Tom, that’s the vessel I told you of, and we must now see about getting aboard if we can,” said he, preparing to dismount from his horse, whose bridle Jake had already taken hold of.
“And what’s her name, dad?” I then inquired, jumping down from Prince’s back as I spoke and giving the reins also in charge of our darkey groom.
“The Josephine of London,” he replied in regular ship-shape fashion; “Captain Miles, master and part owner.”
Chapter Four.
The “Josephine.”
“What!” I exclaimed joyfully; “Captain Miles! That jolly old fellow who came out to Mount Pleasant last year and showed me how to make a kite?”
“The same,” replied dad. “But remember, Tom, he’s not much over my age; and I do not by any means call myself an old man yet! Besides, he and I are friends of long standing, and you should not speak of him so disrespectfully.”
“Oh, dad, I didn’t mean that, and I beg his pardon, I’m sure,” I interposed hastily at this. “What I wished to express was, that I thought him so nice and pleasant, that I was very glad to have the chance of seeing him again!”
“My dear boy, I know what you meant,” said dad kindly, with his usual bright smile, the sight of which eased my mind in a minute. “However, Tom,” he added quizzingly, “we must now see about getting out to the old fellow.”
But this was sooner said than done.
There was the ship, it was true, and there were we on the shore looking at her; but, there between us stretched an expanse of nearly two miles of blue water, which we certainly could not cross by swimming, although dad was a pretty good hand at that, and had made me, too, a fair adept in the art for my years.
How to reach the vessel, therefore, was the question.
Dad tried waving his handkerchief to attract the attention of those on board; but the crew of the Josephine appeared to be all asleep, for nobody took any notice of the signal. Foiled in this hope, dad turned round to me again with a puzzled expression on his face, as if wondering what he should do next, though of course I could not suggest anything.
Just then Jake, who had been looking at my father very attentively all this while, as if “taking stock” of his movements, so to speak, suddenly burst into one of his huge guffaws.
“Yah, yah, massa, golly you no see for suah!” he cried out in an ecstasy of enjoyment at what he considered a rare joke. “You am look de wrong way. Look dere, look dere!”
“Look where?” asked dad, not quite making out what particular direction Jake especially wished to draw his attention to, for the darkey was