Short Stories

Front matter

Short Stories

2BY2

KYRLE BELLEW

Fore-Word

FORE-WORD.

Dear Reader: There is a tradition amount Australians that three classes of story-tellers exist—Liars, D— —d liars, and Mining Experts.

There are also three kinds of fools: Plain Fools, D— —d fools, and "New Chums."

I have been a Mining Expert, and every kind of fool, including the New Chum. Now I have fairly warned you.

If you care to read farther through these pages you will find both my confessions verified.

Fiction is greater than fact—because, one has to invent fiction, and fact just happens without your being obliged to bother about it.

"In medias tutissimus ibis." With this proverbial philosophy in my mind, I have steered the middle course between the two.

There are many people in the corners of the Earth to which Fate has led me, should this volume ever fall into their hands, who will recognize the incidents herein set down and the occasions of their occurrance. They will probably content themselves with classing me somewhere in the category ending with "Mining Experts."

Every reader I feel confident will put me down a fool, perhaps a D— —d fool or worse. It is my privilege to forestall all, and accept the situation, you see, as gracefully as I can, contenting myself with the satisfaction of a conscience cleared by the confession of my shortcomings.

If it amuses you, dear reader, to say with the immortal Rosalind, "These are all lies"—Say it and be happy. If, on the other hand, it contents you to believe these sketches, "Mainly about Myself," are true,—you will do yourself "no harm" and me "no wrong."

I pretend to no literary excellence or style. In these pages I talk to you in the language of men on the quarter-deck, in the reporter's room, 'round the camp-fire, in the bush, in the theatre and in everyday life.

My i's are not dotted nor my t's crossed any more than they would be were I recounting these stories viva voca. Such niceties are the attributes of fiction rather than fact. But if I have helped in these pages, to lighten the dullness of even a minute of your time, I shall have done well, and so I leave you to go ahead and read my book, or not, just as you please.

Mainly About Myself

MAINLY ABOUT MYSELF.

My beloved mother told me I was born one Thursday morning early, unfashionably and uncomfortably early; on the 28th of March. The year of Grace of my advent, which I have no means to verify, has been put down in almanacs and newspaper records anywhere between 1845 and 1860. As my dear father did not happen to be married until 1848-49, and I was the youngest but one of a moderately numerous family, the former date suggests a situation which happily, no less an authority than Ulster King-at-arms contradicts; the latter date I know to be wrong—unhappily! My nurse, bless her heart, when to this day, I remember with the tenderest feelings of undying affection, always impressed upon me the legend that I was "found in a band-box under a cabbage." Dear, deceitful soul—rest in peace!

So, you see, even in my earliest childhood, my mind was sorely puzzled to discriminate between fiction and fact. I must say, the picture I conjured of myself, wrapped in beautiful clean tissue-paper, tied up with a lovely pink ribbon, or possibly a blue one, reclining in a pure white band-box under the shade of a dew besprinkled cabbage, was intensely alluring.

I never could settle in my mind why the cabbage was selected by "Willie," my nurse, and I ventured to question the genus of the plant that sheltered my discovery.

But in spite of suggestions from me of "bulrushes," "rose bushes," and other more decorative plants, Miss Wilson stuck to the cabbage. Failing to shake her adherance to the succulent vegetable, I let it go at that. I never see a cabbage growing, however, even to-day, but the difference between us arises in my mind; and were "Willie" once more to revisit the earth, I feel, if we met, I should still try to induce her to reconsider the matter of the plant, under whose shade I was introduced to the world.

The troublous times of the Indian Mutiny gave me my first impressions of life. Of these I have only vague recollections; and I am not sure to-day, whether those vivid pictures, that come back to me out of the mist of the past, are not the memories of my parents transmitted to me in early childhood.

I know we were up in the hills of Chirapoongee, and came down to Calcutta, passing through many perils. In those days there were no railways, and I remember being borne along in a kind of chair, held by a broad band passed around the forehead of a stalwart native bearer. I remember days spent in a howdah on the back of an elephant. I recount many days and nights on board a pinnace; it was a green pinnace—green and white, floating along down the silent waters of a broad river. I can to-day see again large fires along the banks lighting up the darkness of the Indian night, with a lurid glare as we drifted along. I can hear yelling men and see them dressed as soldiers—and can recall the frequent firing of guns—and wondering why "Willie" used to make us lie down flat on the floor of the vessel's cabin, while my mother and she cowered down over us and sobbed.

I remember my father and mother kissing us all good-by, as we left the ghat with "Willie" in a native dinghy, and were taken alongside a large ship, lying out in the stream off Prinseps Ghat, Calcutta.

My next impressions are of the sea. I do not re missing my father and mother—Willie to my eyes the most beautiful thing on earth was with us—and we children of the "Padre Sahib" in Calcutta Cathedral were the pets of the ship, and that same Captain Toynbee, whose name is dear to every man that sailed in those days, and for many a long year after from the port of London.

I could write page upon page about the great East Indianmen of the past, but as my life, save for this one voyage as a little child, had nothing to do with them I will refrain. I suppose that from my early associations with it, and perhaps because my mother was the daughter of a distinguished Admiral, I gained my first and my undying love for the sea. It has called to me all my life, and it calls to me as strongly to-day, as it did in my youth. Above all things the sea has ever been mistress of my heart. I can remember too, seeing my first steam engine. It was at Plymouth when the long voyage was over, and we were taken ashore.

Then all was wonderment. England where everything was so green—where everyone was white—where we had no ayahs, no bearers—no palkees and nothing we were used to. We were installed in a little house in St. John's Wood. I remember it well. The whole place would have gone into the hall of the lovely home in Harrington Street, Calcutta. We were not happy. It was so gloomy and cold when the winter came. I remember the snow—and above all I recollect my dreadful chilblains! Then things happened, we didn't understand.

Strange people came; at last father arrived—and he came alone. Years followed. We moved to a pretty little home near his grand big church; a tutor came to take care of us boys; the girls went to a school, and "Willie," our beautiful and well-beloved Willie disappeared. A turning point seemed to come in all our lives, when one day my father told us we were going into the country for the Summer, and on the platform of the Waterloo Station, a very handsome and beautifully dressed lady come up to us and we were told she was our new "mamma."

That day set the first period in my life—and I can feel now the consternation the revelation of this new order of things created in my small breast. I adored my father. I was jealous of his love. I felt I had suffered a bitter wrong—I didn't know why. Something went out of my life, and something came into it that left me dazed. I grew in an instant into a rebel, and a great desire filled me to get away from home.

We went to the Isle of Wight, and in the delight of that beautiful summer spent in the most picturesque spot behind St. Katherine's point, I temporarily forgot my troubles and revelled again in the contemplation of the glorious sea and the frequently passing ships, whose white sails dotted the lovely sunlit water of the Channel.

The French fleet visited Portsmouth, and my dear father, who was persona grata with all the great folks, took me one day on board the flag-ship of the Channel Fleet, at that time, the two-decked wooden line-of-battle-ship "Edgar." We lunched aboard and then visited the "Victory," and spent the rest of the day in the dock yard and amongst the men-of-war. A new world opened to my eyes, and I made up my mind there was only one thing in it for me—and that was a life at sea.

I brooded over the matter and at last told my father, who opposed the idea as I was his only boy left, my elder brother having gone into the world under the aegis of Mr. Henry, the great railroad magnate of America. I was unhappy at home; I never got on well with my new "mamma," and at last one day I ran away, determined to go to sea.

I had a few shillings in my pocket, and away I went, wending my way down the river to the Great East India docks at Blackwell. Lying in the Export dock nearly ready for sea was a large Indianman, on board of which I stole. The riggers were aloft bending sails and, in the bright sunshine the life and color—the salt water smells of tarry ropes and new canvas—intoxicated and fascinated me.

I wandered about the ship unheeded—watched the cargo lowered down the hatches and lastly forced by an irresistible longing to go aft—clambered into the port fore-rigging and crawled up the first two or three ratlines above the sheer pole.

Some one sprung beneath me, and before I knew what had happened, I found my feet seized with rope yarns to the shrouds, and a voice sung out—"Now, Young 'un, you'll have to pay your footing."

What was meant by this very rude person, clad in a tarry jumper and a pair of very dirty overalls, I hadn't the least idea. I felt uncomfortable, and my uneasiness increased on seeing the mate coming forward with a grin on his face, calling out "Come down out of that, youngster! What are you doing up there!"

He had me cast adrift, and I gave all the money I had to the man who lashed me up, on his explaining to me that any one not belonging to the ship, venturing aloft had to "pay their footing"—in other words stand drinks to the men.

The mate called me aft and began to question me, discovering among other things my name and who I was.

"Want to go to sea, do you? Well, you take my advice, youngster. Go back home as quickly as you can, and if you must go to sea get your father to send you—and don't try running away any more. If you don't promise me—I'll tie you up to a stanchion till knock-off time, and then, damm me! I'll take you back myself."

My father, being so prominent and well-known all over England, the mate knew that he would have done quite the right thing for himself in acting as he threatened.

I promised him, however, to return home at once, and I left the docks with a sad heart, but more determined than ever to go to sea.

Next day was a terror. My father had been making all sorts of search for me, as I did not get home until four in the morning, having walked all the way from the docks.

I arrived tired out—dirty and hungry.

I shall never forget my dear old dad in his night shirt opening the door. He simply said "Go to your room. I'll talk to you to-morrow."

That to-morrow!

I told him the truth—got a hiding for running away—but with it such a salve as I never hoped for, in his promise to let me go to sea.

I didn't care for anything on earth. I didn't feel the hurt when I sat down in silence and disgrace at breakfast. I was completely, ecstatically happy, and in a few weeks found myself alongside the gangway of H. M. S. Conway, with my cadet's kit in my regulation chest, with my name in big letters painted across the front, and my uniform on in which I felt as if I owned the earth Poor dear old dad! A tear rolled down his cheek as he kissed me and said: "God bless you, boy—I wanted you at home with me."

Well, I went to sea,—and years after I left it. I travelled the world over. I became a gold-miner in Australia, a newspaper man, reporter, editor, even a dramatic critic—out in that great country. I wandered about as a stockman, a station hand, everything a man can be in the bush. I saw life in every phase, until at last chance brought me to the stage. There let me stop. Some of the incidents of my life I have jotted down in the following pages.

As I look back on them I live again in the past, and out of my dreams came the faces of many I have loved, and who have believed that the foolishness and adventures of my life have not been without some good—even if only to serve as a kind of moral finger-post to others which way not to go.

If my "good fairy" ever visited me again and gave me my "wish," it would be to meet some kind-hearted old millionaire, who would give me a big sailing ship, and send me off to roam about the world at sea, and so "live happy ever after."

Socks

SOCKS

my first appearance on any stage

Summertime. Place: On board H. M. S. Conway lying in the Stoyne. The ship was dressed from flying jib-boom to taffrail with many-colored flags. Her yards were manned and, as the guns of the guard-ship, H. M. S. Donegal, thundered out a royal salute, His Royal Highness, the Duke of Edinburgh, stepped over our gangway and we all cheered ourselves hoarse.

It was a great day! The Mayor and Corporation of Liverpool, all the great shipping magnates, with their wives, daughters, "sisters, cousins and aunts," and many of the parents of cadets belonging to the ship, were on board to witness the drill, inspection and annual distribution of prizes by the Duke—also the performance of a play, prepared by us after many weeks of anxious rehearsal, in which I was cast for the leading lady. I was to be one Laura, I think it was, in "Time Tries All."

Why I was chosen for such a prominent part, I am at loss to conceive unless because as a youngster I was possessed of a somewhat gentle manner and a face that lent itself to the requisites for making up to look like a girl.

A great big fair-haired, good-natured fellow named Cummings (he died of cholera, poor chap! in Bombay and we buried him the same evening down at Colaba), Bobby Knowles, whom I have never seen since, and Fred Passow, who after many years of service in the navy accepted a fine appointment with the Inman Line, and now commands one of their magnificent steamers, are the only others of the east that I can now recall.

Bobby Knowles had to be one of my lovers. I remember that there was a scene where he knelt at my feet. And I think Fred Passow was the inevitable "other man." There was also an episode with poor Cummings, but what it was has faded from my memory.

The main deck aft on the starboard side served as our stage and was gracefully draped with flags. Our audience sat on rows of chairs and forms arranged the same way as when we "rigged church" on Sundays. His Royal Highness and suite were in the middle of the front row surrounded by the Mayor and Corporation and the officers of the ship. Behind them were the distinguished guests and in the "gallery" or at the back of all, the couple of hundred cadets and the ship's company.

For some reason I was a prime favorite with the Captain's wife, and she had volunteered to provide the necessary dresses for my part. I had to appear in a riding habit and over this arose my first difficulty. We couldn't "fake" a riding habit and couldn't go to the expense of having one made. However, a very pretty girl—the sister of one of the boys—a strapping, rosy cheeked, healthy-looking English girl of about eighteen came to our rescue. She lived at Rock Ferry, off of which we were moored, and often came aboard to visit her brother. She would "lend her own riding habit for the occasion." That solved one difficulty, but when I came to put it on, the fact that she measured in every direction except up in the air about twice as much as I did was at once apparent. Something had to be done—but what?

Passow suggested towels.

Knowles roared at the sight of me.

Cummings voted, "Stuff him with socks."

Poor Mrs. Moull took me into the Captain's room, and after pondering the matter, decided there was nothing for it but to follow Cumming's suggestion. Our respective chests were at once ransacked and all the available socks brought up to complete my figure.

We had a regulation method of folding our socks, making each pair up into little ball. When my toilet was completed, I looked a bit bubbly and lumpy, but we smoothed things down as much as we could and every one said it looked fine. "It," I presume, being my figure.

Dear Mrs. Moull beamed on me with delight. Captain Moull grinned over over his good-natured, old face. But Cummings and Passow mortified me to blushes by making side-remarks about my figure, which they compared with everything unlike the virgin beauty I was supposed to represent.

The prizes were given, the Queen's Gold Medal awarded, the Duke's speech vociferously applauded, inspection and drill were over, and, while the visitors were being "regaled" at a repast, the shrill pipes of the boatswains' mates blew the call, "Rig Church!"

My heart began to beat fast. The long prepared for, but awful moment had arrived. We all got ready for our parts. The audience was seated. The band played and finally the curtain rose on, "Time Tries All."

Our audience was delightfully cordial. The Duke laughed good-humoredly and all went swimmingly until Bobby Knowles knelt at my feet and began his love scene. I think I had to "scorn him." Anyway, whatever it was, I had to rise from my chair and with an indignant gesture bide him "Begone!" It was something of that sort.

I did rise. I did throw out my arm. I did all we had rehearsed, but, in doing it by some means or other, my bosom unbuttoned and out came a pair of socks, which fell to the deck and rolled along to the feet of the Duke.

Some devilish shipmate at the back sang out, "Bravo, socks!"

The Duke roared—and so did every one else. I lost my head and could hear nothing but the jeers and yells of delight from the two hundred or more young devils in the "gallery." At length, stung to desperation, I tore open my bosom, and seizing the rest of my "figure," threw the socks like so many cannon balls at the heads of my tormentors. There was an uproar. Back came the socks. Amidst a scene of uproarious laughter and confusion, the curtain fell upon my first appearance on any stage.

We all got a horrible wigging from the Captain, but His Royal Highness was perfectly delighted, and voted that the amusement he had derived from our escapade was far beyond what he anticipated, and begged Captain Moull to pass the matter over. The Duke looked up aloft as we manned yards when he left the ship and he was still laughing when he got into the barge that pulled him away.

Some years afterwards, His Royal Highness visited India in the H. M. S. Galatea, of which ship Fred Passow was one of the junior officers. My ship was in Bombay, and I was in charge of the boat our ship sent ashore to the Apollo Bunder, where the Duke embarked to report himself on board the "Forte" frigate, then carrying the Commodore's flag at the station.

There were boats from each of the various ships in the harbor. All the crews tossed oars as the Prince came down the bunder, and we stood up in the stern sheets and saluted as he passed along.

Suddenly he stopped opposite my boat and a broad grin lit up his features. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before, youngster?" he asked.

I saluted and answered, "Yes, sir."

"Where was it?"

"On the Conway, sir."

"Socks, by God! I thought so!" cried the Prince and passed on roaring with laughter.

A Real Ghost

A REAL GHOST

"Yes, I have seen a ghost—once," I said in answer to an inquiry while my company was standing round the stove of a wayside station waiting to connect with a train bound east from St. Paul.

"After I left sea, I went out gold mining to Australia—made money, failed—and at last found myself installed second mate of a large English clipper full of passengers and bound for London. We cleared away from Sandridge pier about mid-day, and our last passenger to come on board, was a young fellow in a long brown ulster—ulsters were new then and remarkable. The only other one I knew was worn by Fanny 2, a beautiful young girl who had lately arrived from England and to whom I had become greatly attached.

"The passenger was shipped home by his friends with special instructions to our captain to keep him away from liquor. He was an absolute wreck from drink. Our booby hatch had been filled at the last with a quantity of colonial wine, one of the first shipments home from the colonier; but there was plenty of room in the cut of the hatchway for a man to stand.

"Well, we had been to sea some weeks, and were battering away 'round the Horn with a head wind and cold as the deuce. The snow and ice were thick everywhere, and it was blowing hard. I swore if I once got out of it I would never voluntarily go to sea again. One night I had the middle watch, that is from twelve to four in the morning, and I was sitting on a hen-coop under the weather cloth in the mizzen rigging, when I heard the captain come up. He had with him the young man in the brown ulster. The captain gave me orders; took a turn up and down, said good night, and went below.

"There was no one left on the poop but myself and the man at the wheel, for it was so cold I gave the youngster who had to strike the bells, leave to go below until I called.

"I suppose I must have got numbed by the cold and slept, for I was awakened by the relief wheel, at four bells, who gave me the course as he went below. I took a turn aft and saw the young man with the brown ulster leaning over the taffrail; but when I turned aft again he had gone down the companion, which faced the helmsman, and was the only entrance on deck from the saloon.

"I asked the helmsman how long the young man had been on deck. I was somewhat taken back when he assured me there had been no one there. I thought I had been dreaming, so did not press the matter.

"Shortly afterward the moon, which had been obscured through the clouds and made everything—covered as it was with snow—bright as day. As I turned aft in my walk I saw the man in the ulster leaning over the lee rail close to the helm. I walked aft to speak to him. As I approached he turned toward me in the moonlight, and to my horror I saw the face of Fanny 2. The figure stood for a moment and then seemed to go overboard.

"I shouted out 'Down with the helm! Man overboard!"

"The watch came tumbing aft. In a moment all hands were on deck. The ship flew up the wind and I swung her main-yard aback.

"'Who is it, Mr. Bellew?' asked the Captain.

"'The passenger, sir,' I answered, 'with the long ulster.' We lowered a boat, but there was no trace of him. The muster-roll was called and the young fellow was gone sure enough.

"We braced up our yards and filled away again, and after a few days ran into fine weather and forgot all about the lost passenger, who was duly entered in the log book as lost overboard.

"One day in the tropics the captain gave orders to have the hatches off and let some air into the hold. The last hatch to be removed was the booby hatch aft, an ornamental teakwood affair on which passengers used to sit, and which formed quite a feature of the quarter-deck. As we raised the hatches a peculiarly sickening smell came up from the hold.

"'There's dead rats there, sir, sure,' said the carpenter to me.

"Off came the hatches, and there, to our horror, in the fierce sunlight of the tropics, with everything bright and gay about us—children laughing and playing, every one happy—we disclosed the bloated and composed corpse of the young man in the brown ulster. By his side was a broken case of wine, and two or three empty bottles, showing plainly how he had died.

"The problem of how he got into the hold was soon solved. There was a large brass ventilator just abaft the main fife-rail, and knowing that drink was stowed down there he had lowered himself down to get it.

"On my arrival in the Thames our long-looked-for mail was brought on board by our agents. Among the first letters I opened was one bearing the Melbourne post-mark. I opened it hurriedly, for I was anxious for news. It was from a stranger, simply inclosing a newspaper paragraph:

"'On Sunday last at No.— 2 Street, East Melbourne, Fanny, only daughter of Thomas 2, Esq., died, of inflammation of the lungs.'

"My mind rushed back to the night off Cape Horn when I had seen her face in the moonlight. I turned the leaves of the log-book and there, on the same date as the notice in the newspaper clipping was the entry: 'Richard 2, passenger; jumped or fell overboard, 3 A.M., signed, 'KYRLE BELLEW, Second Officer, Ship T2 S2.'"

Poor Devil

POOR DEVIL

"Ah! old man. That's it; that's just it! What did I do it for? Hanged if I know; because I was a born fool I suppose. Did I care for her? Is it me? Not I, faith—at least—no. You see it was this way, Harry. Ah, but the year's too long—an—you're nearest the billy old man, slue yourself round and lift it Off. So—"

It was Christmas Eve. Not the long chill-nighted eve of jolly old England, but hot—blazig hot, and up on the reefs at Solferino, away to the north of the Clarence river, New South Wales.

We were up there amongst the first of the rush. Gold! But the times were bad now, the wages low.

Jack and I were mates. He'd been at sea; so had I. Met at the store and mated over Laird's rum—warranted. Egad, it wanted some passport down a fellow's throat, for the drays hadn't been up for over a month; and I swear there wasn't a sign of old Jamaica three weeks before, at the long weather-board shanty that did duty for everything in the shape of civilization on the reefs. Jack wasn't half a bad sort, frank, free—and twenty-three. We mated.

It seems years ago. The first time I saw him, was with a swag over his shoulder, an unmistakable serge shirt on his back, a thatch of his head that a "Conway" boy would have revelled in, jerked jauntily back with the peak at "full cock;" a six-shooter stuck in his belt, and altogether looking about as jolly and new-chumish as any fellow who had yet come up to the rush.

Work was over for the day, and there were eight thousand of us—of all nations and all colours—lounging about the camp. The store was in our Laird's "claim" we used to call it—and, by Jove, it was the richest claim on the whole diggings.

The boys hailed Jack with a shout. He just stopped for a moment, and the collie trotting beside him settled into a long, low growl.

"Shut up Kaiser" and then he walked into the thick of us.

He was too free and jolly not to take all hearts, and before he'd settled down amongst us an hour, his voice was ringing through the place in a rattling song, and he'd made a dozen friends.