MY OLD SEA CAPTAIN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVIII, Issue XXIV, 12 June 1897, Page 758

MY OLD SEA CAPTAIN.

(BY

THE WARRIGAL.)

Down in the valley of an Auckland sea creek lives my old sea captain—mine by virtue of appreciation ; mine by virtue of the sympathy between us. A grey-haired, redfaced. handsome old North of Englander —a man who carried stores for the great East India Company, when India was under its rule. A man who has seen the old order of the sea change to the new ; who has witnessed the birth and growth of steam navigation, yet who has never voyaged in a steamer. A ‘ sailor ’to the core, prejudiced, crochety, perhaps, but bold and daring, and finely honourable ; a man who has faced a thousand dangers and found his way in all sorts of crafts in all parts of the world. Strange to find such a man settled down as a farmer in the quietest part of a quiet New Zealand settlement. He reversed the old nautical proverb. Instead of selling his farm and going to sea, he gave up the sea and bought a farm. I have not yet found out why he bought the farm. He has done nothing to it since it was purchased, and most of the land is still in virgin scrub. The haka fences which enclose the few paddocks are tall as ordinary trees, and spread more than a chain in width. The implements bought to work the ground have fallen to decay. The cart which was to carry the produce to market rots under the framework of a shed. The very grasses of the paddocks seem old and worn out. The cows—as many generations as they are in number—seem each as ancient as the other. The last of the horses died of old age, and the survivor of three generations of dogs is literally on its last legs. The house, womanless and comfortless, is musty with age and tobacco smoke. Yet there lives my old sea captain, hale in spite of ancient hardships, he and his three-score-year brother, two hardy, grumpy bachelors, seeing little of their neighbours and scarcely moving off their farm from one year’s end to another. These two men seem to have left a whole wonderful adventurous life behind tnem. Both have seen much of the world, taken their part in active, forceful life, and now they vegetate on that quiet farm, and are hearty in spite of bachelor ways and their own bad cookery. Last autumn I used to find my old captain in the orchard, lying on his back amongst the long grass, smoking a black clay pipe. In the warm sunshine he was a lad again, apprentice on a Quaker-owned ship. The smoke of his pipe, puffed in regular wreaths, curled up to broad spreading vine leaves that cluster amidst the branches of a mossy peach tree. The sunlight made his face more red and his hair more white ; but still in fancy he was a lad, learning to knot, to steer, fighting his way

through the difficulties of life. Some of the romance and mystery of olden days hovers about this remembered youth. There are hints of pirates, of enemies’ cruisers, mutiny, murder, shipwreck—strange tales of strange conntries. There is a glimpse of life on a great East Indianman, of prankish apprentice tricks, of a cyclone, of falling in love with a white-faced Anglo-Indian girl. As the old captain drones on about these things one seems to see a great white-sailed, white-decked ship sailing over tropical seas, with brassy waves rippling below open port, sending lights and shadows upon the awning, under which recline languid women, turbulent children, and indolent men who have controlled princes and ruled over millions of a conquered race. There is something strange and sad in these remembrances ; something that is past and gone beyond recall—the romance and hopes and dreams of youth. I like myoid sea captain by the hearth best, especially when a sou’-we st gale is blowing, or a wet north-easter shrieking down the valley. He sits on the backless chair by the fire of fragrant manuka, sways to and fro as if to the roll of a ship, and puffs out long clouds of smoke. Then one bears the whistle of wind among the rigging and its mournful hum against the taut sails—dim lights showing on a wet heaving deck—dim figures moving into darkness, and black foam-capped waves rising sleepily to blacker sky. The firelight reddens my captain's face, the solitary candle seems merely a speck against his white beard. He is giving orders now, stern, sharp commands that lead to life or death, to safety or shipwreck. The ancient younger brother sits with elbows on knees smoking persistently. What a picture he makes in that dim firelight—thick wavy hair, hawk nose, keen eyes, alert, yet silent and motionless! He has lived a life, but I am describing my old sea captain. He grows harsh and forceful as he lives again in remembered dangers. Now he is the bold and masterful sea captain upholding mercantile privileges against the pride and dominance of an East India Company’s Admiral. Now he is in Russian seas scornfully resisting official bribery. Now he is sailing his ship round the dreaded Scaw in the black darkness of a wintry storm. There is something of the story of England in his life of carrying the flag into distant seas, of dealing with a hundred’ foreign nations, of planting colonies, pushing trades, facing and overcoming difficulties —a bit of old-world history to be read by an Auckland sea creek.