DREDGING FLEET TACTICS
Jack Harvey was a strong, muscular youth, toughened and enured to rough
weather, and even hardship, by reason of summers spent in yachting and
his spare time in winter divided between open air sports and work in the
school gymnasium. But the steady, laborious work of the first day at
dredging had brought into action muscles comparatively little used
before, and moreover overtaxed them. So, when Harvey awoke, the following
morning, and rolled out of his bunk, he felt twinges of pain go through
him. His muscles were stiffened, and he ached from ankles to shoulders.
He awoke Tom Edwards, knowing that if he did not, the mate soon would,
and in rougher fashion. The companionship in misfortune, that had thus
thrown the boy and the man intimately together, made the difference in
their ages seem less, and their friendship like that of long standing. So
it was the natural thing, and instinctive, for Harvey to address the
other familiarly.
“Wake up, Tom,” he said, shaking him gently; “it’s time to get up.”
Tom Edwards opened his eyes, looked into the face of his new friend and
groaned.
“Oh, I can’t,” he murmured. “I just can’t get up. I’m done for. I’ll
never get out of this alive. I’m going to die. Jack, old fellow, you tell
them what happened to me, if I never get ashore again. You’ll come
through, but I can’t.”
Harvey looked at the sorry figure, compassionately.
“It’s rough on you,” he said, “because you’re soft and not used to
exercise. But don’t you go getting discouraged this way. You’re not going
to die—not by a good deal. You’re just sea-sick; and every one feels like
dying when they get that way. You’ve just got to get out, because Adams
will make you. So you better start in. Come on; we’ll get some of that
beautiful coffee and that other stuff, and you’ll feel better.”
By much urging, Harvey induced his companion to arise, and they went on
deck.
It was a fine, clear morning, and the sight that met their eyes was
really a pretty one. In the waters of Tar Bay were scores of craft
belonging to the oyster fleet. They were for the most part lying at
anchor, now, with smoke curling up in friendly fashion from their little
iron stove funnels. There were vessels of many sorts and sizes; a few
large schooners, of the dredging class, bulky of build and homely;
punjies, broader of bow and sharper and deeper aft, giving them quickness
in tacking across the oyster reefs; bug-eyes, with their sharp prows,
bearing some fancied resemblance, by reason of the hawse-holes on either
bow, to a bug’s eye, or a buck’s eye—known also in some waters as
“buck-eyes”—clean-lined craft, sharp at either end; also little saucy
skip-jacks, and the famous craft of the Chesapeake, the canoes.
These latter, known also as tonging-boats, were remarkably narrow craft,
made of plank, about four feet across the gunwales and averaging about
twenty feet long. Some of them were already under weigh, the larger ones
carrying two triangular sails and a jib. It seemed to Harvey as though
the sail they bore up under must inevitably capsize them; but they sailed
fast and stiff.
A few of these craft were already engaged in tonging for oysters, in a
strip of the bay just south of Barren Island, where the water shoaled to
a depth of only one fathom. The two men aboard were alternately raising
and lowering, by means of a small crank, a pair of oyster tongs, the jaws
of which closed mechanically with the strain upon the rope to which it
was attached.
To the southward, other vessels were beginning to come in upon the
dredging grounds, until it seemed as though all of Maryland’s small craft
must be engaged in the business of oyster fishing.
With an eye to the present usefulness of his men, more than from any
compassion upon their condition, Captain Hamilton Haley had ordered a
better breakfast to be served. There was fried bacon, and a broth of some
sort; and the coffee seemed a bit stronger and more satisfying. Harvey
urged his comrade to eat; and Tom Edwards, who had rallied a little from
his sea-sickness, with the vessel now steady under him, in the quiet
water, managed to make a fair breakfast.
They made sail, shortly, and stood to the southward, following the line
of the island shores, but at some distance off the land. The hard,
monotonous labour of working the dredges began once more. Jack Harvey,
lame and stiff in his joints, found it more laborious than before.
Tom Edwards, somewhat steadier than on the previous day, but in no fit
condition to work, was forced to the task. He made a most extraordinary,
and, indeed, ludicrous figure—like a scarecrow decked out in an unusually
good suit of clothes. He had no overcoat left him, but had sought relief
from the weather by the purchase of an extra woollen undershirt from
Captain Haley’s second-hand wardrobe. His appearance was, therefore,
strikingly out of keeping with his surroundings.
In him one would have beheld a tall, light complexioned man; with blond
moustache, that had once been trimly cut and slightly curled; clad in his
black suit, with cut-away coat; his one linen shirt sadly in need of
starching, but worn for whatever warmth it would give; even his one
crumbled linen collar worn for similar purpose; and, with this, a bulky
pair of woollen mittens, to protect his hands that were as yet unused to
manual labour.
Watching him, as he toiled at the opposite winch, Harvey could not
restrain himself, once, from bursting into laughter; but, the next
moment, the pale face, with its expression of distress, turned his
laughter into pity. It was certainly no joke for poor Tom Edwards.
Mate Adams brought on the other two recruits, after a time, and they took
their places at the winders. They were not strong enough to work
continuously, however, and the two and Tom Edwards “spelled” one another
by turns.
The wind fell away for an hour about noon, and there was a respite for
all, save for the culling of the oysters that had been taken aboard; and
Jack Harvey found opportunity to speak with the two newcomers.
Theirs was the old story—only too familiar to the history of the dredging
fleet.
“My name is Wallace Brooks,” said one of them, a thick-set, good-natured
looking youth of about twenty years. “I come from up Haverstraw way, on
the Hudson river—and I thought I was used to hard work, for I’ve worked
in the brick-yards there some; but that’s just play compared to this.
“Well, I went down to New York, to look for work, and I fell in with this
chap. His name’s Willard Thompson. He’s a New Yorker, and has knocked
around there all his life. I’m afraid he won’t stand much of this work
here. He was a clerk in a store, but always wanted to take a sea voyage.”
Willard Thompson, standing wearily by the forecastle, did not, indeed,
present a robust appearance, calculated to endure the hardships of a
winter on Chesapeake Bay. He was rather tall and thin and sallow, dressed
more flashily than his friend, Brooks, and was of a weaker type.
“We fell in with a man in South street, one day,” continued Brooks, “and
he told us all about what a fine place this bay was; how it was warm here
all winter, and oyster dredging the easiest work there is—‘nothing to do
but watch the boat sail, dragging a dredge after it,’ was the way he put
it. He didn’t say anything about this everlasting grind of winding at the
machines. Said the pay was twenty-five a month, and live like they do at
the Astor House.
“He fooled us, all right, and we signed with him in New York, and he sent
us down to Baltimore. They put us into a big boarding-house there, with a
lot of men. Well, we found out more what it was going to be like, and we
were going to back out and get away; but they were too smart for
us—drugged our coffee one night—and, well, you know the rest. We’ve waked
up at last. Whew, but’s tough! I wish I was back in the brick-yard, with
a mile of bricks to handle. Isn’t old Haley a pirate?”
They were ordered to work again, soon, and the conversation ended.
Working that afternoon with the sailor, Sam Black, at the winch, Harvey
got a further insight to the devious ways and the shrewdness of the
dredgers, of the type of Hamilton Haley.
There sailed up, after a time, a smaller bug-eye, which ran along for
some miles abreast of the Brandt, while the two captains exchanged
confidences.
“Ahoy, Bill,” called Haley; “what d’yer know?”
“The Old Man’s looking for you,” returned the other.
“What’s he want of me?”
“Wants to see your license.”
“Well, I’ve got it, all right.”
Haley glanced, as he spoke, at his license numbers, displayed on two of
the sails.
“Where is he now?”
“Down below Smith’s Island.”
“Has he boarded you?”
“Yes, looked us all over. We’re all clear.”
“Then,” continued Haley, “I’ll run alongside at sundown; where’ll you
be?”
“Just around the foot of the island.”
“What does he mean?” inquired Harvey. “Who’s the Old Man?”
“Oh, he means the captain of the police tub,” replied Sam Black,
grinning. “They’ll look us over, by and by, just to see if everything’s
straight. It’s one of the state’s oyster navy.”
Harvey’s heart gave a jump. Might not here be a chance for liberty? But,
the next moment, his hopes were dashed.
“Don’t you go reckoning on it, though, youngster,” continued Sam Black,
“for ’twon’t do you a bit of good. There’s no police as slick as Ham
Haley, nor the rest of his crowd. What’s the good of two old police
steamers and a few schooners in goodness knows how many hundred square
miles of bay, with hundreds of harbours to run to and hide, and islands
to dodge ’round, and a score of pirates like Haley to help each other
dodge? And any captain in the fleet willing to tell where the police tub
is?”
“I tell you, it ain’t often they catch a captain napping, no matter what
he’s done. Let ’em swear out a warrant, up in Baltimore, for a captain
that has been beating up his men. Well, I dunno how it does come, hardly;
but, all the same, the news gets down the bay and spreads all through the
fleet like a field of grass afire. Pshaw! By the time they gets him, that
cap’n has got half a new crew, and there isn’t a man aboard as saw the
beating done, except the cap’n and his mate; and if they’ve done any
beating up, you bet they’ve clean forgotten it.”
Harvey’s face looked blanker than before. “Then there isn’t much hope in
the law, no matter what happens,” he said.
“Haley and the rest of ’em have got the law,” responded Black. “Haley
showed that fellow, Edwards, the law. Don’t you get in the way of it.
That’s my advice.”
“All the captains alike?” asked Harvey.
“About a score or so of ’em are downright pirates,” replied Sam Black.
“They’re the kind I’ve fell in with, mostly. There’s good ones, too, I
suppose—or not so bad.”
For all the sailor said, Jack Harvey was not without some faint hope, as
the afternoon wore away and the bug-eye headed for the foot of lower
Hooper Island, that the expected visit of the police boat might afford
him and Tom Edwards the opportunity for escape. He gave the news to Tom
Edwards, at supper time, and that weary unfortunate beamed with renewed
hope.
“It’s our chance,” he said. “Won’t I fill that navy captain full of what
that brute Haley has done aboard here!”
They rounded the foot of Hooper Island, after a time, and anchored in a
bight of the north shore. Presently the craft that had hailed the Brandt
bore up; and, shortly after, still another. The two came alongside, with
their sails fluttering—but they did not let them run.
“There’s two for each of you for the night, and till I get an overhauling
from the Old Man,” called Haley to the captains of the other craft.
A moment later, Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards found themselves hustled from
the deck of the Brandt aboard one of the strange bug-eyes. Likewise, the
men, Thompson and Brooks, found themselves similarly transferred.
Forewarned, Harvey and his companion made neither inquiry nor protest.
They knew it would be of no avail. But one of the others had ventured to
know the reason.
“You jes’ please shut up, and ask no questions,” was the satisfaction
gained from Jim Adams.
The two strange craft made sail again, and stood to the southeast,
through Hooper Strait.
And so, when, next morning, Jack Harvey, looking from the deck of his new
prison, saw a small steamer go by, with the smoke pouring from its
funnel, he knew full well the significance of it; he realized the
opportunity for freedom that was so near, and yet beyond reach. He was no
coward, but a lump rose in his throat that half choked him. Tom Edwards
gazed, with eyes that were moistened.
That day, toward noon, a steamer lay alongside the Brandt; and a captain,
eying Haley with stern disapproval, said, “Oh, yes, you’ve got your
license, all right, Haley, but you’re short-handed as usual. I know—it’s
the same old story. Looking for men, and can’t get them. Now I know you
dredge with more, so you needn’t lie. I suspect it’s lucky for you that I
haven’t time to follow you up. But I warn you, there have been
complaints, and some day you’ll fetch up short, if you don’t treat your
men right.”
“And ain’t that just what I do?” demanded Haley, highly injured. “Don’t I
treat ’em better’n half the captains down the bay? Good grub and easy
work—why, they’re too fat to wind, half the time.”
The captain’s face relaxed into a smile that was half amusement, half
contempt.
“I just warn you; that’s all,” he repeated; and went aboard the steamer.
Haley watched his departure with a chuckle.
“Get her under weigh again, Jim,” he said. “We’ll pick up our crew.”
By noon, the Brandt had run in to the small harbour where the two
bug-eyes were waiting; and, that afternoon, Harvey and the others were
back at work, under the abuse of Jim Adams, hounded on by him, to make up
for lost time.