THE LAST OF THE SWANSEA.
We could now no longer run, and our only chance of escape lay in
crippling the schooner worse than she had crippled us. When she saw the
effect of her shot she ceased firing, and came after us, luffing up to
windward so as to board us on the weather side. Mr. March and I worked
at the gun, loading as rapidly as possible, and aiming with the greatest
care for the schooner’s spar. We did little damage for some time, and
it was not until the pirates were within half a mile that a lucky shot
carried away their mainmast. We gave the loudest cheer that we could
give, and then the mate and I jumped aloft and cut adrift the wreck of
the foretop-mast. Meanwhile Tom was hanging on to the wheel which he
had to keep jammed hard up, for the brig had now no head sail on except
the foresail. We drew steadily away from the schooner, however, and as
soon as we had cleared away the wreck we managed to set the foretop-mast
staysail flying, leading the halyard to a block lashed to a bolt in
the head of the foremast. This helped her a little, and made her steer
somewhat easier.
All the while Mr. March and I were at work aloft the schooner was firing
at us. Sometimes she aimed apparently at our spars with the hope of
dismasting us, but for the most part her shot struck us in the hull, and
I was convinced that in their rage, the pirates were trying to sink us.
But beyond cutting up our running gear and putting a few holes through
our sails, the schooner seemed to do us little harm. The wind was
freshening, and the pirates were brought almost to a standstill by their
mainmast which was towing overboard with all its gear, and which they
were unwilling to cut adrift probably because they had no spare mainsail
with them.
[Illustration: WE DID LITTLE DAMAGE UNTIL THE PIRATES WERE WITHIN HALF A
MILE.
179]
The schooner made no further effort to follow us, and when we had
distanced her so far that it was useless for her to waste shot on us, she
ceased firing. We were, you may be sure, pretty well tired with hard work
and excitement, and after we had eaten our breakfast, such as it was, I
relieved Tom at the wheel and he and the mate lay down on the deck to
rest.
“It’s very queer that all that cannonading did us so little harm,” said
Tom. “I always thought a cannon was such a terrible thing. But its bark
is worse than its bite.”
“We were in a bad way at one time,” said the mate. “What would you have
done if I hadn’t been here to work the gun? It was my shot that saved
us, and considering that I’m entitled to half the value of the ship for
recapturin’ her, I’ve earned the other half by beatin’ off the pirates in
a fair fight. Not but what you young gentlemen have behaved very well,
and I promise you that I’ll see to it that the owners stand something to
you in the nature of a reward.”
“It seems to me,” said I, “that the brig feels heavier than she did. She
doesn’t rise to the seas as lively as when we were running away early
this morning.”
The mate started up and looked over the side. “You’re right,” he cried.
“She’s deeper than she was. I’ll go below and see if she is leaking.”
He dived down the main hatchway, and in a very short time came back
looking rather grave. “Some of those shot have hit her below the water
line,” he said. “I can hear the water runnin’ into her. The lower hold
has got four feet of water already. We must start the pumps or we’ll
never see Charleston.”
The pump was so heavy and cumbersome that two men could not work it long
without being tired out. The mate and Tom, however, went to work with
a will, and kept a big stream of water pouring out of the scuppers for
at least half an hour. Then the mate sounded the well and found that
the water had gone down an inch. This was a proof that the leak could
be kept under as long as we could keep the pumps going. We were much
encouraged—at least Tom and I were—and I took Mr. March’s place at the
pump while he took my place at the wheel.
We pumped another half-hour, and lowered the water another inch. Mr.
March then went below and tried again to find the leak, but it was where
he could not get at it. He and I then fell to pumping again, but before
the half-hour was up we were so utterly exhausted that we dropped the
brakes and threw ourselves on the wet deck.
“There’s no use in pumpin’ any more,” said the mate. “We can’t free her.
All we could do with the pump would be to keep her afloat a little while
longer than if we didn’t break our hearts and backs.”
“But we can lower the water an inch every half-hour,” said I.
“There’s four feet in her now, let’s say. That’s forty-eight inches,
ain’t it? Very well. Suppose we could pump two hours at a spell; that
would lower the water four inches only. Then we’ll have to rest an hour,
and she’d make a foot or two of water in that time. I’m willin’ to pump
another hour and a half, after we’re rested a bit, just so as to get as
far away from where we left the schooner as we can, but after that we’ll
let the old Swansea go and take to the boats.”
There was good sense in what the mate said. It did seem a hopeless task
to try to save the brig by pumping. However, Tom had an idea, and as
usual it was a good one.
“Mr. March,” said he, “why can’t we get a sail over the side, and stop
the leak that way?”
“That’s just what I was goin’ to do,” replied the mate. “It may not work,
but we’ll try it. There’s the fore topsail lying on the deck all ready
as soon as we cut it adrift from the yard. Wait till I rest a bit longer,
and then we’ll see what we can do.”
It was a long job getting the sail over the side, and stretching it over
the place where we supposed the leak must be, but we did it at last, and
then went to the pumps again. We pumped a good half-hour and sounded the
well, only to find that we had lowered the water just an inch and no
more. So it was plain that the sail did no good. This was discouraging,
especially as the water had been gaining all the time we were working
with the sail, and was now four feet and six inches deep.
“Never mind,” exclaimed Mr. March. “Thunder away at the pump, boys, for
another hour if we can do it, and then we’ll knock off for good. I reckon
that she’ll float a good four hours yet, and we’ll have plenty of time to
get a boat ready and start away comfortably.”
We pumped as long as we could, without regard to time, and only gave up
when we had so little strength left that we really could not work the
pump.
The schooner had long been out of sight, and as it was now five o’clock
in the afternoon, we resolved to rest till seven, and then get a boat
ready. In the meanwhile there was nothing to gain by carrying sail, so we
brought her close to the wind under the main topsail, and the makeshift
fore staysail that we had set after losing our fore topmast. Under this
sail she would very nearly steer herself, and we were able to leave the
wheel; only we had, of course, to keep a sharp lookout, and run to the
wheel whenever she came up too close.
I think I never was so exhausted in my life as I was that day, and the
mate and Tom were quite as much exhausted as I was. We made some coffee
and made a supper of coffee and biscuit, and then we all lay down on
the poop. We must have dropped asleep almost instantly. I was awakened
by the loud flapping of a sail, and sprang up just as Mr. March and Tom
awoke. It was bright starlight.
It was a beautiful quiet night with a light breeze, but I was alarmed
to see that the main deck was all awash, and that the brig was fairly
water-logged. I ran to help clear away the boat, while Tom filled a
breaker from a fresh-water cask, and the mate went to the binnacle and
took out the compass. We put the water and the compass in the solitary
quarter-boat that remained to us, and then Mr. March told us to jump in
and lower away as soon as possible, for the brig might sink any moment.
We got the boat in the water safely, for the brig had little way on her
and the sea was smooth. Then we rowed a short distance from her and
waited for her to sink. We did not have to wait very long. Quietly enough
the Swansea settled down and disappeared. Had we slept fifteen minutes
longer we should have gone down with her.
We were again adrift in a small boat, and very much worse off than we
were when, with old Bill, we started in a small boat from Florida. Then
we had provisions and a sail. Now we had no sail and there was nothing
in our boat besides the oars except a compass and a breaker of water.
Besides, we were far out at sea, and had not the least idea where we were.
“Keep your courage up, boys,” said the mate. I noticed that lately he had
ceased to call us “young gentlemen,” and instead always called us “boys.”
“We’ll make Charleston yet; never fear. We’ve got no grub, but we’ve got
plenty of water, and we’ll make the Florida coast before we starve, let
alone that we may be picked up or may catch a fish or a turtle. Just pour
a little water into my shoe, will you, and give me a drink. It’s mighty
lucky for you that you’ve got an experienced sailor to look after you.
Without me, now, you’d have walked the plank hours ago.”
Mr. March took off his shoe and passed it to Tom to be filled with water,
but when he had taken a drink he spat it out, and cried, “Where did you
get that water? It’s salt.”
“I got it out of a cask on deck,” said Tom.
“Well, the salt water has got to it, and we’ve got nothing to drink.
Unless we’re picked up we’re all dead men. This comes of trusting to
boys.”
“I thought you’d done everything, Mr. March,” said I, “and that we boys
were under your care.”
“Don’t answer me back, boy,” said the mate, “for I won’t have it. It’s
all your fault that we haven’t any water, and I was a fool ever to have
anything to do with you.” So saying he lay down in the bottom of the
boat, with his face on his arms, and remained silent until he fell asleep.
We were undoubtedly in a perilous position, but I could not hear poor Tom
blamed for what was not his fault. He came aft to where I was sitting and
said, “I’m sorry, but I could not help it.” So I comforted him and told
him that the Lord who had preserved us so far would not let us die of
thirst; and we put our arms about each other and sat still.
There was so little sea that the boat did not need any attention, so we
let her drift, and being so excessively tired we too fell asleep after
a while, and slept as soundly as if we had been in our beds. We did not
awake until daylight, and then I startled the mate by a loud cry, for
there was a big ship not half a mile away and heading directly for us.
There was no fear that the ship would miss us, for we could see men on
the forecastle head looking at us, and by the time we had got on our legs
and hailed her at the top of our lungs, we saw the main topsail yard
swung round and the ship was hove to.
We got out our oars and pulled as if we were crazy, but it seemed an
endless time before we reached the ship and found ourselves safe on board.
She was the London City, bound to Charleston from the Mediterranean, and
the captain was as kind and pleasant as he could be. As soon as we came
on board he called us down into his cabin, where he asked us who we were
and where we came from.
I was going to answer, but before I could speak Mr. March told the
captain that he was in charge of the boat, and that after the crew of
the Swansea—of which he had been mate—had mutinied and set the captain
adrift, and carried him (the mate) a prisoner to the Bermudas, he had
watched his chance and carried off the brig single-handed, with a little
help from us two boys, who had been passengers; that he had fought the
Swansea when she was afterwards attacked by a pirate schooner and had
beaten the schooner off, but that afterwards the Swansea had sunk in
consequence of the injuries received during the battle. He added that we
were both good boys, and had really been of considerable help to him.
We did not contradict him, but we resolved to tell the whole truth as
soon as we reached Charleston. We were afraid that the captain of the
London City would not believe us, and thought it did not make much
difference to us what story the mate might tell.
But when we got to Charleston the mate told the same story to the owners
of the ship—or rather to their agents—and when Tom and I tried to tell
what was really the truth no one believed us, because the captain of the
London City said that we had admitted that the mate’s story was true
while we were on board his ship. So Mr. March was paid a handsome sum of
money for what was called his noble conduct, and we were warned to stop
telling stories against him. Soon afterwards Mr. March went to sea again,
and I never heard of him afterwards. All in good time, when my uncle came
to know Tom and me, and to know that we could be trusted, he believed
our story, and that was of more consequence to us than the opinion of
strangers who knew nothing of us.
This is the end of the story of the Swansea, and I am glad to say that
piracy has almost ceased, and that honest seamen can now follow their
profession without fear of such wretches as the bloodthirsty Blackbeard,
the ferocious England, and other cruel rovers of their like.
[Illustration]
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