England!
At Madeira seven of us were added to the first-class passengers of theCambuscan, homeward bound from Cape Town; and even so the company madea poor muster in the saloon, which required a hundred and seventy feetof hurricane-deck for covering. Those were days--long before the SouthAfrican War, before the Jameson Raid even--when every ship carried out aload of miners for the Transvaal, and returned comparatively empty,though as a rule with plenty of obviously rich men and be-diamondedladies.But every tide has its backwash; and it so happened that the Cambuscanheld as many second and third-class passengers as she could stow.They were--their general air proclaimed it--the failures of SouthAfrican immigration; men and women who had gone out too early and givenup the struggle just when the propitious moment arrived. Seedinessmarked the second-class; the third-class came from all parts, from theCape to Pietermaritzburg, but they might have conspired to assemble onthe Cambuscan as a protest against high hopes and dreams of a promisedland. The protest, let me add, was an entirely passive one. They stoodaloof, watching the flashy gaieties of the hurricane-deck from their ownsad penumbra--a dejected, wistful, whispering throng. "They simplydon't occur," one of the be-diamonded ladies remarked to me, and went onto praise the U-- Line for arranging it so. With nightfall--or a triflelater--they vanished; and at most, when the time came for my last pipebefore turning in, two or three figures would be left pacing thereforward, pacing and turning and pacing again. I wondered who thesefigures were, and what their thoughts. They and the sleepers hivedbeneath them belonged to another world--a world driven with ours throughwave and darkness, urged by the same propellers, controlled by the samehelmsman, separated only by thin partitions which the touch of a rockwould tear down like paper; yet, while the partitions stood, separatedas no city separates its rich and poor. Only on Sundays did these twoworlds consent to meet. They had, it appeared, a common God, and joinedfor a few minutes once a week in worshipping Him.The be-diamonded lady, however, was not quite accurate. Once, and onceonly--it was the second day out from Madeira--the third-class passengersdid "occur," to the extent of organising athletic sports, and even (withthe captain's leave) of levying prize-money from the saloon-deck.Some four or five of us, when their delegate approached, were loungingbeneath the great awning and listening, or pretending to listen, to thediscourse of our only millionaire, Mr. Olstein. As usual, he recitedhis wrongs; and, as usual, the mere recital caused him to perspire.The hairs on the back of his expostulatory hand bristled withindignation, the diamonds on his fingers flashed with it. We had knownhim but two days and were passing weary of him, but allowed him to talk.He apostrophised the British Flag--his final Court of Appeal, he termedit--while we stared out over the waters."We love it," he insisted. "We never see it without a lump in ourthroats. But we ask ourselves, How long is this affection to count fornothing? What are we to get in return?"No one answered, perhaps because no one knew. My thoughts had flownforward to a small riverside church in England, and a memorial window toone whose body had been found after Isandlwhana with the same flagwrapped around it beneath the tunic. This was his reward."Hey? What's this?" Mr. Olstein took the subscription list, fitted hisgold-rimmed glasses and eyed the delegate over the paper."Athletic sports? Not much in your line, I should say.""No, sir;" and while the delegate bent his eyes a bright spot showed oneither cheek. He was a weedy, hollow-chested man, about six feet inheight, with tell-tale pits at the back of the neck, and a ragged beardevidently grown on the voyage. "I'm only a collector, with thecaptain's permission.""I see." Mr. Olstein pulled out a sovereign. "I don't put this onyou, mind; I can tell a consumptive with half an eye. See here"--heappealed to us--"this is just what we suffer from. You fellows withlung trouble flock to a tepid hole like Madeira, while the Cape wouldcure you in half the time: why, the voyage itself only begins to bedecent after you get south! But you won't see it; and the people whodo see it are just the sort who don't pay us when they come, anddamage us when they go back,--hard cases, sent out to pick up a livingas well as their health, who get stranded and hurry home half-cured."A young Briton in the deck-chair next to mine rose and walked offabruptly, while I fumbled for a coin, ashamed to meet the collector'seye."Hullo!" Mr. Olstein grinned at me. "Our friend's in a hurry to dodgethe subscription list."But the young Briton turned and intercepted the collector as he movedtowards the next group."It's your sovereign," said I, "that seems to be overlooked."Mr. Olstein saw it at his elbow and re-pocketed it. "Well, if he hasn'tthe sense to pick it up, I've some more than to whistle him back.But that'll show you the sort of fool we send out to compete withGermans and suchlike. It's enough to make a man ashamed of hiscountry."This happened on a Saturday morning, and in the afternoon we attendedthe sports--a depressing ceremony. The performers went through theircontests, so to speak, with bated breath and a self-consciousness which,try as we might, poisoned our applause and made it insufferablypatronising. Their backers would pluck up heart and encourage themloudly with Whitechapel catch-words, and anon would hush their voices inuneasy shame. Our collector, brave by fits in his dignity as steward,would catch the eye of a saloon-deck passenger and shrink behind theenormous rosette which some wag had pinned upon him.Next day I made an opportunity to speak with him, after service.It needed no pressing to extract his story, and he told it with entiresimplicity. He was a Cockney, and by trade had been a baker inBermondsey. "A wearing trade," he said. "The most of us die beforeforty. You'd be surprised." But he had started with a soundconstitution, and somehow persuaded himself, in spite of warnings, thathe was immune. At thirty-two he had married. "A deal later than most,"he explained--and had scarcely been married three months before lungtrouble declared itself. "I had a few pounds put by, having married solate; and it seemed a duty to Emily to give myself every chance: so wepacked up almost at once and started for South Africa. It was a wrenchto her, but the voyage out did us both all the good in the world, shebeing in a delicate state of health, and the room in Bermondsey not fitfor a woman in that condition." The baby was born in Cape Town, fivemonths after their landing. "But they've no employment for bakers outthere," he assured me. "We found trade very low altogether, and what Ipicked up wasn't any healthier than in London. Emily disliked theplace, too; though she'd have stayed gladly if it had been doing me anygood. And so back we're going. There's one thing: I'm safe of work.My old employer in Bermondsey has promised that all right. And thechild, you see, sir, won't suffer. There's no consumption, that I knowof, in either of our families; and Emily, you may be sure, will see he'snot brought up to be a baker."He announced it in the most matter-of-fact way. He was going back toEngland to die--to die speedily--and he knew it. "I should like you tosee our baby, sir," he added. "He weighs extraordinary, for his age.My wife comes from the North of England--a very big-boned family; andhe's British, every ounce of him, though he was born in South Africa."But the wife took a chill on entering the Bay, and remained below withthe child; nor was it until the day we sighted England that I saw thewhole family together.We were to pick up the Eddystone; and as this was calculated to happenat sunset, or a little after, the usual sweepstake on the saloon-deckaroused a little more than the usual excitement. For the first glimpse,whether of lighthouse or light, would give the prize to the nearestguesser. If we anticipated sunset, the clearness of the weather woulddecide between two pretty close shots: if we ran it fine, the lamp(which carries for seventeen miles and more) might upset those whostaked on daylight even at that distance from the mark. Our guesses hadbeen tabulated, and the paper pinned up in the smoking-room.They allowed a margin of some twenty-five knots on the twenty-fourhours' run--ranging, as nearly as I can recollect, from three hundredand thirty-five to three hundred and sixty; and the date being the lastweek of March, and sunset falling close on half-past six, a whole nebulaof guesses surrounded that hour, one or two divided only by a fewseconds.A strong head-wind met us in the Channel, and the backers of daylighthad almost given up hope; but it dropped in the late afternoon, and bythe log we were evidently in for a close finish. Mr. Olstein had sethis watch by the ship's chronometer, and consulted it from minute tominute. He stood by me, binocular in hand, and grew paler withexcitement as sunset drew on and the minutes scored off the guesses oneby one from the list. His guess was among the last, but not actuallythe last by half a dozen.We had reached a point when five minutes disposed of no less than nineguesses. The weather was dull: no one could tell precisely if the sunhad sunk or not. We were certainly within twenty miles of the rock, andby the Nautical Almanack, unless our chronometer erred, the light oughtto flash out within sixty seconds. If within forty the man sang outfrom the crow's-nest, Mr. Olstein would lose; after forty he had a wholeminute and a half for a clear win.The forty seconds passed. Mr. Olstein drew a long breath of relief."But why the devil don't they light up?" he demanded after a moment."I call you to witness what the time is by our chronometer. I'll haveit tested as soon as I step ashore, and if it's wrong I'll complain tothe Company; if it's not, I'll send the Trinity House a letter'll laythose lighthouse fellows by the heels! Punctuality, sir, in the case ofshipping--life or death--"The cry of the man in the crow's-nest mingled with ours as a sparktouched the north-eastern horizon almost ahead of us--trembled anddied--shone out, as it seemed, more steadily--and again was quenched.Mr. Olstein slapped his thigh. He had won something like ten pounds andwas a joyous millionaire. "That makes twice in four voyages," heproclaimed.I congratulated him and strode forward. A group of third-classpassengers had gathered by the starboard bow. They, too, had heard thecry. To all appearance they might have been an ordinary Whitechapelcrowd, and even now they scarcely lifted their voices; but theywhispered and pointed."The Eddystone!"I singled out my friend the baker. Before I could reach him he hadbroken from the group. I hailed him. Without seeming to hear, hedisappeared down the fore-companion. But by and by he emerged again,and with a baby in his arms. Evidently he had torn it from its cot.His wife followed, weak and protesting.The child, too, raised a wail of querulous protest; but he hugged it tohim, and running to the ship's side held it aloft."England, baby!"It turned its head, seeking the pillow or its mother; and would notlook, but broke into fresh and louder wailing."England!"He hugged it afresh. God knows of what feeling sprang the tears thatfell on its face and baptized it. But he hushed his voice, and, liftingthe child again, coaxed it to look--coaxed it with tears streaming now,and with a thrill that would not be denied--"England, baby--England!"
THE END.
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