The Cruise of the "Dainty"; Or, Rovings in the Pacific — Context and Discussion

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Kingston, William Henry Giles, 1814-1880 Project Gutenberg 2007 Not confirmed
Seafaring life -- Juvenile fiction; Sailors -- Juvenile fiction; Schooners -- Juvenile fiction; Islands of the Pacific -- Juvenile fiction; Missions -- Islands of the Pacific -- Juvenile fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 46,975
Reading time 205 min
Text sections 5

This digital edition of The Cruise of the "Dainty"; Or, Rovings in the Pacific — Context and Discussion is described by source-level measurements including 46,975 words, 3 hr 25 min estimated reading time, and 5 detected text sections.

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This editorial note examines William H. G. Kingston's use of precise nautical detail, contrasting dialogue between officers and crew, and layered moral tensions in a Pacific adventure, based on excerpts from the first chapters.
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Amiel had died, and that his family, consisting of another daughter and a son, were left in very poor circumstances. Prompted by his generous feelings, he at once invited Fanny and Nat to return with him and his bride to the colony. This they gladly agreed to do, and the whole party forthwith took a passage on board an emigrant ship, which after a prosperous voyage reached the colony.

I had from my earliest days wished to go to sea, and my mother having consented, as I could not obtain a nomination for the _Britannia_, I got a berth as a midshipman on board a trader bound for China. I was unfortunate in my ship and my captain. This gave me a dislike not so much to the sea as to the merchant service, and on my return from my first voyage, finding that my brother, to whom I was much attached, had gone back to Queensland, I got leave from my mother, after representing to her the sort of life I had been leading, to go and join him, she being certain that he would be very glad to receive me.

As I had made the best use of my opportunities of becoming a seaman during my first voyage, I had no difficulty in obtaining a berth on board a ship bound to Queensland, called the _Eclipse_, commanded by Captain Archer, and I was thus able to work my passage out free of expense. On this occasion also I made good use of my time, by adding considerably to my knowledge of seamanship, and by studying navigation. Though I was before the mast, as I had my own sextant and books the officers allowed me to take observations with them and to keep the ship's reckoning, I had thus a right, with the experience I had had, to consider myself a fair seaman.

The _Eclipse_ had been four days at sea, when the third mate summoned me to accompany him into the forehold to get up some casks of provisions. While searching for those he wanted, I heard a sound as if some one was gasping for breath, and then a low moan. I told the mate.

"What can that be, sir?" I asked. "It comes from forward."

"Take the lantern, and see if there is any one there," he answered.

I made my way to the spot whence I fancied the sounds proceeded, and lowering my lantern into a small hole, I saw the figure of a boy crouching down, with his head resting against a cask. He made no movement, and his eyes appeared to be closed.

"There's some one here, sir," I cried out. "He seems to be very far gone."

The mate quickly joined me. "A young stowaway!" he exclaimed. "We must have him on deck at once, or it will be beyond the doctor's skill to bring him round. I have known more than one lad lose his life in this way; and I shall get blamed for not having examined the hold before we left port."

Saying this he lifted the lad in his arms while I held the lantern, and forthwith carried him on deck. The low groans the boy uttered showed us that he was still alive, but he was pale as death and in a wretched condition. He was dressed like a respectable lad, but his face and clothes were covered with dirt.

"The captain will be in a great taking when he finds this out," said the mate; "still more so if the young fellow dies. Go aft, Ned, and call the doctor; maybe he'll be able to bring him round."

I hurried aft, and soon found the surgeon, who was in his dispensary. When I told him what he was wanted for, he at once, bringing some medicine with him, hurried forward.

"This will do him good," he said, pouring some liquid down the lad's throat. "I don't think, Mr Simmons, that you need be anxious about him."

The young stowaway almost immediately opened his eyes and stared about him. The doctor then ordered the cook to get some broth ready, while two of the women passengers brought some warm water and washed the poor lad's face and hands. The broth, which he eagerly swallowed, revived him still more, and the doctor considered that he had sufficiently recovered to be conveyed to the sick bay, the women offering to stay by his side and to give him medicine and food as he might require them.

"If he is carefully tended he may come round," said the doctor; "but had he remained another hour in the hold I feel pretty sure that he would have lost his life."

Having been the means of discovering the young stowaway, I felt a certain amount of interest in him, and, whenever I could, went in to see how he was getting on. The next day he had so far recovered as to be able to speak without difficulty. He told me that his name was Richard Tilston, though he was generally called Dick by his friends; that he had had a great longing for going to sea; and that, as his father would not let him, he had run off from school, and found his way down to the docks. Hearing that our ship was to haul out into the stream early the next day, he waited until late in the evening, when he stole on board, and had, without being discovered, got down into the hold. He had brought a bottle of water and some biscuits, together with a couple of sausages. Supposing that the ship would at once put to sea, he had not placed himself on an allowance, and in less than three days had exhausted all his provisions and water. As the sea was smooth he fancied that we were still in the river, and was therefore afraid to creep out, until he became too ill and weak to do so.

From the tone of his voice and the way he expressed himself I suspected that he was a young gentleman, but I did not like to ask questions, and waited to hear what account he would give of himself. He was, however, too ill to say much, and was in a great fright at hearing that the captain would be very angry with him for having stowed himself away. I tried to reassure him by saying I did not believe that the captain was as yet made acquainted with his being on board, and, as far as I could judge, he was a good-natured man, and would probably not say much to him.

In spite of all the doctor's care and the nursing he received from the two kind women who had taken him in charge, it was considerably more than a week before he was able to get up and move about the deck. When his clothes had been cleaned and he himself had been well washed, he looked a very respectable lad.

At last, one day, Captain Archer saw him, and inquired who he was. The third mate had to confess all about the matter, and the captain then sent for Dick, and in an angry tone asked what had induced him to come on board.

"I wanted to go to sea, sir, and didn't know any other way of managing it," answered Dick.

"You took a very bad way, and nearly lost your life in carrying out your foolish notion," said the captain. "You have been pretty severely punished by what you have gone through, or I should have given you a sound flogging; as it is, I intend to let you off, but you will understand you must make yourself useful on board and try to pay for your passage; I can have no idlers, remember, and you will get thrashed if you do not work. I will speak to the mates about you, and they'll see that you have something to do."

Poor Dick, looking very much ashamed of himself, returned forward. The mates took care that he should have something to do, and the men also, for Dick was at everybody's beck and call, and had to do all sorts of dirty and disagreeable work. When there was no other work for him he was employed by the cook to sweep out the caboose and clean the pots and pans. He now and then got his back up, when he received a rope's-ending for his pains. I did the best I could for him, but often could not save him from ill-treatment, and at last, in the bitterness of his soul, he complained that he was leading a regular dog's life, and that he heartily wished he had not come to sea.

"I won't stand it any longer," he exclaimed. "I'll jump overboard and drown myself."

"Don't even talk of doing so wicked and foolish a thing," I said. "You wished to become a sailor, now that you have the opportunity of learning your duty you do nothing but grumble and complain. You must take the rough and the smooth together. I wasn't over well off on my first voyage, though my mother had paid a premium to the owners and I was on the quarterdeck, but I saw while I remained on board that there was no use complaining, so I took things as they were, and by keeping my eyes open and my wits awake became in a short time a fair seaman."

Poor Dick said that he would try to follow my advice, but he, notwithstanding, would answer when spoken to, and consequently I was unable to save him from ill-treatment, as he had brought it down upon himself.

During a heavy gale we encountered, when near the latitude of the Cape, one of the so-called midshipmen fell overboard and was drowned. The captain knowing that I could take an observation, and hearing that I was able to keep accounts and would be useful to him, invited me to take the poor fellow's berth. This, though it gave me a good deal of work, I was very glad to do, and I thus saw much less than before of Dick. As I was well treated I soon regained my old affection for a sea life, and had half determined to return home in the ship should my brother not especially press me to remain. When, however, we arrived at Brisbane, and Harry told me of his contemplated trip, and that he should be very glad of my assistance, I kept to my former intention of remaining with him. I therefore wished Captain Archer and his ship, the _Eclipse_, good-bye, and took up my quarters with Harry and his family. I liked Mary and her sister, whom I had not before seen, very much, and I was glad that Harry had not taken them into the bush, for they did not appear at all suited to the rough style of life they would have had to lead there, for they were both very pretty and elegant, and had never been accustomed to hard work, though they now did their best to make themselves useful in the house, and were never idle. Their brother, Nat, was a capital little fellow--as merry as a cricket and never out of temper, even when his face and hands were bitten all over by mosquitoes, or when the pugnacious insects were buzzing round us in thousands, and that is a trial to the sweetest of tempers. We used to have music and reading in the evenings, and very pleasant evenings they were--indeed, we lived much as we should have done in the old country. Altogether, I congratulated myself that I had decided on stopping out.

My brother was, however, somewhat anxious about the state of business. "You see, Ned, there is not, I fear, much to be done at present," he said. "I have, therefore, thought of making the trip I spoke to you about. A number of vessels sail from Sydney and other places to collect cargoes of palm-oil and sandal-wood, and some few go in search of pearls. They do not all trade honestly with the natives, and several have suffered in consequence, their crews having been attacked and murdered; but I hope, by trading honestly and by being always on my guard against surprise, to make a profitable venture. I have an especial reason for wishing to sail at once, as the day before your arrival I received information from an old shipmate of mine, Tom Platt, of the existence of a small group of islands, among which pearls of large size are obtained by the natives in unusual abundance. Tom, who has been out in these seas for some years on board whalers and other craft, sailed a few months ago in a small schooner, the _Zebra_, from Sydney. Both master and crew were rough, lawless fellows, and Tom told me that he often wished himself clear of them, but they touched at no place where he could venture to land till they reached the islands I speak of. Here the master, for his own purposes, at first behaved better to the natives than he was accustomed to do, as he wanted to obtain some pigs, cocoanuts, and other provisions. They consequently, without hesitation, came on board in considerable numbers. Many of them were observed to wear necklaces of white beads, which the captain supposed to be made of glass, and to have been obtained from some previous trader. On examining, however, one of the strings of beads, what was his surprise to find that they were pearls! Being a cunning fellow, he kept his discovery to himself till he had obtained all he could induce the natives to part with, when, though he fancied that he had made his fortune, he formed the design of kidnapping as many people as his schooner would hold, as an effectual way of preventing other traders from having any friendly intercourse with the islanders and discovering his secret, and thereby spoiling his market. Tom Platt was the only person among the crew who suspected what the white beads really were, and he managed, unknown to the captain, to obtain a necklace, which he hid in his pocket. The very evening before the natives were to have been seized a heavy gale sprang up, and the schooner was driven out to sea. Before many days had gone by she was cast away on an uninhabited island, when all hands, with the exception of Tom Platt, were lost. He supported existence on shell-fish and a few birds he knocked down, while a small cask of water washed ashore saved him from dying of thirst. Just as it was exhausted, he was taken off by a vessel bound for this place. I met him, looking very ill and wretched, wandering about the street the very day he landed. We recognised each other, and I took him to my house, where he became so much worse that, had it not been for the careful way he was nursed, I believe he would have died. He seemed to think so himself, and was very grateful. While I was sitting with him one day, having a yarn of old times, he gave me an account of the pearl islands, and assured me that he could find them again, having carefully noted the distance the schooner had run to the reef on which she was wrecked, as also its position on the chart. He then showed me the necklace, of which he had not spoken to any one. His narrative first put our proposed venture into my head. When I told him of my idea he at once agreed to accompanying me, saying that he should be content with any wages I could afford to give him. Though a first-rate seaman, he cannot be much of a navigator, so that had you, Ned, not come out I should have been obliged to get another mate; and now that you have come, we will forthwith commence our preparations."

"The first thing to be done is to find a suitable craft," I said.

"I have had my eye on one--a schooner, the _Dainty_, of a hundred and twenty tons, built for a fruit-trader, which was brought out here from England by a settler only a month ago," he answered.

"Then let us go at once and have a look at her, and, if she is in good condition, secure her," I exclaimed; for, after the account Harry had given me, I had become very eager to undertake the expedition.

We started forthwith. The _Dainty_ was even more suited for our object than we had expected. She had well fitted up cabins, like those of a yacht, with a hold large enough for all the cargo and stores we might wish to stow--was well-found and in capital condition; so Harry at once made an offer for her, which being accepted, the _Dainty_ became his.

In the evening Harry said what he had done.

"You do not intend to leave me behind, I hope," exclaimed Mary.

"Or me either," cried Miss Fanny Amiel. "What should we poor girls do all alone by ourselves in this little bakehouse?"

"You must let me go as cabin-boy," said Nat. "I'll make myself tremendously useful."

"I'll talk it over with Mary," answered Harry, who looked not at all ill pleased at the thoughts of having his wife to accompany him of her own free will. The result of the talk was that the next morning it was settled that we were all to go, the house and business being left in charge of a trustworthy old clerk, Mr Simon Humby, who had accompanied Harry when he came out the first time from England. We were very busy for the next few days in making preparations for the voyage--the ladies in the house assisted by Nat, and Harry, and I in refitting the schooner--purchasing provisions, stores, and articles for bartering with the natives. We procured also four small brass guns, with some muskets, pistols, boarding-pikes, and cutlasses.

"We shall not, I hope, have to use them," said Harry. "But, now especially that we are to have ladies on board, we must be well prepared for defence should we be attacked."

It was easy enough to prepare the vessel for sea, but Harry expected to find some difficulty in securing an efficient crew. He of course at once applied to Tom Platt.

"I'll see about that, sir," he answered. "You mustn't be too particular as to what sort of chaps they may be, provided they are good seamen--for as to their characters, I'm not likely to be able to say much."

"Pick up the best you can find," said Harry. "They'll probably behave well enough, if kept under strict discipline."

Tom was as good as his word. In the course of a few days he had engaged ten hands--a strong crew for a vessel of the _Dainty's_ size--six Englishmen, a New Zealander, a Sandwich Islander, and two blacks, natives of Tanna, an island of the New Hebrides Group. Tom confessed that he had more confidence in the probable good conduct of the Pacific islanders than he had in that of the white men, who, however, when they came on board, looked more decent fellows than I had expected.

Just as the schooner was ready for sea, Harry and I were one evening leaving the quay, when I saw a lad in ragged clothes, who, on catching sight of me, tried to hide himself behind a stack of planks lately landed. In spite of his forlorn and dirty condition, I recognised him as the young stowaway who had come out with me on board the _Eclipse_.

"Hillo, Dick Tilston, can that be you?" I exclaimed. "Come here. What have you been about?"

On being called, he approached, looking very sheepish.

"Now, don't be scolding at me," he said, taking my hand, which I held out to him. "You know how I was treated aboard the _Eclipse_. I couldn't stand it any longer, so when she was about to sail I slipped ashore, and hid away till she had gone. I've since been knocking about, unable to get any work, for no one will engage me without a character, as they guess that I'm a runaway, and take me for a young thief. I've sold my clothes and everything I had for food, and have got only these rags to cover me."

I knew that what Dick said was true. I asked him if he still wished to be a sailor, or would rather go up the country and seek for employment, which I was sure he would be able to obtain with my brother's recommendation.

From the opening sentence, Kingston anchors the reader in a specific sensory moment: the pitch bubbling in the deck seams under a Pacific sun. The calm is not merely described but felt through the dog-vanes hanging idle, the fish drying in the rigging, and the crew’s occupation with mats and sinnet. This attention to the material life of a schooner—the strop of a block, the splice of an eye—gives the narrative a documentary texture. The dialogue, too, carries distinct voices: Harry’s impatient whistling for a breeze, old Tom Platt’s laconic replies, and the lad Dick’s deferential query. These exchanges reveal character through idiom and rhythm rather than exposition.

Diction and the Seaman’s Craft

Kingston’s vocabulary is steeped in the working language of a nineteenth-century vessel. Terms like sinnet, marline-spike, stropping a block, and splicing an eye appear without gloss, assuming a reader familiar with shipboard tasks. This lexical precision serves two purposes: it authenticates the setting and subtly distinguishes the competent from the inexperienced. When old Tom examines the lad’s splice, he says, “Ay, t’will do, Dick—wants scraping a bit; let’s see how you’ll serve it.” The brief critique, delivered with a squirt of tobacco juice, conveys years of practice in a single line. The author avoids romanticizing the sea; instead, he renders it as a workplace of repetitive, skilled labor.

Voices in Contrast: Authority and Unease

The dialogue between Harry, the narrator, and old Tom reveals a tension between youthful confidence and seasoned wariness. When the narrator dismisses the threat of a dubious trader, Tom replies, “I’m not so sure of that… They’ll interfere with the natives and spoil our trade.” Harry later laughs at the narrator’s apprehensions, yet after speaking with Tom, he orders half the crew to remain on deck and the guns loaded. This shift—from dismissal to precaution—is dramatized through conversation, not internal monologue. Sam Pest’s subsequent tale of a sandal-wood skipper who imprisoned friendly natives in the hold and abandoned them on a hostile shore introduces a darker moral register. The story is told in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if such betrayals were routine, which amplifies its unsettling effect.

Structure and the Embedded Narrative

Kingston embeds a cautionary tale within the main narrative through Sam Pest’s recollection. The shift from the present calm to a past atrocity is signaled simply: “I have been hearing about the strange craft… and from what they say I think it’s more than likely she’s the one I was aboard of some time ago.” The nested story—complete with its own arc of deception, forced labor, and abandonment—serves as a warning about the dangers of the Pacific trade. It also complicates the novel’s moral landscape. The Dainty’s crew are not pirates, but they share an ocean with men who think “no more of a man’s life than that of a dog.” The structure allows Kingston to juxtapose the orderly routine of the Dainty with the lawlessness that lurks beyond its decks.

Setting as a Character: The Pacific Calm

The opening calm is more than a plot device; it is a condition that shapes behavior and mood. The narrator notes that the heat makes the pitch bubble and stick to their feet, and that the sun “glared forth with a power that made the pitch in the seams of the deck bubble up.” This physical detail recurs throughout the excerpt, grounding abstract impatience in bodily discomfort. The division of the deck—white men forward under shade, dark-skinned natives on the other side “apparently indifferent”—is observed without comment, yet it quietly establishes the social hierarchy of the ship. The calm also forces the crew into idleness, which breeds storytelling and suspicion. When the strange trader appears at sunset, the stillness of the weather contrasts with the tension of the encounter, making the setting an active participant in the narrative.

Readers attentive to Kingston’s craft will notice how he uses the physical details of shipboard life—the splice, the strop, the pitch—to build a world that feels both authentic and morally complex. The dialogue carries the weight of character and conflict, while the embedded story of the sandal-wood trader introduces a note of unease that lingers beyond the calm. These early chapters reward a slow reading, one that listens to the voices and watches the hands at work.

That rainy afternoon, The Cruise of the "Dainty" kept me company, its salt-stained pages drifting toward a quieter kind of longing—not for distant seas, but for cold, open spaces I’d never seen. Before I knew it, I’d pulled down Fred Markham in Russia; Or, The Boy Travellers in the Land of the Czar — Context and Discussion, and the rain outside seemed to turn to snow.

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