adventures of archie and the seaman.

meanwhile the buffalo-hunt progressed favourably, and the slaughter of animals was considerable.

but there were two members of that hunt whose proceedings were not in exact accord with the habits and laws of the chase, as usually conducted on the red river plains. these were the seaman jenkins and archie sinclair.

a mutual attachment having sprung up between these two, they had arranged to keep together during the chase; and when the signal for attack was given by dechamp, as before related, they had “set sail,” according to jenkins, fairly well with the rest. but they had not gone more than a few hundred yards when the boy observed that his nautical friend was hauling at both reins furiously, as if desirous of stopping his horse. having a gun in one hand he found the operation difficult.

archie therefore reined in a little.

“bad luck to it!” growled jenkins, as his young friend drew near, “the jaws o’ this craft seem to be made o’ cast-iron, but i’ll bring him to if i should haul my arms out o’ the sockets. heave-to, my lad! maybe he’ll be willin’ to follow a good example.”

archie pulled up, and, as the seaman had hoped, the hard-mouthed steed stopped, while the maddened buffalo and the almost as much maddened hunters went thundering on, and were soon far ahead of them.

“what’s wrong, jenkins?” asked archie, on seeing the sailor dismount.

“not much, lad; only i want to take a haul at the main brace. here, hold my gun a bit, like a good chap; the saddle, you see, ain’t all right, an’ if it was to slew round, you know, i’d be overboard in a jiffy. there, that’s all right. now, we’ll up anchor, an’ off again. i know now that the right way to git on board is by the port side. when i started from red river i was goin’ to climb up on the starboard side, but dan davidson kep’ me right—though he had a good laugh at me. all right now. hand me the gun.”

“do you mean to say, jenkins, that you never got on a horse till you came to red river?” asked archie, with a laugh, as they galloped off in pursuit of the hunters, who were almost out of sight by that time.

“well, you’ve no occasion to laugh, lad,” returned the seaman. “i’ve bin at sea ever since i was a small shaver, scarce half as long as a handspike, so i ain’t had many opportunities, d’ee see, for we don’t have cavalry at sea, as a rule—always exceptin’ the horse marines.

“then i’m afraid you’ll find runnin’ the buffalo somewhat difficult,” returned the boy. “not that i know anything about it myself, for this is the first time i’ve been out; an’ even now dan won’t let me use a gun; but i’ve often heard the men talkin’ about it! an’ some o’ them have complained that they have found it uncommon difficult to load when at full gallop—specially when the horse is hard in the mouth.”

“i make no manner o’ doubt you’re right, lad, but i’ve got my sea-legs on now, so to speak; leastwise i’ve got used to ridin’ in the trip out here, as well as used to steerin’ wi’ the tiller-ropes in front, which seems to me right in the teeth o’ natur’, though i couldn’t see how it could well be otherwise. but i confess that my chief difficulty is the ordnance, for it interferes a good deal wi’ the steerin’. hows’ever—‘never ventur’ never win,’ you know. i never expected to take up a noo purfession without some trouble.”

as he spoke, the seaman’s horse—a large brown chestnut—put its foot in a hole, and plunged forward with great violence, barely escaping a fall.

“hold on!” shouted archie in alarm.

“hold on it is!” sang out the sailor in reply.

and hold on it was, for he had the chestnut round the neck with both arms. indeed he was sitting, or lying, on its neck altogether.

“it ain’t an easy job,” he gasped, while he struggled to regain the saddle, “when a fellow gets hove on to the bowsprit this way, to git fairly back on the main-deck again. but a jenkins never was beaten in fair fight. that’s all right. now then, archie, you’re an obleegin’ cove. do git down an’ pick up the gun for me. you see, if i git down it’s a tryin’ job to git up again—the side o’ this here craft bein’ so steep an’ so high out o’ the water. thank’ee; why, boy, you jump down an’ up like a powder-monkey. it ain’t broke, is it?”

“no. it seems all right,” answered the boy, as he handed the gun to its owner. “but if you let it go like that often, it won’t be much worth when the run’s over.”

“let it go, boy?” repeated the sailor. “it was either let it or myself go, an’ when it comes to a toss up o’ that sort, fred jenkins knows how to look arter number one.”

it will be seen from all this that our seaman was not quite so much at home on the prairie as on the sea. indeed, if the expression be permissible, he was very much at sea on that undulating plain, and did not take so kindly to the green waves of the rolling prairie as to the heaving billows of the restless ocean; but, as archie remarked, he was fast getting broke in.

the incidents which we have mentioned, however, were but the commencement of a series of disasters to poor jenkins, which went far to cure him of a desire to excel in the “noo purfession,” and to induce a somewhat violent longing for a return to his first love, the ocean.

“i can’t think what ever could have made you want to come out here,” said archie, as they continued to follow up the still distant hunters.

“what was it made yourself want to come out, lad?” asked the sailor.

“it wasn’t me that wanted to come. it was father, you know, an’ of course i had to follow,” said the boy in a tone which induced his friend to say hastily, and in a tone of sympathy—

“ah, poor lad, i forgot you was a orphing. well, you see, i think it must ha’ bin a love o’ change or a love o’ discontent, or suthin’ o’ that sort, as brought me cruising in these here waters, for i can’t say what else it was. you see i was born a sort o’ ro–oh—”

“look out! a badger-hole!” shouted the boy.

his warning would have been too late, but the chestnut fortunately leaped over the danger instead of stumbling into it, and its rider was only partially shaken out of his seat.

“it’s well,” he said, when fairly settled down again to an easy gallop, “that the tiller-ropes are stout else i’d ha’ bin over the starn this time instead of out on the bowsprit. let me see, what was i sayin’ of?”

“somethin’ about your bein’ born a sort of ‘ro–oh—,’ though what that may be i haven’t a notion.”

“ah! jist so—i was born a sort o’ rover (when this long-legged brute took the badger-hole), an’ i’ve bin to every quarter o’ the globe a’most, but if i’d lived to the age o’ methooslum i’d never ha’ thought o’ comin’ here,—for the good reason that i knowed nothin’ o’ its existence,—if i hadn’t by chance in a furrin port fallen in wi’ andré morel, an’ took an uncommon fancy to him. you see, at the time, i was—well, i was no better nor i should be; p’raps a deal wuss, an’ morel he meets me, an’ says—‘hallo, my lad,’ says he, ‘where away?’

“i looked at him gruff-like a moment or two, for it seemed to me he was raither too familiar for a stranger, but he’s got such a pleasant, hearty look with him—as you know—that i couldn’t feel riled with ’im, so ‘i’m goin’ on the spree,’ says i.

“‘all right,’ says he, ‘i’m with ’ee, lad. d’ye know the town?’

“‘no more than a mother carey’s chicken,’ says i. ‘come along, then,’ says he; ‘i’ll tak’ ’ee to a fust-rate shop.’

“so off we went arm in arm as thick as two peas, an’ after passin’ through two or three streets he turns into a shop that smelt strong o’ coffee.

“‘hallo! mate,’ says i, ‘you’ve made some sort o’ mistake. this here ain’t the right sort o’ shop.’

“‘o yes, it is,’ says he, smilin’, quite affable-like. ‘the best o’ tipple here, an’ cheap too. come along. i’ve got somethin’ very partikler to say to you. look here, waiter—two cups o’ coffee, hot an’ strong, some buttered toast, an’ no end o’ buns, etceterer.’

“wi’ that he led me to a seat, an’ we sat down. i was so took aback an’ amused that i waited to see what would foller an’ what he’d got to say that was so partikler—but, i say, archie, them buffalo runners has got the wind o’ us, an’ are showin’ us their heels, i fear.”

“never fear,” returned the boy, rising in his stirrups and shading his eyes to look ahead. “they do seem to be leavin’ us a bit, but you see by the dust that the buffalo are holdin’ away to the right, so if we keep still more to the right an’ cut round that knoll, i think we’ll be safe to catch them up. they’re doin’ good work, as the carcasses we’ve passed and the rattle o’ shots clearly show. but get on wi’ your story, jenkins.”

“well, it ain’t much of a story, lad. what morel had to say was that he’d arranged wi’ an agent o’ lord selkirk to come out to this country; an’ he was goin’ out wi’ a lot o’ his relations, an’ was beatin’ up for a few good hands, an’ he liked the look o’ me, an’ would i agree to go wi’ him?

“well, as you may believe, this was a poser, an’ i said i’d think over it, an’ let him know next day. you see, i didn’t want to seem to jump at it too eager-like, though i liked the notion, an’ i had neither wife, nor sweetheart, nor father or mother, to think about, for i’m a orphing, you see, like yourself, archie—only a somewhat bigger one.

“well, when we’d finished all the coffee, an’ all the buns, an’ all the etceterers, he began to advise me not to ha’ nothin’ more to do wi’ grog-shops. i couldn’t tell ’ee the half o’ what he said—no, nor the quarter—but he made such a impression on me that i was more than half-convinced. to say truth, i was so choke-full o’ coffee an’ buns, an’ etceterers, that i don’t believe i could ha’ swallowed another drop o’ liquor.

“‘where are ye goin’ now?’ says he, when we’d done.

“‘back to my ship,’ says i.

“‘come an’ ha’ tea to-morrow wi’ me an’ my sister,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll have another talk about rupert’s land.’

“‘i will,’ says i.

“‘six o’clock, sharp,’ says he.

“‘sharp’s the word,’ says i.

“an’, sure enough, i went to his house sharp to time next day, an’ there i found him an’ his sister. she was as pretty a craft as i ever set eyes on, wi’ a modest look an’ long fair ringlets—just borderin’ on nineteen or thereaway—but you know her, archie, so i needn’t say no more.”

“what! is that the same woman that’s keeping house for him now in red river?”

“woman!” repeated the sailor, vehemently; “she’s not a woman—she’s a angel is elise morel. don’t speak disrespectful of her, lad.”

“i won’t,” returned archie with a laugh; “but what was the upshot of it all?”

“the upshot of it,” answered the seaman, “was that i’ve never touched a drop o’ strong drink from that day to this, an’ that i’m now blown entirely out o’ my old courses, an’ am cruisin’ arter the buffalo on the plains o’ rupert’s land.”

at this point, their minds being set free from the consideration of past history, they made the discovery that the buffalo runners were nowhere to be seen on the horizon, and that they themselves were lost on the grassy sea.

“what shall we do?” said the boy, when they had pulled up to consider their situation. “you see, although i came out here a good while before you did,” he added, half apologetically, “i’ve never been out on the plains without a guide, and don’t know a bit how to find the way back to camp. the prairie is almost as bad as the sea you’re so fond of, with a clear horizon all round, and nothing worth speaking of to guide us. an’ as you have never been in the plains before, of course you know nothing. in short, jenkins, i greatly fear that we are lost! why, what are you grinning at?”

the terminal question was induced by the fact that the tall seaman was looking down at his anxious companion with a broad smile on his handsome sunburnt countenance.

“so we’re lost, are we, archie?” he said, “like two sweet babes on the prairie instead of in the woods. an’ you think i knows nothin’. well, p’r’aps i don’t know much, but you should remember, lad, that an old salt wi’ a compass in his wes’kit-pocket is not the man to lose his reck’nin’. i’ve got one here as’ll put us all right on that score, for i was careful to take my bearin’s when we set sail, an’ i’ve been keepin’ an eye on our course all the way. make your mind easy, my boy.”

so saying, the sailor pulled out the compass referred to, and consulted it. then he pulled out a watch of the warming-pan type, which he styled a chronometer, and consulted that also; after which he looked up at the clouds—seamanlike—and round the horizon, especially to windward, if we may speak of such a quarter in reference to a day that was almost quite calm.

“now, archie, boy, the upshot o’ my cogitations is that with a light breeze on our starboard quarter, a clear sky overhead, an’ a clear conscience within, you and i had better hold on our course for a little longer, and see whether we can’t overhaul the runners. if we succeed, good and well. if not, why, ’bout-ship, and homeward-bound is the sailin’ orders. what say ’ee, lad?”

“i say whatever you say, jenkins. if you’re sure o’ the way back, as i’ve no doubt you are, why, there couldn’t be greater fun than to go after the buffalo on our own account. and—i say, look there! isn’t that somethin’ like them on the top o’ the far bluff yonder? a fellow like you, wi’ sharp sailor-eyes, ought to be able to make them out.”

“you forget, lad, that i ain’t a buffalo runner, an’ don’t know the cut o’ the brutes’ jibs yet. it does look like somethin’. come, we’ll go an’ see.” putting their horses to the gallop, the two curiously matched friends, taking advantage of every knoll and hollow, succeeded in getting sufficiently near to perceive that a small herd was grazing quietly in a grassy bottom between two prairie waves. they halted at once for consultation.

“now, then, archie,” said the sailor, examining the priming of his gun, “here we are at last, a-goin’ to begin a pitched battle. there’s this to be said for us, that neither you nor me knows rightly how to go to work, both on us havin’ up to this time bin trained, so to speak, on hearsay. but what o’ that? in the language o’ the immortial nelson, ‘england expec’s every man to do his dooty.’ now it seems to me my dooty on the present occasion is to lay myself alongside of a buffalo an’ blaze away! isn’t that the order o’ battle?”

“yes. but don’t go for a bull, and don’t go too close for fear he turns sharp round an’ catches you on his horns. you know the bulls are apt to do that sometimes.”

“trust me, lad, i’ll keep clear o’ the bulls.”

“and you understand how to re-load?” asked the boy.

“o yes, all right. dan put me thro’ the gunnery practice on the way out, an’ i went through it creditably. only a slight hitch now and then. two or three balls in the mouth ready to spit into the gun—”

“not all at once, though, jenkins.”

“in course not, lad: one at a time: no ramming; hit the butt on the saddle; blaze away; one down, another come on—eh?”

“that’s it,” said archie, eager for the fray. “how i wish dan had let me have a gun!”

“safer not, lad. an’ keep well in rear, for i may be apt to fire wide in the heat of action.”

with this final caution, the mariner put his gun on full cock, shook the reins, and trotted quietly forward until he saw that the buffalo had observed him. then, as he afterwards expressed it, he “clapped on all sail-stuns’ls alow and aloft, and sky-scrapers—and went into action like a true blue british tar, with little archie sinclair full sail astern.”

he did not, however, come out of action with as much éclat as he went into it, but justice obliges us to admit that he came out victorious.

we cannot do better than give his own description of that action as related beside the camp-fire that night, to a circle of admiring friends.

“well, you must know,” he began, after finishing his supper and lighting his pipe, “that long-legged frigate o’ mine that dan calls a chestnut—though a cocoanut would be more like the thing, if you take size into account—he’s as keen for the chase as a small boy arter a butterfly, an’ before i could say ‘jack robinson,’ a’most, he had me into the middle o’ the herd an’ alongside o’ the big bull. any one could tell it was him, in spite o’ the dust we kicked up, by reason o’ the side-glance o’ his wicked little eye, his big hairy fore’id, an’ his tail stickin’ out stiff like a crook’d spankerboom.

“in course i was not a-goin’ to fire into him, so i gave the frigate a dig wi’ my heels—tho’ i’d got no irons on ’em—an’ tried to shove up alongside of a fat young cow as was skylarkin’ on ahead. as we went past the bull he made a vicious dab wi’ his horn, and caught the frigate on her flank—right abaft the mizzen chains, like. whew! you should ha’ seen what a sheer she made right away to starboard! if it hadn’t bin that i was on the look-out, i’d ha’ bin slap overboard that time, but i see’d the squall comin’, an’, seizin’ my brute’s mane, held on like a monkey wi’ hand an’ leg.

“well, before i knew where i was, the cocoan— i mean the chestnut, had me alongside the cow. i stuck the muzzle a’most into her ribs, and let drive. down she went by the head, fairly scuttled, an’ i could hear young archie givin’ a wild cheer astern.”

“‘that’s the way to go it, jenkins!’ he yelled. ‘load again.’

“but it was easier said than done, i can tell you. you see, i’ve bin brought up to cartridges all my life, an’ the change to pullin’ a stopper out o’ a horn wi’ your teeth, pourin’ the powder into your left hand, wi’ the gun under your left arm, an’ the pitchin’ o’ the frigate, like as if it was in a cross sea, was raither perplexin’. hows’ever, it had to be done, for i was alongside of another cow in a jiffy. i nigh knocked out two o’ my front teeth in tryin’ to shove the stopper in my mouth. then, when i was pourin’ the powder into my hand, i as near as could be let fall the gun, which caused me to give a sort of gasp of anxiety, when two o’ the three bullets dropped out o’ my mouth, but i held on to the third wi’ my teeth. just then a puff o’ wind blew the powder out o’ my hand into the buffalo’s eyes, causin’ her to bellow like a fog-horn, an’ obleegin’ me to pour out another charge. i did it hastily, as you may well believe, an’ about three times what i wanted came out. hows’ever, i lost a deal of it in pourin’ it into the gun; then i spat the ball in, gettin’ another nasty rap on the teeth as i did so, but i’d bit the ball so that it stuck half-way down.

“it was no time to think o’ trifles. i gave the butt an extra bang on the pommel to send the ball home, shoved the muzzle right in among the hair an’ pulled the trigger. there was a bang that sounded to me as if the ship’s magazine had blown up. it was followed by a constellation o’ fire-works and—archie sinclair must tell you what happened arter that, for i misremember the whole on it. the fire-works closed the scene to me.”

archie, nothing loath, and with glistening eyes, took up the narrative at this point, while the hero of the hour rekindled his pipe.

“the fact is,” he said, “the gun had burst—was blown to atoms; not a bit o’ the barrel left, and a great lump o’ the stock struck jenkins on the head, stunned him, and tumbled him off his horse.”

“that was the magazine explosion and fire-works,” explained jenkins.

“but the queer thing was,” continued archie, “that the buffalo fell dead, and, on examining it, we found that a bit o’ the barrel had been driven right into its brain.”

“ay, boy, but it was queerer still that none o’ the pieces struck me or my horse ’cept that bit o’ the stock. an’ i’m none the worse, barrin’ this lump on the head, that only serves to cock my hat a little more to one side than seems becomin’ to a sober-minded man.”

“we were sorry to be able to bring away so little o’ the meat,” said archie, with the gravity of an old hunter; “but, you see, it was too late to send a cart for it after we got back.”

“never mind,” said dan davidson, when the narrative was brought to a close, “you have done very well for a beginning.”

“moreover,” added fergus, “it iss a goot feast the wolves will be havin’ on the plains this night, an’ so, archie, i’ll be wishin’ ye better luck next time.”