Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn. Robert Michael Ballantyne

child, lad!” exclaimed the wife in surprise; “what have ’ee done wi’ it?”

      “Took it to its friends.”

      As he said this the sailor gave his wife a look which induced her to refrain from further questioning on that subject.

      “An’ who saved ye, Stephen?”

      “God saved me,” replied the man, earnestly.

      “True, lad; but was there none o’ the boys there to lend a hand?”

      “No, none. It puzzled me a bit,” said Stephen, “for the lads are wont to be on the look-out on a night like this.”

      “It needn’t puzzle ye, then,” replied the wife, as she set a chair for her husband at the table, and poured out a cup of tea, “for there’s bin two sloops an’ a schooner on the rocks off the pier-head for three hours past, an’ a’ the lads are out at them,—Uncle John among the rest. They’ve made him coxswain o’ the new lifeboat since ye last went to sea.”

      Stephen set down the cup, which he had just raised to his lips, untasted, and rose hastily.

      “Wrecks at the pier-head, lass,” he exclaimed, “and you let me sit here idle!”

      “Don’t go, Stephen,” entreated Mrs Gaff; “you’re not fit to do anything after sitch a night, an’ its o’er late.”

      The man paid no attention to the remonstrance, but buttoned up his coat, and seized his cap.

      Mrs Gaff promptly locked the door with an air of thorough determination, put the key in her bosom, and crossed her arms thereon tightly.

      Stephen smiled slightly as he turned, raised the window, and leaped through it into the road, followed by a vociferous cheer from Billy, whose spirit was wildly stirred by the boldness and success of the movement, and mightily rejoiced at the discomfiture of his mother.

      Mrs Gaff relieved her feelings by slapping the Bu’ster’s face, and was about to close the window when her husband quietly stepped through it again, saying—

      “Open the door, lass, you’ve no need to fear; I’ll remain now.”

      There was a trampling of many feet outside. The door had scarcely been unlocked when they were in the passage. Next moment four fishermen entered, bearing the figure of a man in their arms.

      “He an’t drownded, lass, only swownded,” said one of the men to Mrs Gaff, with the view of relieving the good woman’s anxiety, as they laid a seaman on the bed. “Look alive now, old girl, an’ git hot blankets an’ bottles.”

      While Mrs Gaff obeyed in silent haste, the room was filled with men, some of whom supported or half-carried others, whose drooping heads, torn garments, and haggard faces, showed that they had just been rescued from the angry sea. None of them were more than partially clothed; some were nearly naked. With excited haste the fishermen crowded the wrecked men round the fire, and spread blankets and sails, or whatever came first to hand, on the floor for those who were most exhausted to lie down upon, while Stephen Gaff poured hot tea and hot grog indiscriminately into cups, saucers, pannikins, and soup-plates, and urged them to drink with rough but kindly hospitality.

      The wrecked men, (there were twelve of them), were Russians, and as a matter of course could not understand a word that was said to them, although some of the fishermen asked them, with as much earnestness as if their lives depended on the answer, “Who—they—wos—an’—whar’—they—com’d—fro’?”

      Receiving for reply a stare and a shake of the head from such of the men as were able to attend, one of the fishermen tried them again with great precision and slowness of speech, and with much solemnity of manner, “What—part—o’ the arth—d’ye hail fro’,—lads?”

      No answer, accompanied by a stare and a shake.

      “Oh, it’s o’ no use,” cried one, “let the poor lads a-be.”

      “Hallo! Dan,” cried another, as a man forced his way through the crowded room towards the fire, “you’ve bin in Toorkey, I believe; I say, try them fellers wi’ a screed o’ Toorko. P’raps they’ll make that out.”

      The individual addressed was very different from the men amongst whom he stood. He was a thin, slightly-made, yet strong and active young man, in a very short grey coat, a very long striped vest, and very tight corduroy trousers—a sort of compound of footman and jockey. In truth, Daniel Horsey was both; being at once valet and groom to the romantic Kenneth, whose fate it was, (according to the infallible Mrs Niven), to be “drownded.”

      Dan’s first inquiry was as to whether any one had seen his master, and the tones in which the question was put betokened him, beyond all doubt, a son of the Green Isle.

      Being told that no one had seen his master, he was about to leave the hut in quest of him when he was collared by several stout men, and placed forcibly in front of a Russian with a huge red beard, who appeared to be the least exhausted of the party.

      “Come now, Dan, say somethin’ to them Roosians.”

      “Arrah! d’ye think I’ll spake a word av ye stick yer great ugly fists into my jooglar veins like that? Hands off,” he cried indignantly, “or niver a taste o’ spaitch ye’ll git from me, bad or good. Besides, what duv I know about Roosian?”

      “Ye’ve bin in Toorkey, han’t ye?” inquired a fisherman.

      “Troth I have, an’ what o’ that?” replied Dan, as his captors released their hold of his collar.

      “Ye can speak Toorko, can’t ye?”

      “Maybe I can,” he replied cautiously.

      “Well, I’m told that Toorkey lies to the suthard o’ Roosia, just as England lies to the suthard o’ Scotland, an’ so, mayhap, they’ll understand a bit Toorko.”

      “Faix, av they don’t understand Thoorko better nor the English understand Scotch, it’s little speed I’ll come wi’ them,” said Dan with a leer. “Howsomediver, I’ll give ’em a trial. I say, Mr Red-beard, hubba doorum bobble moti squorum howko joski tearum thaddi whak? Come, now, avic, let’s hear what ye’ve got to say to that. An’ mind what ye spake, ’cause we won’t stand no blarney here.”

      Dan uttered this with immense volubility and assurance, and the fishermen regarded him with deepening respect, as they awaited the Russian’s answer. He replied by a stare and a shake of the head as before.

      “Hookum daddy,” resumed Dan, stooping to gaze earnestly into the man’s face, and placing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left, by way of emphasising his remark, “Hookum daddy, saringo spolli-jaker tooraloo be japers bang falairo—och!” he added, turning away with a look of disgust, “he don’t understand a word. I would try him wi’ Frinch, but it’s clear as ditch wather that he’s half drownded still.”

      Convinced that Dan Horsey’s “Toorko” was of no use, the fishermen at length allowed him to retire.

      Chapter Four.

      The Rescue

      While this scene was enacting in the cottage, I was hasting up from the beach, where the lifeboat men had rendered good service that night.

      As the honorary agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, I had been summoned by a special messenger as soon as it was known that vessels were on the rocks off the entrance to our harbour. I was accompanied by my niece, Lizzie Gordon, who always joined me on such occasions, carrying with her a basket in which were a flask of brandy, another of port wine, a bottle of smelling salts, and several small articles which she fancied might be of use in cases of emergency. We had called at the Sailors’ Home in passing, to see that they were astir there, and ready to receive shipwrecked people. We afterwards remained on the beach, under the lee of a boathouse, while the lifeboat men saved the crews of the wrecked vessels.

      The work was nobly done! John Furby, the coxswain, with a sturdy crew of volunteers—twelve in all—were ready for action, with cork life-belts