WHAT THE STOWAWAY DID FOR THEM.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 753, 6 August 1886, Page 8

WHAT THE STOWAWAY DID FOR THEM.

BY EDMUND LYONS. The ice was heavy on the Baltic that season—it was the latter part of 1876, and we expected to be in England by Ohrislnus, — but the weather was clear and fine, and the old boatswain found time that Sunday morning to drop his whistle to the end of its lanyard, and step into the galley to warm his hands for a few minutes. He lit his pipe with a red coal, and turning to the ship’s only passenger, said : 4 You was a sayin’ last night, air, that you hadn’t got no faith in stowaways. Well, no more hare I, generally speakin’ ; but I once ran foul of one that wasn’t so bad as the rest. It’s nigh on to six year ago when I was quartermaster in a steamer—the Zebra—lyin’ at her wharf in Calcutta, and loadin’ up for Glasgow. The Hoogly was crowded with sailin’ vessels that couldn’t get no crews, and most of their own men bad deserted, and shipped in steamers that was goin’ through the Suez Canal, that had just been opened. They all wanted to get home quick, you see, and to go by the new-fangled route, and not to make a four months’ run around the Cape. 4 The steamers had all the men they wanted, and a sight more offers from good, able-bodied seamen than they could take. The Zebra was to touch at Londonderry on her way home, and the night that we cast loose at Calcutta, with the pilot on board, and dropped down the river with the tide, the skipper was grumblin’ like a bear, because, somehow or other, he had shipped five more men than he wanted. Three of them were Irishmen, and, like the rest of the crew, they had got advance notes for a month’s pay, and cashed them ; so, to say the truth, be was afraid they’d take French leave at Londonderry.

4 The pilot had gone over the side, the watch had been set, and the steamer was driven down the Bay of Bengal, and gettin’ well out toward the Indian Ocean, when there was a row for’ard, and the bosun came aft to where the skipper was standin’ on the pO'>p. He was draggin’ a youngster, about sixteen years old, by the collar of the jacket along with him. 444 1 hooked him out of the fore hatch, your honor,’’ he says. 44 1 heard him scratcbin’ around, and I raised the hatchway, and there he was ”

4,4 1 was tryin’ to get out, sir,” said the lad very bold and polite. “I suppose I’m a stowaway, but I’m a sailor, and willin' to work. I asked for a berth aboard the Zebra, and couldn’t get it; so when they thought I was goin’ ashore in the dingy I slipped in the forehold. I’m bound to Maghernafeldt, in Londonderry, where my mother lives. I don’t want any pay, but if you’ll let me work my passage you won’t be sorry for it.’ 4 Our skipper was a terribly rough man. He swore a great oath and turnin’ to me he tcid :

‘ “Quartermaster, put the young imp in irons for to-night. I'll see what it’s best to do with him in the mornin’. If he doesn’t go overboard, it’s Glasgow he'lL land at, and not Londonderry.” . ‘ I was sorry for the poor lad, but I had to obey orders, and the Irons were soon on his wrists and ankles in the fo’c’stle. He was terribly upset, and when I was on watch that night I went to him, and tried to cheer- him up. It was gettin’ on for four bells when the mate said he’d like to see the boy, and he went with me into the fo’c’stle.

* “ Now, my lad,” he says, stoopin’ over him with a lantern, “ tell us all about it. What did you stow away for ? Why didn’t you ship in a sailin’ vessel if you wanted to get home to see your mother ?’’ * “ Oh, sir,” said the youngster, with the tears in hi 3 eyes, as he sat up alongside of the post that he was tied to, “ I should have been too late, and she’d have been in the poorhouse. You see, I ran away from home two years ago, and went to sea, because I was the oldest of three, and she wasn’t able to feed us all. I’ve sent her a little money since then, aDd I’ve had letters from her, but I’ve never seen her. Tbe day before yesterday I got a letter fayin’ that poor Sallie, my little sister, sir, was dead. It had taken all her money to bury her, and the quarter’s rent will be due in a month. If it is not paid she will be put out. I have saved £ls, and I wanted to give it to her with my own hands; but, maybe, I can post it to her from Londonderry, if he takes me on to Glasgow.’’ ‘ Dashed if the mate’s eyes weren’t dim, and I couldn’t see very clearly when the youngster stopped talkin’. , “* Hold tip your head, my lad,” says the mate, “ and 111 tay a word or two to the skipper.” ‘He went oat of the fo’c’stle, and I followed him close enough to hear the boy’s story told again. * Tho skipper thought about it for a few seconds. Then lie spoke ; and we both knew by the tonps of his voice that one of his hardest fits was on him.

I don’t see,” he said, “what I have to do with all this. I don’t want any more hands, and I won’t have any more. But we can stand another passenger. You say the youngster has £ls. Well, he can pay part of his fare, at least, and I will give him a cabin berth and set him ashore at Londonderry. Go and get the money from him.” * But the mate’s face showed plainly enough that the iron should go on him first. The skipper saw it, and calling to me, he told me to uniron the lad and bring him out of the fo’c’stle.

‘ When he was on the main deck the skipper says to him : ‘ “ Youngster the mate tells me that you have £ls about you ?” * “ Yes, sir,” says the boy. * “ Hand it over,” says the skipper shortly. * The boy turned white, but he pulled a little canvas bag from his bosom and gave it to the skipper, who counted fifteen ten-rupee notes out of it.

‘ “ Now, this,” he says, “ won’t half pay your passage to Londonderry ; but I won’t be hard on you. You can go aft, and the steward will give you a berth.” * The youngster walked aft without a word, and from that minute until tho vessel was off the coast of Ireland he hardly spoke at all ; and some of the passengers, who didn’t know his 6tory, said he was goin’ home to die, he drooped and looked so pale and weak. ‘lt was an awful n'ght that saw us off tlie shore of Londonderry ; a dead lee shore it was then, and the steamer, with a broken shaft, diiftin’ hard on to it. We could bear the waves breakin’ near us, and we had passed the light that we should have been makin’ for.

‘“ Mr .Reynolds,” said the skipper to the mate, as they stood together on tho bridge, “ we’ll be on the beach in half an hour.”

“‘Seems so, sir,” says the mate, stitflv. He had not liked the skipper since the boy’s money had been taken from him in the Bay of Bengal. ‘The wa'er was far too deep to let go an anchor, even if one could have held, which it couldn’t stand in that gale. Enough head sail had been set to beep the steamer from broachin’-to, but all hands saw that, as things were goin’, she would soon be on the rocks. * Suddenly the skipper started as some one touched him on the shoulder. The youngster was standin’ beside him.

* “ I was born on that coast, sir,” he said, speakin’ very slow, “ and I know every rock on it. I know, besides, a channel on the port bow. We’ll soon be iff it. Shall I take you in?’

‘ “If you think you can,” says the ‘skipper, “ do. It don’t make much difference,” be says, turnin’ to the mate, “for we re bound to go ashore, anyhow. I’ll give him the wheel.” * The youngster took the wheel, and headed her, it seemed to all of us, for where the breakers sounded loudest. The big fellow that helped him was told to do just as the lad ordered him. It was a ticklish time for all hands. But, all at once, the rocks seemed to open in front, and the steamer ran through a passage not fifty yards across, and in five minutes we were at anchor in smooth water.

* The next mornin' the skipper says to his pas-enger : “‘Here’s £ls that I owe you; and the company will cash this for you, sir, for savin’ their ship.” ‘ And he gave the youngster an order for £IOO !

‘ There was nothing proud about the lad. He took the money, paid his mother's rent, and gave her a snug sum fur housekeepin’ What became of him ! Well, he and I have been shipmates pretty nigh ever since, though he’s heaved many a knot ahead of me. That’s him callin’ me now,’ concluded the boatswain, pressing the fire out of his pipe with his thumb, and going out on the deck, where the captain wanted him to muster the men to Sunday service.