Boy Tar Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  The Boy Tar, by Captain Mayne Reid.

  ________________________________________________________________________This is a really extraordinary book, especially when you consider thatthe author was the first to write in the Wild West genre, and was alsono mean naturalist. It is true that he did write a few books with a seasetting, much like those by other nautical authors. But this book,although the setting for most of the book is inside the cargo hold ofa merchant vessel, doesn't really fit into any of Reid's usual genres.

  The young hero is a very little lad, no more than four feet high. Hehas friends among the other boys of the village, but none of them seemto get up to his sort of escapades. One of these involves stowing awayin the hold of a vessel bound for Peru, six months' voyage away. Hestowed away, as he thought, just before she sailed, but what he didn'trealise was that there was a great deal of last-minute cargo yet to beloaded. When the ship finally sailed he found that he was right at thebottom of a huge amount of cargo. Luckily he found that there were someboxes of biscuits nearby, and, luckily also, some water casks. He worksout that he might be able to survive the six months on these supplies.What he didn't reckon on were the rats, who soon deprived him of thebiscuits. It then became imperative to get out.

  The next forty chapters, no less, detail the painstaking way in which,armed only with a good knife, which eventually breaks and has to berepaired somehow, and in the dark, remember, he makes his way throughlayer after layer of cargo; through brandy casks, pianos, boxes ofladies' bonnets; and all this in a hold whose shape made it harder andharder the more he mounted towards the cargo hatch. This a verygripping tale, faultlessly written, and very hard to put down. Unlikeother tales of the sea nobody gets killed, though some of the rats haveto go, even being eaten as the boy's hunger mounts.

  Of course it does have a happy ending, but not many of us could havedone what he did, and certainly not many little chaps only four feet inheight. Makes a superb audiobook.

  ________________________________________________________________________THE BOY TAR, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  MY BOY AUDIENCE.

  My name is Philip Forster, and I am now an old man.

  I reside in a quiet little village, that stands upon the sea-shore, atthe bottom of a very large bay--one of the largest in our island.

  I have styled it a quiet village, and so it really is, though it boastsof being a seaport. There is a little pier or jetty of chiselledgranite, alongside which you may usually observe a pair of sloops, aboutthe same number of schooners, and now and then a brig. Big ships cannotcome in. But you may always note a large number of boats, either hauledup on the beach, or scudding about the bay, and from this, you mayconclude that the village derives its support rather from fishing thancommerce. Such in reality is the fact.

  It is my native village--the place in which I was born, and where it ismy intention to die.

  Notwithstanding this, my fellow-villagers know very little about me.They only know me as "Captain Forster," or more specifically as "TheCaptain," this _soubriquet_ being extended to me as the only person inthe place entitled to it.

  Strictly speaking, I am not entitled to it. I have never been a captainof soldiers, nor have I held that rank in the navy. I have only beenthe master of a merchant vessel,--in other words, a "skipper." But thevillagers are courteous, and by their politeness I am styled "Captain."

  They know that I live in a pretty cottage about half a mile from thevillage, up shore; they know that I live alone--for my old housekeepercan scarce be accounted as company; they see me each day pass throughthe place with my telescope under my arm; they note that I walk out onthe pier, and sweep the offing with my glass, and then, perhaps, returnhome again, or wander for an hour or two along the shore. Beyond thesefacts, my fellow-villagers know but little of myself, my habits, or myhistory.

  They have a belief among them that I have been a great traveller. Theyknow that I have many books, and that I read much; and they have got itinto their heads that I am a wonderful scholar.

  I _have_ been a great traveller, and am a great reader, but the simplevillagers are mistaken as to my scholarship. In my youth I was deniedthe advantages of a fine education, and what little literary knowledge Ipossess has been acquired by self-instruction--hasty and interrupted--during the brief intervals of an active life.

  I have said that my fellow-villagers know very little about me, and youare no doubt surprised at this; since among them I began my life, andamong them I have declared my intention of ending it. Their ignoranceof me is easily explained. I was but twelve years of age when I lefthome, and for forty years after I never set foot in my native place, noreyes upon any of its inhabitants.

  He must be a famous man who would be remembered after forty years'absence; and I, scarce a boy at going forth, returned to find myselfquite forgotten. Even my parents were scarce remembered. Both had diedbefore I went away from home, and while I was only a mere lad. Besides,my father, who was a mariner by profession, was seldom or never at home,and I remember little else about him, than how I grieved when the newscame that his ship was lost, and he with most of his crew were drowned.Alas! my mother did not long survive him; and their death occurring sucha long time ago, it is but natural that both should be forgotten among apeople with whom they had but slight intercourse. Thus, then, is itexplained how I chance to be such a stranger in my native place.

  But you are not to suppose that I am lonely or without companions.Though I have ceased to follow my profession of the sea, and returnedhome to spend the remainder of my days in a quiet, peaceful way, I am byno means of an unsocial disposition or morose habits. On the contrary,I am fond, as I have ever been, of social intercourse; and old manthough I be, I take great delight in the society of young people,especially little boys. I can boast, too, that with all these in thevillage I am a favourite. I spend hours upon hours in helping them tofly their kites, and sail their tiny boats; for I remember how muchdelight I derived from these pastimes when I was myself a boy.

  As I take part in their sports, little do the simple children think thatthe gentle old man who can so amuse them and himself, has spent most ofhis life amidst scenes of wild adventure and deadly peril; and yet suchhas been my history.

  There are those in the village, however, who are better acquainted withsome chapters from the story of my life--passages of it which they haveheard from my own lips, for I am never disinclined _to relate to_ thosewho may be worthy of hearing it any interesting adventure through whichI may have passed; and even in our quiet village I have found anaudience that merits the narrator. Schoolboys have been my listeners;for there is a famous school near the village--an "establishment foryoung gentlemen" it is styled--and it is from this I draw my mostattentive auditory.

  These boys and I used to meet in our rambles along the shore, andobserving my weather-beaten, salt-water look, they fancied that I couldtell them tales of wild scenes and strange incidents that I hadencountered far over the sea. Our meetings were frequent--almostdaily--and soon a friendly acquaintance sprung up between us; until, attheir solicitation, I began to relate to them an occasional adventure ofmy life. Often I may have been observed, seated upon the "bent" grassof the beach, encircled by a crowd of these well-dressed youths, whoseparted lips and eager eyes betokened the interest they felt in mynarrations.

  I am not ashamed to declare that I, too, felt pleasure in this sort ofthing: like all old soldiers and sailors, who proverbially delight to"fight their battles o'er again."

  These desultory recitals continued for some time, until one day, as Imet my young friends in the ordinary way, only somewhat earlier thancommon, I saw that there was something unusual in the wind. They
mustered stronger than was their wont, and I noticed that one of them--the biggest boy of the crowd--held a folded paper in his hand, uponwhich I could perceive there was writing.

  As I drew near, the paper was placed in my hands without a word beingsaid; and I saw by the superscription that it was directed to myself.

  I opened the paper, and soon perceived the nature of its contents. Itwas a "petition" signed by all the boys present. It ran thus:--

  "Dear Captain,--We have been allowed holiday for the whole of to-day; and we know of no way in which we could spend it with so much of pleasure and profit, as by listening to you. We have therefore taken the liberty of asking you to indulge us, by the narration of some remarkable incident that has happened to you. A stirring passage we should prefer, for we know that many of these have befallen you during your adventurous life; but choose whatever one it may be most pleasant for you to relate; and we shall promise to listen attentively, since one and all of us know that it will be an easy thing to keep that promise. And now, dear captain! grant us the favour we ask, and your petitioners shall be for ever grateful."

  Such a polite request could not be refused; and without hesitation Ideclared my intention to gratify my young friends with a chapter from mylife. The chapter chosen was one which I thought would be mostinteresting to them--as it gave some account of my own boy-life, and ofmy first voyage to sea--which, from the odd circumstances under which itwas made, I have termed a "Voyage in the Dark."

  Seating myself upon the pebbly beach, in full view of the bright sea,and placing my auditory around me, I began.