Hudson Bay | Page 3

Robert Michael Ballantyne
could
not find words adequately to express the varied feelings which swelled

his throbbing bosom, and that he felt quite faint with the mighty load of
honour just thrown upon his delighted shoulders by his bald-headed
friend. The red-faced gentleman then sat down to the national air of
rat-tat-tat, played in full chorus with knives, forks, spoons, nut-crackers,
and knuckles on the polished surface of the mahogany table.
We left the dinner-table at a late hour, and after I, in company with
some other youngsters, had done as much mischief as we conveniently
could without risking our detention by the strong arm of the law, we
went down to the beach and embarked in a boat with the captain for the
ship. How the sailors ever found her in the impenetrable darkness
which prevailed all around is a mystery to me to this day. Find her,
however, they did; and in half an hour I was in the land of Nod.
The sun was blazing high in the heavens next morning when I awoke,
and gazed around for a few moments to discover where I was; but the
rattling of ropes and blocks, the stamping of feet overhead, the shouts
of gruff voices, and, above all, a certain strange and disagreeable
motion in my dormitory, soon enlightened me on that point. We were
going rapidly down the Thames with a fair breeze, and had actually set
sail for the distant shores of Hudson Bay.
What took place during the next five or six days I know not. The
demon of sea-sickness had completely prostrated my faculties, bodily
and mental. Some faint recollections I have of stormy weather, horrible
noises, and hurried dinners; but the greater part of that period is a
miserable blank in my memory. Towards the sixth day, however, the
savoury flavour of a splendid salmon-trout floated past my dried-up
nostrils like "Afric's spicy gale," and caused my collapsed stomach to
yearn with strong emotion. The ship, too, was going more quietly
through the water; and a broad stream of sunshine shot through the
small window of my berth, penetrated my breast, and went down into
the centre of my heart, filling it with a calm, complacent pleasure quite
indescribable. Sounds, however, of an attack upon the trout roused me,
and with a mighty effort I tumbled out of bed, donned my clothes, and
seated myself for the first time at the cabin table.
Our party consisted of the captain; Mr Carles, a chief factor in the

Company's service; the doctor; young Mr Wiseacre, afore-mentioned;
the first and second mates; and myself. The captain was a thin,
middle-sized, offhand man; thoroughly acquainted with his profession;
good-humoured and gruff by turns; and he always spoke with the air of
an oracle. Mr Carles was a mild, good-natured man, of about fifty-five,
with a smooth, bald head, encircled by a growth of long, thin hair. He
was stoutly built, and possessed of that truly amiable and captivating
disposition which enters earnestly and kindly into the affairs of others,
and totally repudiates self. From early manhood he had roughed life in
the very roughest and wildest scenes of the wilderness, and was now
returning to those scenes after a short visit to his native land. The
doctor was a nondescript; a compound of gravity, fun, seriousness, and
humbug--the latter predominating. He had been everywhere (at least, so
he said), had seen everything, knew everybody, and played the fiddle. It
cannot be said, I fear, that he played it well; but, amid the various
vicissitudes of his chequered life, the doctor had frequently found
himself in company where his violin was almost idolised and himself
deified; especially when the place chanced to be the American
backwoods, where violins are scarce, the auditors semi-barbarous
Highlanders, and the music Scotch reels. Mr Wiseacre was nothing! He
never spoke except when compelled to do so; never read, and never
cared for anything or anybody; wore very long hair, which almost hid
his face, owing to a habit which he had of holding his head always
down: and apparently lived but to eat, drink, and sleep. Sometimes,
though very rarely, he became so far facetious as to indulge in a wink
and a low giggle; but beyond this he seldom soared. The two mates
were simply mates. Those who know the population of the sea will
understand the description sufficiently; those who don't, will never, I
fear, be made to understand by description. They worked the ship, hove
the log, changed the watch, turned out and tumbled in, with the callous
indifference and stern regularity of clock work; inhabited tarpaulin
dreadnoughts and sou'-westers; came down to meals with modest
diffidence, and walked the deck with bantam-cock-like assurance.
Nevertheless, they were warm-hearted fellows, both of them, although
the heat
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