HENRY BURNS IN TROUBLE
Will Adams, stirring the coals in the fireplace of his cheery
dining-room, added two sticks of oak to the blaze, resumed his seat and
addressed his guests.
“I’ve been wishing for years,” he said, “that I could have a chance to
catch one of these dredging pirates that misuse their men so. Why, I’ve
lain in bed on summer nights and heard those poor fellows out aboard
begging for mercy—and I couldn’t do anything to help them. It’s hard to
catch a captain in the act of beating a man, and they have all kinds of
tricks to escape; the worst ones stand together and help one another out.
But we’ll get this man, Haley, because he comes into the river, you say.
I don’t remember him, at all, but I think I know the boat, as you
describe it.”
“We’ll get a warrant for him, the first thing,” said Edward Warren.
“Well, that’s what we’ll have to depend on,” replied Will Adams; “but
that’s a slow process, and we may be able to do better, in the meantime,
ourselves. We want to get young Harvey, right off, before he has any more
of Haley’s rough handling.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Ed. You take the boat, day after to-morrow,
for Baltimore, swear out the warrant, and get back here as quick as ever
you can. That will start the authorities after the fellow. But I warn
you, they’re rather slow. They’ll have to put a steamer on Haley’s trail,
to make sure.
“You see, news has a way of leaking out up in Baltimore. I don’t know how
they do it—politics, I suppose. But as soon as a warrant is out, somebody
gets word of it on the water-front and then the news travels down the bay
like wildfire. One captain passes it along to another. Why, the chances
are, Haley might have young Harvey out of the way aboard some other
craft, or set ashore down in the Eastern shore swamps, before any police
captain came up with him.
“That’s why I say I hope we can get the boy off, ourselves, in the
meantime. Now I’ve got a sloop up in the creek back of Solomon’s Island,
that I can fit out and have ready by to-morrow afternoon. She’s a good
one, too, is the old Mollie. She’s fast, and she can go across the bay in
anything that ever blew; thirty-seven feet long; a good, roomy cabin that
will sleep six of us easy, and seven on a pinch, by making up some beds
on the cabin floor. She’ll carry sail, too, and if it comes to a brush
between us and Haley’s craft, why the Mollie will show up surprisingly.
He’d have hard work to give us the slip, altogether, unless night came
on.
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Will Adams, arising and squaring his broad
shoulders, “we’ll fit out the Mollie like a regular sloop-of-war. I’ve
got three shot-guns and any number of revolvers, and you’ve got a good
rifle, Ed. Why, we could show enough force to capture a Malay pirate, let
alone Haley. We may get him easier than that, right here in the river—and
then again we may not. We’ll be ready for anything. What do you say?”
“Well,” said Edward Warren, “I’m for capturing the man wherever he shows
himself, if we can; but I’m not so sure that I ought to let these
youngsters run the risk of getting into a fight like that.”
Will Adams smiled.
“Perhaps I put it a little bit strong,” he said. “I don’t really think
there would be very much fight about it. Haley is a coward, I’ll venture
to say, if it comes to a pinch. Most bull-dozing men like that are. We
won’t give him a chance to fight, if we can help it; just take him of a
sudden, and he’ll give up.”
“Don’t you worry about us, Cousin Ed,” said George Warren. “We are old
enough to take care of ourselves. We don’t mind running some risk, if we
can only get Jack out of his scrape.”
“Well,” replied Edward Warren, “you fit up the Mollie, Will, and wait
till I get back from Baltimore before you start off anywhere. Then we’ll
see.”
“I wish we could start to-night,” said Henry Burns.
It was surprising, the change that had come over this usually coolest and
most deliberate of the boys. He and Jack Harvey had not always been
friends; but now that circumstances had brought them together, and they
had cemented their friendship by a summer together and a partnership in a
fishing enterprise, they were loyal comrades. Henry Burns would have set
out on the moment, for Solomon’s Island and the sloop Mollie, and have
worked all night to get her ready, if Will Adams had only said the word.
But there was, plainly, nothing to be done until morning; and so, with a
hearty handshake all round, the boys and Edward Warren left the big house
on Drum Point and headed homeward across the river in the canoe.
There was no time lost, on the following morning, however. They were up
and across the river at an early hour; and, taking Will Adams into the
canoe, they all went along by the shore into the creek where the Mollie
lay at her mooring. She was stripped of her sails and some of her
rigging, out of commission for the winter season.
The young yachtsmen recognized her for what she was, a smart sea boat;
and they went to work with a will to assist in getting her ready for
cruising. From a loft on Solomon’s Island they carried down the big
main-sail and the jibs and a single topsail. They lugged the big
anchor-rode and two anchors, including a spare one, carried for
emergency, down to the shore, and rowed the stuff out aboard. They
assisted in bending on the sails; lacing them to boom and gaff; in
reeving rigging; splicing a rope here and there; trying the pump and
putting on a fresh leather to the sucker rod; greasing the foot of the
mast, where the hoops chafed; putting aboard water jugs and spare
rigging—in short, the score and more things that went to make the craft
fit and safe for winter cruising.
By early afternoon, the sloop, Mollie, was spick and clean and
ship-shape, with a brand new main-sheet and topping-lift, that would
stand a winter’s squall; her ballast stowed in, as some of it had been
taken ashore. Everything was in readiness for the cruise, even to the
starboard and port lights, for use at night, and some charts of the bay
provided by Will Adams. They locked the cabin, and went back in the
canoe, first to Will Adams’s landing and then across to the other shore.
George Warren held the tiller, in the absence of Edward Warren, who had
remained at home, preparing for his trip to Baltimore the following
morning.
Through all that afternoon and until darkness settled over the river,
there was not a half hour that did not find Henry Burns either at a
window or out in the dooryard, gazing off through Edward Warren’s
spy-glass. He looked longingly for the sight of a craft, the image of
which, with its exact lines and the cut of its sails, was clear and
distinct in his mind.
George Warren pointed out at him, once, and called Edward Warren to look.
“He’s all cut up about poor Jack,” he said. “I never saw him so worked up
about anything. You’d better hurry back from Baltimore, Cousin Ed, or
he’ll be sailing off alone in the Mollie after Haley’s bug-eye.”
Edward Warren laughed.
“I’ll risk that,” he said. “Don’t you boys worry; we’ll get Haley, all
right. We’ll have young Harvey ashore here before many days, or I miss my
guess.”
That very afternoon, the bug-eye, Z. B. Brandt, was coming slowly up the
coast, heading for Cedar Point, the lighthouse on which marked the
turning-point for vessels bound into the Patuxent. Hamilton Haley,
sitting gloomily at the wheel, turned a sour face upon the mate, as the
latter stepped near.
“I never did see such all-fired mean luck since I took to dredging!” he
burst out, glowering at the mate, as though Jim Adams were in some way at
fault. “First it’s that sneaking foreigner, that we took to help Bill
out, that gets away. Who’d have thought he’d ever swum for it, a night
like that, and all that way from shore? I hope he drowned! I hope he
drowned and the dog-fish ate him. That’s what.”
“He’d make pow’ful bad eatin’, I reckon,” suggested Jim Adams.
“Yes, but he could have turned a handle of the winch like a soldier,”
said Haley. “And he’s a dead loss, being as I’m bound by the law as we
make ourselves, and swear to, to leave Sam Black aboard Bill’s boat, so
long as I’ve gone and lost Bill’s man.”
“I didn’t think that youngster, Harvey, and that business chap, Edwards,
had the nerve to do what they did,” said Jim Adams.
Hamilton Haley snorted. The subject was like a match to gun-powder.
“’Twas that young rascal, Harvey, that did it!” he cried. “I didn’t beat
him up enough. I wish as how I had him lashed up for’ard there now.
’Tother chap wouldn’t have gone and done it. ’Twas the youngster’s work.
And p’raps it didn’t cost me a penny!”
Haley pointed, with high indignation, to a new hatch which replaced the
one on which Harvey and Tom Edwards had floated to shore.
“Seven dollars for that!” he exclaimed, “to say nothing of the time it
took to make it. And ten dollars apiece to Artie Jenkins for the two of
’em that’s gone. And Sam Black worth as much more. I tell you it ain’t
right for a poor dredger, as earns his money by hard work and tends to
business, to get such luck as that dealt out to him.”
Haley was half whining. From his view-point, the fates had, indeed, been
unkind.
“There’s someone coming down,” remarked the mate.
Haley took a long look ahead, at a craft visible nearly a mile away.
“It’s Tom Noyes’s boat,” he said, finally. “I’d know his masts anywhere.”
The other craft, a bug-eye somewhat smaller than the Brandt, came dead on
toward them. The distance between them rapidly diminished, and they came
presently within hailing distance. The other craft did not merely hail,
however. It came up into the wind and lowered a boat. Haley brought the
Brandt into the wind, also, and the small boat came alongside. A man
stepped aboard and said something to Haley. The latter jumped as though a
shot had been fired at him. A grin of satisfaction overspread his dull
face.
“You don’t mean it, Tom!” he cried. “Hooray! I’d rather get him than ten
bushels of oysters in one heap. Come below. Jim, you take the wheel.”
The two captains descended into the cabin, leaving Jim Adams to hold the
bug-eye into the wind. They remained below some minutes, conversing
earnestly; and when they reappeared Haley was in a good humour that made
Jim Adams stare.
“Jim,” he said, slapping the mate on the shoulder with a jocularity all
unusual to him, “you’re a right good mate. We’re going up the river
to-night—away up. We’re going to ship a good man—a right good man, Jim.
You never saw such a rare fellow at a winder as he’ll be. Ho! Ho! I
reckon the rest of ’em won’t have to work at all with him aboard.
Good-bye, Cap’n Tom. I’ll see you down on the Eastern shore. We’re going
to quit around here. The reefs seem all played out. Good luck!”
Haley, seeing his guest off, turned to Jim Adams and proceeded to impart
to him a piece of information that brought a broad smile to his features,
also. The two had emerged thus suddenly from the depths of gloom and
discouragement into a feeling almost of hilarity. The bug-eye was brought
by the wind once more, and they went on up the bay.
The night falling, Henry Burns, up at the old farmhouse, gave over
looking for any sail and went in to supper. It was a serious looking
party at table that night. The next few days might mean much to them, or
little, according as fortune favoured. The boys urged upon Edward Warren
to lose no time in returning to them.
“And you look out for yourselves, while I’m away,” he cautioned. “If you
see anything of Haley, just take the canoe and scoot for Drum Point. Then
let Will Adams handle the thing. He’s careful and he knows everybody
around here, and just what to do.”
“We will,” replied George Warren. “We’ll be all right. Don’t you worry.”
They were off to bed in good season, though Henry Burns would have sat up
and gone down to the shore from time to time. He was persuaded by Edward
Warren that it were better to turn out at daybreak and look for the
vessel, before she should get under weigh, if she should happen to come
in during the night.
Henry Burns was usually the soundest of sleepers. He had a way of
dismissing care for a night, when he knew there could be nothing affected
by lying awake. He could have slept at sea in the hardest of storms, once
satisfied that the vessel was staunch and weathering the gale. But
to-night it was different. He had at first suggested that they watch
through the night, by turns; but Edward Warren had not approved. His mind
was set on the warrant and the action by the authorities.
Therefore, Henry Burns was restless. Once he arose and sat for a time by
the window, Young Joe slumbering peacefully in the bed. The moon was
beginning to show above the horizon, and it made a fine sight. But Henry
Burns thought of Jack Harvey out aboard Haley’s bug-eye, and the night
had little of beauty in it for him. He turned in and slept, lightly, for
an hour or two. Then the impulse to arise again was too strong. He crept
out of bed, wrapped a blanket about him, and seated himself in a big
armchair by the window.
Sleep overtook him as he sat there, with the picture of the moonlight,
lying across the river in a great flooding pathway, before his eyes as
they closed.
Again he awoke. The picture was still there. The moon had risen higher,
however, and the pathway of silver light across the river was more
diffused. The river rippled and danced beneath the mellow flood. But the
picture was not just the same, either. There was something in it which he
had not seen before—the masts and rigging of a vessel, clearly outlined
in the moonlight. Henry Burns gave one look, rubbed his eyes to convince
himself that he was really awake, then sprang to his feet.
“It’s the Brandt,” he said, softly. “I can’t be mistaken. I’ll just slip
down and make sure.”
It was, indeed, Haley’s bug-eye, anchored for an hour, for Haley to pick
up some stuff he had left up on the bank—a bit of rigging and a small
anchor he had bought—for he would not stop on his way down the river, but
would make all sail for the Eastern shore.
Henry Burns dressed himself hurriedly, but quietly, without waking Young
Joe. He would make sure, before arousing the household. If he should get
them up and then prove to be mistaken, he knew what Edward Warren would
think. He was warmly clad, but he found a short reefer, which was a
thick, warm overcoat, on the rack in the hall below, and he put that on,
for the night was sharp.
Cautiously, he slipped the bolt of the front door and stole out of the
house, closing the door gently after him. Then he set off for the shore
at a rapid pace.
He came to the bank overlooking the river, shortly, and crouched down by
some bushes, looking off at the vessel carefully. He was sure he could
not be mistaken in her. She lay not over quarter of a mile off shore, and
he could see her lines and rig sharply defined.
“I’d stake my half of the Viking on its being the Brandt,” he murmured.
“I’d like just one glimpse of her name, though, to make sure.”
As he spoke the words, there flashed into his mind the idea of going out
to see. It was easy. There was the skiff that went with the canoe, on
long trips. It lay at a stake, just a few feet from the canoe. He knew
where the sculling oar was hidden, under a log at the foot of the bank.
Henry Burns arose and stole quickly down to the shore, a short distance
up river from where he had been hiding. In a moment more, he was seated
in the skiff.
He was no novice in small boat handling. It was the work of but a few
minutes for him to be close upon the bug-eye. He waited a moment, a few
rods away, listening intently. There was no sound aboard. There was no
light showing. He drew nearer, and drifted alongside. There was no
mistaking the craft now. There, in dull and worn lettering, but plainly
to be read, was the name on the bow, “Z. B. Brandt.”
It was an exciting moment for Henry Burns. Two ideas met in conflict in
his brain. One was, to hasten ashore and alarm the Warren household; the
other, to slip aboard the vessel and see if he could not arouse Harvey in
the forecastle, and carry him off triumphantly then and there. The second
idea overmastered him. It was too tempting to be resisted. Think of
appearing in one brief half-hour at the old house, presenting Jack Harvey
to their astonished gaze and saying, proudly, “Here he is—and without a
warrant.”
Henry Burns, cool enough at a crisis, made his skiff fast forward, and
climbed aboard. Another moment, and he had stepped to the companion-way
and slipped below.
At the same moment, two figures on the shore, who had been watching his
manoeuvres, in astonishment and wrath, stepped into another skiff and one
of them sculled harder than he had ever sculled before, for the bug-eye.
Henry Burns, groping down into the forecastle, called softly, “Jack, Jack
Harvey. Jack, old boy, where are you?” There was no response, only a stir
in one of the bunks and a murmur from some drowsy sleeper. The sailors of
the Brandt, worn out with work, were seizing the short stop on the way up
the river for a snatch of sleep, and were slumbering as only tired
sailors can.
Henry Burns felt through his pockets and produced a match, which he
lighted and held to the faces of three of the sleepers in turn. No Jack
Harvey! The match burned out, and he lighted another, and yet one more.
When he had seen the last match flicker out on the face of the one
remaining man in the forecastle, and that one was not Jack Harvey, Henry
Burns felt his heart drop clear down till it seemed to leave his body. A
sense of disappointment and alarm overpowered him. His legs were weak.
There was no Jack Harvey in the forecastle! What had become of him?
Henry Burns, his brain in a whirl, climbed the companion steps weakly. He
put his hand on the side of the hatch at the top and took one step on
deck. As he did so, a rough hand grasped his wrist; another seized upon
his throat so he could utter no sound, while the hoarse voice of Hamilton
Haley sounded in his ears, “You little thief! Stealing, eh? I know you
young shore-rats, always looking for a chance to run off with stuff. You
won’t get away so easy this time. You’ll get a bit of dredging for this.
Hang you! You can cull oysters, if you give out at the winders. Take
that, and stay below till you’re called for.”
The heavy fist of Hamilton Haley shot out. Henry Burns, sent spinning
down the companion way by the blow, landed in a heap on the forecastle
floor, stunned, senseless. A moment more, and he was tossed into a bunk
like a sack of dunnage. There was a call for the crew to turn out.
The bug-eye, Brandt, was going on up the river—not secretly this time,
under cover of fog, but boldly in the full moonlight, in the middle of
the river, getting the benefit of the flood tide, coming in with the
rising moon.
Captain Hamilton Haley had nothing to hide—not now. He was merely going
after another recruit. And he had gained still another, all unexpectedly.
Luck seemed to be turning.