Kitabı oku: «The Island of Gold: A Sailor's Yarn», sayfa 10
Book Two – Chapter Nine.
Wonderful Adventures of the Dancing Crane
Hardly had Ransey finished his story ere a bright flash of lightning lit up the ship from stem to stern – a flash that seemed to strike the top of every rolling wave and hiss in the hollows between; a flash that left the barque in Cimmerian though only momentary darkness, for hardly had the thunder that followed – deep, loud, and awful – commenced, ere flash succeeded flash, and the sea all around seemed an ocean of fire.
For a time little Nelda could not be prevailed upon to go below. She was indeed a child of the wilds, and a thunderstorm was one of her chief delights.
Ah! but this was going to be somewhat more than a thunderstorm.
“Hands, shorten sail! All hands on deck!” It was Tandy’s voice sounding through the speaking trumpet – ringing through it, I might say, and yet it scarce could be heard above the incessant crashing of the thunder.
The men came tumbling up, looking scared and frightened in the blue glare of the lightning.
“Away aloft! Bear a hand, my hearties! Get her snug, and we’ll splice the main-brace. Hurrah, lads! Nimbly does it!”
Swaying high up on the top-gallant yards they looked no bigger than rooks, and with every uncertain lurch and roll the yard-ends seemed almost to touch the water.
It was at this moment that the stewardess came staggering aft.
“Don’t go, ’Ansey – don’t go,” cried Nelda.
“Duty’s duty, dear, and it’s ‘all hands’ now.”
He saw her safely down the companion-way, and next minute he was swarming up the ratlines to his station. But he had to pause every few seconds and hang on to the rigging, with his back right over the water – hang on for dear life.
The sails were reefed, and some were got in, and not till the men had got down from aloft did the rain come on. For higher and higher had the clouds on the northern horizon banked up, till they covered all the sky.
So awful was the rain, and so blinding, that it was impossible to see ten yards ahead, or even to guess from which direction the storm would actually come.
The wind was already whirling in little eddies from end to end of the deck, but hardly yet did it affect the motion of the ship, or give her way in any one direction.
The men were ordered below in batches, to get into their oilskins, for right well Tandy knew that a fearful night had to be faced.
The men received their grog now, and well did they deserve it.
Another hand was put to the wheel (two men in all), and near them stood the bold mate Tandy, ready to give orders by signal or even by touch, should they fail to hear his voice. All around the deck the men were clinging to bulwark or stay.
Waiting for the inevitable!
Ah! now it came. The rain had ceased for a time. So heavy had it been that the waves themselves were levelled, and Tandy could now see a long line of white coming steadily up astern.
He thanked the God who rules on sea as well as on dry land that the squall was coming from that direction. Had it taken the good ship suddenly aback she might have gone down stern-foremost, even with the now limited spread of canvas that was on her.
As it was, the first mountain wave that hit the good barque sent her flying through the sea as if she had been but an empty match-box. That wave burst on board, however – pooped her, in fact – and went roaring forward, a sea of solid foaming water.
The good vessel shivered from stem to stern like a creature in the throes of death. For a few minutes only. Next minute she had shaken herself free, and was dashing through the water at a pace that only a yacht could have beaten.
The thunder now went rolling down to leeward, and the rain ceased, but the gale increased in force, and in a short time she had to be eased again, and now she was scudding along almost under bare poles. It would be hours before mate Tandy could get below; but Ransey’s watch was now off deck, so he went down to ask Janeira, the stewardess, if Nelda was in bed.
She was in bed most certainly, but through the half-open doorway she could hear Ransey’s voice, and shouted to him.
“I fink, sah,” Janeira said, “she am just one leetle bit afraid.”
There was no doubt about that, and the questions with which she plied her brother, when he took a seat by her bunk to comfort her, were peculiar, to say the least.
“Daddy won’t be down for a long, long time?” – that was one.
“The poor men, though, how many is drownded?” – another.
“The ship did go to the bottom though, didn’t it, ’cause I heard the water all rush down?” – a third.
“You are quite, quite sure father isn’t drownded? And you are sure no awful beasts have come up with long arms? Well, tell us some stories.”
Nolens volens, Ransey had to. But Babs got drowsy at last, the white eyelids drooped and drooped till they finally closed; then Ransey went quietly away and turned into his hammock.
Young though he was, the heaviest sea-way could not frighten him, nor the stormiest wind that could blow. The sound of the wind as it went roaring through the rigging could only make him drowsy, and the ship herself would rock him to sleep. The barque was snug, too, and it was happiness itself to hear his father’s footsteps, as he walked the quarterdeck, pausing now and then to give an order to the men at the wheel.
“Behaved like an angel all through, Halcott!” That was what Tandy told the skipper next morning at breakfast.
“I knew she would, Tandy. I’m proud of our Sea Flower, and, my friend, I’m just as proud of you. I’d have stopped on deck to lend a hand, but that wouldn’t have done any good.
“Jane,” he cried. Jane was the contraction for “Janeira.”
“Iss, sah; I’se not fah off.”
“Is there no toast this morning?”
“No, sah; Lord Fitzmantle he done go hab one incident dis mawnin’. He blingin’ de toast along, w’en all same one big wave struckee he and down he tumble, smash de plate, and lose all de toast foh true.”
“Oh, the naughty boy!” said Nelda, who was hurrying through her breakfast to go on deck to “see the sea,” as she expressed it.
“No, leetle Meess Tandy, Lord Fitzmantle he good boy neahly all de time. It was poorly an incident, meesie, for de big sea cut his legs clean off, and down he come.”
“Well, I’m sorry for Fitz,” said Nelda with a sigh; “I suppose it was only his sea-legs though. And I’m going to have mine to-day. I asked the carpenter, and he said he would make me some soon, and it wouldn’t be a bit sore putting them on.”
With varying fortunes the good ship Sea Flower sailed south and away, till at last the Cape of Good Hope was reached and rounded.
Here they experienced very heavy weather indeed, with terrible storms of thunder and lightning, and bigger seas than Tandy himself had ever seen before.
But by this time little Nelda was quite a sailor, and a greater favourite fore and aft than ever.
Sea-legs had, figuratively speaking, been served out to all the green hands. Nelda had a capital pair, and could use them well. Fitz had to make his old ones do another time; but Bob had received two pairs from Neptune, when he came aboard that starry still night when crossing the line. As for the Hal, it must be confessed that there wasn’t a pair in Neptune’s boat long enough to fit him. However, in ordinary weather he managed to run along the deck pretty easily, his jibboom, as the sailors called his neck, held straight out in front of him, and helping himself along with his wings.
Sometimes on the quarterdeck it would suddenly occur to the ’Ral that a step or two of a Highland schottische would help to make time pass more quickly and pleasantly. The ’Ral wasn’t a bird to spoil a good intention, so, with just one or two preliminary “scray – scrays” he would start.
Bother the deck though, and bother the heaving sea, for do what he would the bird could no longer dance with ease and grace; so he would soon give it up, and go and lean his chin wearily over the lee bulwark, and thus, with his drooping wings, he did cut rather a ridiculous figure as seen from behind. He looked for all the world like some scraggy-legged little old man, who had got up in the morning and put nothing on except a ragged swallow-tailed coat.
The men liked the ’Ral though. He made them laugh, and was better than an extra glass of rum to them. So, as the bird seemed always rather wretched in dirty weather, the carpenter was solicited to make him some sort of shelter.
The carpenter consulted the sailmaker. The carpenter and sailmaker put their heads together. Something was sure to come of that.
“He’s sich an awkward shape, ye see,” said old Canvas.
“That’s true,” said Chips; “and he won’t truss hisself, as ye might call it.”
“No; if he’d on’y jest double up his legs, Chips, and close reef that jibboom o’ his, we might manage some’ow.”
“A kind o’ sentry-box would just be the thing, old Can.”
“Humph! yes. I wonder why the skipper didn’t bring a grandfather’s clock with ’im; that would suit the ’Ral all to pieces.”
But a sort of sentry-box, with a tarpaulin in front of it, was finally rigged up for the ’Ral, and placed just abaft the main-mast, to which it was lashed.
The ’Ral didn’t take to it quite kindly at first, but after studying it fore and aft he finally thought it would fit him nicely.
It would be protection from the sun on hot days, and when it blew a bit the men would draw down the tarpaulin, and he would be snug enough.
But in sunny weather it must be confessed that, solemnly standing there in his sentry-box, the Admiral did look a droll sight.
The ’Ral was a very early riser. He always turned out in time to go splashing about while the hands were washing decks, and although they often turned the hose on him he didn’t mind it a bit.
One very hot day, the poor ’Ral was observed standing pensively up against the capstan. His head was out of sight, thrust into one of the holes.
This was unusual, but the bird did so many droll things that, for an hour or more, nobody took much notice; but Ransey came round at last, carrying Babs, who was riding on his shoulders.
“Hillo!” cried Babs, “here’s the ’Ral with his head buried in a hole.”
“Which he stowed hisself away there, missie, more’n an hour ago,” said a seaman. “Afraid o’ gettin’ sunstroke, that’s my opinion.”
“Poor Hallie,” cried Babs, sympathisingly, “does your headie ache?”
The Admiral drew out his head, and looked at the child very mournfully indeed.
“He’s got some silent sorrow hevidently, I should say,” remarked another of the crew.
There was quite a little circle now around the capstan.
“Cheer up,” cried Ransey Tansey. “Come along and have a dance, ’Rallie.”
“I don’t feel like dancing to-day,” the crane replied, or appeared to reply. “Fact is, I don’t feel like moving at all.”
No wonder, poor bird; the truth is, he was glued to the deck with melted pitch.
What a job it was getting him clear too – or “easing him off,” as Chips called it.
But with the help of putty knives the ’Ral got free at last, though it took a deal of orange-peel to clean his poor feet. Then they were found to be so red and swollen that a hammock was slung for him forthwith atween decks, and the Admiral was laid at full length in it – his head on a pillow at one end, his feet away down at the other, his body covered with the carpenter’s lightest jacket.
Very funny he did appear stretched like that, but he himself appreciated, not the joke, but the comfort. He lay there for days, only getting up a little in the cool of the evening, if there was any cool in it.
Ransey fed him, and attended to his feet twice a day, so he was soon on deck again, as right as a trivet.
But the Admiral had learned a lesson, and ever after this, on hot days, to have seen the bird coming along the deck, you would have sworn he was playing at hop-Scotch, so careful was he to hop over the seams where the pitch was soft, his long neck bent down, and one eye curiously examining the planks.
Yes, the ’Ral was a caution, as old Canvas said.
But one of the bird’s drollest adventures occurred one day when the ship was lying becalmed in the Indian Ocean, or rather in the Mozambique Channel.
The Sea Flower was within a measurable distance of land; for though none was in sight, birds of the gull species flew around the ship, tack and half-tack, or floated lazily on the smooth surface of the sea.
The ’Ral slowly left his sentry-box, stretched his wings a bit, uttered a mild scray – scray – ay or two, then did a hop-Scotch till he got abreast of the man at the wheel. This particular sailor was somewhat of a dandy, and had a morsel of red silk handkerchief peeping prettily out from his jacket pocket.
The ’Ral eyed it curiously for a moment, then cleverly plucked it out and jumped away with it. He dropped it on a portion of the quarterdeck where the pitch was oozing, kicked it about with his feet to spread it out, as a man does with a handful of straw, and stood upon it.
“Well, I do call that cheek! My best silk handkerchief, too,” cried the man at the wheel.
The crane only looked at him wonderingly with one eye.
“You’ve no idea,” he told this man, “how soft and nice it feels. I – I – yes, I verily believe I shall dance. Craik – craik – cray – ay – y!”
And dance he did, Nelda and half the crew at least clapping their hands and cheering with delight.
The ’Ral was just in the very midst of his merriment, when the man, after giving the wheel an angry turn or two to port, made a dart to recover his favourite bandana. With such a rush did he come that the ’Ral took fright, and flew to the top of the bulwark. There was some oiled canvas here, and this was so hot that the bird had to keep lifting one foot and putting down the other all the time, just like a hen on a hot griddle.
“How delightfully sweet it must be up there,” he said to himself, gazing at the gulls that were screaming with joy as they swept round and round in the blue sky. “I think I’ll have a fly myself. Scray – ay!”
And greatly to every one’s astonishment away he flew high into the air.
Alarmed at first, the gulls soon regained courage, and made a daring attack on the ’Ral. But he speedily vanquished the foe, and one or two fell bleeding into the water.
A gull was perched on the back fin of a shark. The ’Ral flew down.
“It’s nice and snug you look,” said the ’Ral. “Get off at once, the king’s come. Get off, I say, or I’ll dig both your impudent eyes out.”
And next moment the Admiral was perched there, as coolly as if he had been used to riding on sharks ever since his babyhood.
But Nelda was in tears. She would never see the ’Ral again, and the awful beast would eat him, sea-legs and all. So a boat was called away to save him.
None too soon either. For the ’Ral had commenced to investigate that fin with his long beak. No respectable basking shark could be expected to stand that, so down he dived, leaving the bird screaming and swaying and scrambling on the top of the water. “Scray – scray – craik – craik – cray!”
But for the timely aid of the boat, the Admiral would have met with a terrible fate, for his screaming and struggling brought around him three sharks at least, all eager to find out what a long-legged bird like this tasted like.
Every fine day the crane now indulged himself in the pleasure of flight, but he never evinced the slightest inclination to perch again on the back of a basking shark. It wasn’t good enough, he would have told you, had you asked him. “As regards the backs of basking sharks,” he might have said, “I’m going to be a total abstainer.”
Up the east coast of Africa went the bonnie barque Sea Flower.
Tandy knew almost every yard of the ground he was now covering, and could pilot the vessel into creeks and over sand-banks or bars with very little danger indeed.
But still the coast here is so treacherous, and the sands and bottom change so frequently, that, night and day, men had to be in the chains heaving the lead.
The natives, also, across the line in Somaliland, are as treacherous as the coral rocks that guard their clay-built towns, and more treacherous than either are the semi-white, slave-dealing Arabs.
Book Two – Chapter Ten.
A Brush with the Somalis – the Derelict
All along the Somali coast was Tandy’s “chief market ground,” as he called it. Here he knew he could drive precisely the kind of bargains he wished to make; and as for the Somalis, with their shields, spears, ugly broad knives, and grinning sinister faces, this bold seaman did not care anything. Nor for the Arabs either. He soon gave both to understand that he was a man of the wide, wide world, and was not afraid of any one.
He had come to trade and barter, he told the Arabs, and not to study their slave-hunting habits; so if they would deal, they had only to trot out their wares —he was ready. And if they didn’t want to deal, there was no harm done. He even took Ransey with him sometimes, and once he took Nelda as well.
The savages just here were a bad, bloodthirsty lot, and he knew it, but he had with him five trusty men. Not armed – that is, not visibly so.
But on this particular day there was blood in those natives’ eyes. Tall, lithe, and black-brown were they, their skins oiled and shining in the sun. But smiling. Oh, yes, these fiends will smile while they cut a white man’s throat.
Every eye was fixed hungrily on the beautiful child. What a present she would be for a great chief who dwelt far away in the interior and high among the mountains!
The bartering went on as usual, but Tandy kept his weather eye lifting.
Leopards’ skins, lions’ skins and heads, ostrich feathers, gum-copal, ivory tusks, and gold-dust. The boat was already well filled, Nelda was on board, so was Tandy himself, and his crew, all save one man, who was just shoving her off when the rush was made. The prow of the boat was instantly seized, and the man thrown down.
Pop – pop – pop – pop – rang Tandy’s revolver, and the yelling crowd grew thinner, and finally fled.
A spear or two was thrown, but these went wide of the mark.
Human blood looks ghastly on white coral sands, but was Tandy to blame?
Nelda was safe, and in his arms.
“O daddy,” she cried, kissing his weather-beaten face, “are we safe?”
“Yes, darling; but I mustn’t land here again.”
Salook was the village king here, a big, burly brute of an Arab, with a white, gilded turban and a yellow, greasy face beneath it. Tandy had known some of his tricks and manners in days gone by.
At sunset that very same evening Salook was surrounded by his warriors.
“Everything yonder,” he said in Swahili, as he pointed to the Sea Flower, “is yours. The little maiden shall be my slave. Get ready your boats, and sharpen your spears. Even were the ship a British man-of-war I’d board her.”
At sunset that evening Tandy was surrounded by his men, and pistols and cutlasses were served out to all.
“We’ll have trouble to-night, men,” he said, “as soon as the moon rises. If there was a breath of wind off-shore I’d slip. We can’t slip – but we’ll fight.”
A cheer rose from the seamen, which Tandy quickly suppressed.
“Hush! Let us make them believe we suspect no treachery. But get up steam in the donkey engine, and connect the pipes.”
This is a plan of defence that acts splendidly and effectively against all kinds and conditions of savages.
Boiling water on bare skins causes squirming, so Tandy felt safe.
The ship carried but one big gun, and this was now loaded with grape.
There wasn’t a sound of life to be heard on board the barque, when about seven bells that night a flood of moonlight, shining softly o’er the sea, revealed the dark boats of the Somalis speeding out to the attack.
But every man on board was at his station.
This was to be a fight to the very death, and all hands knew it.
Nearer and nearer they come – those demon boats. The biggest boat of all is leading, and, sword in hand, Salook stands in the prow. It is crowded with savages, their spear-heads glittering in the moonbeams. On this boat the gun is trained.
The rocks re-echo the crash five seconds after, but the echo is mingled with the yelling of the wounded and the drowning.
Ah! a right merry feast for the sharks, and Salook goes down with the bottomless boat.
The fight does not end with this advantage. Those Somalis are like fiends incarnate. Not even the rifles and revolvers can repel their attack. See, they swarm on the bulwarks round the bows, for the ship has swung head on to the shore with the out-flowing tide.
“Give it to them. The water now, boys. Warm them well!”
Oh, horror! The shrieking is too terrible to be described.
In their boats the unwounded try to reach the shore; but the rifles play on these, and they are quickly abandoned, for the Somalis can swim like eels.
“Now for loot, lads,” cries Tandy. “They began the row. Man and arm the boats.”
When the Sea Flower’s men landed on the white sands, led on by Tandy and Ransey, the conquest was easy. A few volleys secured victory, and the savages were driven to their crags and hills.
“Let us spoil the Egyptians,” said Tandy, “then we shall return and splice the main-brace.”
The loot obtained was far more valuable than the cargoes they had obtained by barter, and I need hardly say that the main-brace was spliced.
Towards morning the wind came puffing off the land. It ought to have died away at sunrise, but did not. So the Sea Flower soon made good her offing, and before long the land lay like a long blue cloud far away on the weather-beam.
The ship was reprovisioned at Zanzibar, and one or two sick hands were allowed to land to be attended to at the French hospital.
In less than a fortnight she once more set sail, and in two months’ time, everything having gone well and cheerily, despite a storm or two, the Sea Flower was very far at sea indeed, steering south-west, and away towards the wild and stormy Cape Horn.
On going on deck one morning, Halcott found Tandy forward, glass in hand, steadying himself against the foremast, while he swept the sea ahead.
“Hallo! Tandy. Land, eh?”
“No, it isn’t land, Halcott. A precious small island it would be. But we’re a long way to the west’ard of the Tristan da Cunha, and won’t see land again till we hail the Falklands. Have a squint, sir.”
“What do you make of her, sir?” asked Tandy.
“Why, a ship; but she’s a hulk, Tandy, a mere hulk or derelict.”
“There might be some poor soul alive there notwithstanding.”
“I agree with you. Suppose we overhaul her,” said Halcott, “and set her on fire. She’s a danger to commerce, anyhow, and I’ll go myself, I think.”
So the whaler was called away, and in a few minutes the boat was speeding over the water towards the dismantled ship, while the Sea Flower, with her foreyard aback, lay floating idly on the heaving sea.
It was early summer just than, in these regions – that is, December was well advanced, and the crew were looking forward to having a real good time of it when Christmas came.
Alas! little did they know what was before them, or how sad and terrible their Christmas would be.
“Pull easy for a bit, men,” cried Halcott; “she is a floating horror! Easy, starboard! give way, port! We’ll get the weather gauge on her, for she doesn’t smell sweet.”
Not a living creature was there to answer the hail given by Halcott. Abandoned she evidently had been by the survivors of her crew, for the starboard boats still hung from her davits, while the ports were gone, and at this side a rope ladder depended.
The boat-hook caught on; with strange misgivings Halcott scrambled on board followed by two men.
He staggered and almost fell against the bulwark, and no wonder, for the sight that met his eyes was indeed a fearful one.
On the lower deck was a great pile of wood, and near it stood a big can of petroleum. It was evident that the crew had intended firing the ship before leaving her, but had for some reason or other abandoned the idea.
Halcott, however, felt that he had a duty to perform, so he gave orders for the paraffin to be emptied over the pile and over the deck. As soon as this was done lighted matches were thrown down, and hardly had they time to regain the boat and push off, ere columns of dark smoke came spewing up the hatchways, followed high into the air by tongues and streams of fire.
Before noon the derelict sank spluttering into the summer sea, and only a few blackened timbers were left to mark the spot where she had gone down.
A few days after this the wind fell and fell, until it was a dead calm.
Once more the sea was like molten lead, and its surface glazed and glassy, but never a bird was to be seen, and for more than a week not a cloud was in the sky as big as a man’s hand. Nor was the motion of the ship appreciable. By day the sun shone warm enough, but at night the stars far in the southern sky shone green and yellow through a strange, dry haze.
On Saturday night Tandy as usual gave orders to splice the main-brace. He, and Halcott also, loved the real old Saturday nights at sea, of the poet Dibdin’s days. And hitherto, in fair weather or in foul, these had been kept up with truly British mirth and glee.
There was no rejoicing, however, on this particular evening, for two of the hands lay prostrate on deck. Halcott himself ministered to them, sailor fashion. First he got them placed in hammocks swung under a screen-berth on deck. This was for the sake of the fresh air, and herein he showed his wisdom.
Then he took a camp-stool and sat down near them to consider their symptoms. But these puzzled him; for while one complained of fierce heat, with headache, and his eyes were glazed and sparkling, the other was shivering and blue with cold. He had no pain except cramps in his legs and back, which caused him an agony so acute that he screamed aloud every time they came on.
Halcott went aft to study. He studied best when walking on his quarterdeck. Hardly knowing what he did, he picked up a bone that honest Bob had been dining off, and threw it into the sea. There was still light enough to see, and the man at the wheel looked languidly astern. When three monster sharks dived, nose on, towards the bone, he looked up into the captain’s face.
“Seen them before?” said Halcott, who was himself superstitious.
“Bless ye, yes, sir. It’s just four days since they began to keep watch, and there they be again. Ah, sir! it ain’t ham-bones they’s a-lookin’ arter. They’ll soon get the kind o’ meat they likes best.”
“What mean you, Durdley?”
“I means the chaps you ’as in the ’ammocks. Listen, sir. There’s no deceivin’ Jim Durdley. We’ve got the plague aboard! I’ve been shipmate with she afore to-day.”
Halcott staggered as if shot.
“Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed.
No one on board cared much for this man Durdley. Nor is this to be wondered at. In his own mess he was quarrelsome to a degree. Poor little Fitz fled when he came near him, and many a brutal blow he received, which at times caused fierce fights, for every one fore and aft loved the nigger boy.
Durdley was almost always boding ill. His only friends were the foreigners of the crew, men that to make a complement of five-and-twenty Tandy had hired in a hurry.
Mostly Finns they were, and bad at that, and if there was ever any grumbling to be done on board the Sea Flower these were the fellows to begin it.
Halcott recovered himself quickly, gave just one glance at Durdley’s dark, forbidding countenance – the man was really ugly enough to stop a church clock – and went below.
He met Tandy at the saloon door, and told him his worst fears.
Alas! these fears were fated to be realised all too soon.
The men now stricken down were those who had boarded the derelict with Halcott. One died next evening, and was lashed in his hammock and dropped over the bows a few hours afterwards.
No doubt, seeing his fellow taken away, the other, who was one of the best of the crew, lost heart.
“I’m dying, sir,” he told Halcott. “No use swallowing physic, the others’ll want it soon.”
By-and-by he began to rave. He was on board ship no longer, but walking through the meadows and fields far away in England with his sister by his side.
“I’ll help you over the old-fashioned stile,” Fitz, who was nursing him, heard him say – “yes, the old-fashioned stile, Lizzie. Oh, don’t I love it! And we’ll walk up and away through the corn-field, by the little, winding path, to the churchyard where mother sleeps. Look, look at the crimson poppies, dear siss. How bonnie they are among the green. Ah-h!”
That was a scream which frightened poor Fitz.
“Go not there, sister. See, see, the monster has killed her! Ah, me!”
Fitz rushed aft to seek for assistance, for the captain had told him to call him if Corrie got worse.
Alas! when the two returned together, Corrie’s hammock was empty.
No one had heard even a plash, so gently had he lowered himself over the side, and sunk to rise no more.
