Chapter One.

Early Days.

It is strange what trifling events—little things apparently in themselves—seem to have the power of shaping our different destinies, and colouring, so to speak, the whole course of our subsequent life!

To illustrate this, I may state without exaggeration that, had it not been for Dr Hellyer’s hat—taken in connection with the mischievous promptings of that madcap Tom Larkyns, my special chum at the time—it is more than probable that the grand climax which so abruptly brought my school-days to a close might have been averted; and, in that case, following out the argument, I should not have gone to sea; have never started on that disastrous voyage round Cape Horn which nearly terminated my then newly-commenced nautical career as summarily as my whilom academical studies had been put a stop to just previously; and, as a natural consequence, I should most certainly have never had the opportunity or necessity for spinning the present yarn. But, perhaps, the best plan for me to pursue, in order to make you fully understand the matter in all its bearings, will be to “begin at the beginning,” as your regular ’longshore professional storytellers say, in the good old-fashioned way, without any more backing and filling, and veering and hauling, which mode of progression, as every decent sailor knows, only tends to take a craft off her proper true course, and make lots of leeway; whereas, if we sail on free, with a fair wind and a steady helm, you’ll soon be able to follow in my wake and form a correct opinion of your own as to the merits of my logical conclusions.

I will now, therefore, put back again and select a fresh point of departure after this little bit of sea lawyering; so, here goes for a start in earnest!

My name is Martin Leigh, and my mother died shortly after I was born, worse luck for me! My father, who was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, being within a year or two subsequently killed in action up the Niger river on the west coast of Africa, I was left an orphan at a very early age, without having ever experienced, even in my most remote childish recollections, those two greatest of all blessings—a mother’s love and parental guidance—which many who have been more fortunate than myself to possess are, as I have frequently noticed in after-life, but too often in the habit of undervaluing and making light of.

At the time of my birth, my father was abroad on service in the exercise of his profession, having no private fortune or other resources which would have enabled him to live at home on his half-pay; and on my mother’s early death I was taken charge of at his request by his brother, a man considerably older than himself, with a wife and family of his own. Of course, while my father lived he made over a portion of the honorarium given him by a grateful country in return for exposing his life at the call of duty; but, on his suddenly succumbing to the effects of a murderous slug shot through the lungs, fired from the old flint musket of one of the King of Abarri’s adherents, in the pestilential African stream up which he had gone to demolish a native stronghold that had defied the fetish of the British flag, this allowance for my support ceased, and I was thenceforth left a poor pensioner on my uncle’s bounty. I will do my relative the justice of stating that I do not believe he would have grudged the extra expense I entailed on his already well-populated household, had it not been for my aunt. This lady, however, affectionately regarded me as an interloper from the very first; and I have a vivid memory, even now, of the aggravating way she had of talking about the food I ate and the clothes I wore out—although, goodness knows, my tailor’s bill could not have amounted to much in those days, as I was invariably made the residuary legatee of my elder cousin Ralph’s cast-off jackets and trousers, which, when pretty nearly dilapidated, used to be made over to my use, after being first cut down by my Aunt Matilda’s own fair hands to suit my more juvenile proportions.

To make a long story short, I could plainly perceive, young as I was, long before I had cut my eye teeth, that I was looked upon as an uncalled-for incumbrance by my relatives, senior and junior alike—Aunt Matilda never being dissuaded, by any fear of hurting my feelings, from continually speaking of my pauper condition, and throwing it, as it were, in my face, wondering in her hypocritical way what special sin she could have committed that she should thus be afflicted in having to “deny her own children their rightful bread,” that I, miserable orphan, might “wax fat and kick,” as she said; while my cousins, who were a very mean lot, dutifully followed the example set them by their mother, in making me “realise my position,” as they termed their cruel tyranny. Uncle George used sometimes to take my part when some hazy recollection of his dead brother came before his mind, declaring that as long as he had a crust to spare I should not want; still, as the incessant dropping of water will in the end wear away stone, so my aunt’s persistent nagging and iteration of my shortcomings in resisting my cousins’ bullying had their due effect in time.

The upshot was that, when I had just turned my twelfth year and had experienced a childhood of martyrdom which I trust few others situated like myself will ever have to undergo, my uncle came to the determination of sending me away to a cheap boarding-school at a distance, where I was to be taught and boarded and “found” for the munificent sum I believe of twelve pounds annually. The proviso was, I may add, especially insisted on by my Aunt Matilda, that I was not to return “home”—I beg that hearty word’s pardon for so misapplying it—for the holidays at any period whatever, but was to spend my whole time under the academical roof-tree until my pupilage should expire.

Hitherto I had received no regular instruction whatever, and had it not been for the kind offices of a good-natured servant-maid, I would have been unable either to read or write. Indeed, I believe the neighbours must have gossiped about my neglected state and the position I occupied in the house, where I had to perform all sorts of menial offices, and was hardly ever allowed out of doors, except on Sundays, when I had to go to the chapel which my aunt attended. Be that as it may, at all events, I was told by my friend, the maid-servant aforesaid, that the minister of this chapel had remonstrated on my behalf. Thence came the determination on my uncle’s part to send me to school; for I am certain that if my dear aunt could have had her own way, without the fear of being talked about in the locality, she would much rather have entrusted me to the care of the parochial authorities. However, in whatever way the matter was decided, I know that when I heard the news I felt inclined to jump for joy, considering “going to school,” which is so dreaded at first by boys with happier homes than I had been accustomed to, would be a delightful deliverance from the misery to which I had been condemned from infancy in my uncle’s house—living like an Ishmael, with every hand, save that of Uncle George and Molly the maid, raised against me.

“Now, Martin,” said my uncle, when he informed me of the result of the family council held on my case, “as I’m only a poor man, I’m straining a point and crippling my means in order to send you to school; but I am doing it so that you may be educated to earn your own living, which you’ll have to do as soon as the three years expire for which I have contracted with Dr Hellyer; after that it will be out of my power to do anything further for you.”

“All right, uncle,” said I, buoyantly, so carried away with