there’s danger of swinging.”
“He’s sealin’ to th’ s’uth’ard av th’ Cape, an’ speakin’ vessels what
carry stewardesses. He shot at th’ skipper av th’ Porpoise for no more
than a joke.”
“Stave me! You don’t mean it. He’s looking for Moll, then. Suppose he
meets us?”
“’Pon me whurd, I feel sorry for ye if he does, Garnett. Ye are an owld
villain, an’ ye haven’t much chance if he sees ye. Now, for a fact,
ye’ll be in a bad way.” And O’Toole grinned hopefully.
“Bah!” said Garnett, and he went on with his work.
Ten weeks later the Silver Sea raised Cape St. John, and stood away for
the Horn under top-gallant-sails. It was mid-summer, and Christmas day
was daylight twenty hours out of the twenty-four. There was little
difficulty in seeing anything that might rise above the horizon. It came
on to blow very hard from the northwest during the day, and the ship,
being quite deep, was snugged down to her single lower maintop-sail. She
lay to on the starboard tack, and made heavy weather of the high,
rolling sea.
“’Tis a bad spell for th’ ‘wind-jammers,’” said O’Toole, as he stood
under the lee of the mizzen, where he had just come to relieve Garnett.
“Divil av a thing have we sighted but a blooming owld penguin this
blessed week.”
“It’s a most ornery live sea rolling,” said Garnett, removing his
sou’wester, and mopping the dent in the top of his bald head. “I wonder
how that Dago would like to board us to-day?”
“He was good enough sailor; but, say, Garnett, what d’ye make av that
white t’ the west’ard? ’Pon me whurd, for a fact, ’tis a small vessel
comin’ afore it.”
Garnett looked to windward. There, coming out of the thick haze of the
flying drift, appeared a small black schooner running before the storm,
with nothing but a small trysail on the foremast. She rode the giant
seas like an albatross, and bore down on the Silver Sea at a tremendous
pace. Several figures appeared upon her dripping deck, and several more
appeared aft at her helm. The white foam dripped from her black sides at
each roll, and was flung far to either side of her shearing bows,
leaving a broad, white road on the following sea to mark her wake.
From the time O’Toole first saw her outlined against the blue
steel-colored sky through the flying spray and spume drift to that when
she came abreast the Silver Sea was but a few minutes. But it was long
enough for Garnett to call the skipper, who came on deck and examined
her through his glass.
“Gonzales and his black crew, by all that’s holy,” said Enoch Moss,
quietly.
“’Pon me whurd it is, an’ he’s going to kape us company. Look!” said
O’Toole.
As he spoke, the little vessel began to broach to on the weather-beam.
As she bore up in the trough, a tremendous comber struck her and laid
her flat on her beam ends, so that for several minutes she was quite out
of sight in the smother. Then her masts were seen to rise again out of
that storm-torn sea, and she was taking the weight of it forward of her
starboard beam. It was an interesting sight to see that little craft
rise like a live thing and throw her dripping forefoot high in the air
until her keel was visible clear back to her foremast. Great splashes of
snowy white foam, dripping from her black sides, were blown into long
streamers by the gale, and everything alow and aloft glistened with salt
water. Then she would descend with a wild plunge and bury herself almost
out of sight in the sea, only to rise again in a perfect storm of flying
spray. She was heading well and making good weather of it, half a mile
off the Silver Sea’s weather-quarter.
Enoch Moss watched her through his glass.
“It’s Gonzales, and he has a gun. I reckon he will signal us,” said he.
“No,” he continued; “he has raised it and put it down again. Sink him; I
believe he has fired at us.”
There was no report heard above the deep booming roar of the gale, but
instantly after the skipper spoke a small hole appeared in the
maintop-sail. The hole grew in size every moment as the pressure of the
gale tore the parting canvas. Then, with a loud crack, the sail split
from head to foot and began to thrash to ribbons from the yard.
“Stave me, but he has the range of us all right,” said Garnett, and the
next instant he was plunging forward bawling for the watch to lay aft
and secure the remains of the storm-topsail.
“Shall we put the spencer on her?” bawled O’Toole to the skipper, who
had sprung to the wheel.
“No use,” roared Enoch Moss. “Trim the yards sharp and let her hold on
the best she can. If she pays off put a tarpaulin in the mizzen.”
The Silver Sea did hold her head up to the sea without any canvas, for
she was very deep, and she sagged off to leeward less than the Hawke.
Enoch Moss went below and came on deck again with a Winchester rifle.
Then he seated himself comfortably near the wheel and fired cartridge
after cartridge at the trysail of the schooner. After half an hour’s
sport there was nothing to indicate that his shots had taken effect, so
he desisted. All Christmas day the vessels were within sight of each
other and towards evening the wind began to slack up.
Gonzales was first to take advantage of the lull. He put a close-reefed
mainsail on his little vessel, and, with a bonneted jib hoisted high
above the sea-washed forecastle, he sent the Hawke reaching through it
like mad.
He came close under the Silver Sea’s lee-quarter, and fired his
whale-gun slap into the ship’s cabin. The shell burst and scattered the
skipper’s charts all over the deck and set fire to the bulkhead. Then
began the most novel fight that ever occurred on deep water.
Enoch Moss, O’Toole, and Garnett kept up a rapid fire with their rifles
upon the schooner’s deck, but, although the range was not great, the
motion of the plunging vessels made it almost impossible to hit even a
good-sized mark. Gonzales, in turn, fired his whale-gun as long as he
was close enough to use it, and he made the splinters fly from the
deck-house and cabin. Then he and his fellows took to their sealing
rifles and kept up a hot fire until the Hawke passed ahead out of range.
Three times did the Spaniard go to windward and run down on the heavily
loaded ship, while all hands worked to get canvas on her. Finally, when
the Silver Sea hoisted topsails, fore and aft, she began to drive ahead
at a reasonable rate, but with dangerous force, into the heavy sea. Even
then Gonzales could outpoint her, and had no difficulty in keeping
within easy rifle range. From there he kept up a slow but steady fire
upon everything that had the appearance of life on the Silver Sea’s
deck.
Late in the evening it was still quite light, and he drew closer. A huge
Patagonian was seen upon the schooner’s forecastle, firing slowly and
carefully. Soon after this a sailor was struck and badly injured. The
faint crack of the sealing rifle continued to sound at regular
intervals, and Enoch Moss began to get desperate. He stood behind the
mizzen, watching the Hawke following him as a dog follows a boar.
“This can’t keep up forever,” he said to O’Toole. “He’ll wear us out
before we make port. I reckon we might as well stand away for the
Falklands.”
“’Tis no use; I can’t hit him,” said O’Toole, jamming his rifle into the
furled spanker. “Th’ men are all scared half mad, an’ if it falls calm
he’ll board us certain; ’pon me whurd he will.”
“We must chance it, then,” said Enoch Moss. “Hoist away the fore-and
main-t’gallant-sails. We’ll run for it.”
In ten minutes the Silver Sea was standing away to the eastward, with
half a gale on her quarter. She hoisted sail after sail, until she drove
along fully twelve knots an hour, leaving a wide, white wake into which
Gonzales squared away. But he could not overhaul her. He shook out his
reefs and hoisted a foresail, burying his little vessel’s head in a wild
smother of foam.
Enoch Moss stood aft looking at him, and, as his ship flew along with
top-gallant-masts bending like whips, his spirits rose.
“He’ll spring something yet, if he holds on,” he cried to O’Toole and
Garnett, who stood near.
“’Pon me whurd he will,” said the mate.
“Look!” bawled Garnett.
As he spoke, a huge sea, following in the Spaniard’s wake, began its
combing rush. It struck the little schooner full upon her
weather-quarter, and rolled over her stern, swinging her broadside to.
As it did so the mainsail caught the weight of the flying crest, and the
mast went over the side. The next instant it carried the foremast with
it. Then the Hawke lay a complete and helpless wreck upon the high,
rolling seas of the Horn.
“We’ve got him,” bawled Enoch Moss, springing upon the poop. “Fore-and
main-t’gallant-sails, quick!” And the mates dashed forward, bawling for
all hands to secure the canvas. Jennings and Bilkidg stood at the wheel,
and steadied the heavy ship as she came on the wind, and the way she
tore along gave them all they could do.
Everything held, and they were soon several miles to windward of the
Lord Hawke. Then Enoch Moss wore ship, and stood for the schooner close
hauled. There was still a stiff gale blowing, and the heavy ship tore
her way through the high sea with a lurch and tremble that bade fair to
take her topmasts out of her. But Enoch Moss held on.
“Point her head for him,” he bawled to the men at the wheel. “Hold her
tight and hit him fair; we’ll smash him under this time.”
Garnett stood on the forecastle-head and watched the Spaniard giving
directions to the helmsmen by waving his hands. He saw a dozen or more
natives launch their whale-boat and try to clear the schooner just as
the Silver Sea came rushing down upon them, with a roaring waste of
snowy surge under her forefoot, fifty fathoms distant.
Gonzales stood on the schooner’s deck, rifle in hand, and he fired at
Enoch Moss as the Silver Sea towered over his doomed vessel. The next
instant the heavy ship rose on the sea, and, with her great sloping
cut-water storming through it at ten knots an hour, swooped downwards.
There was a heavy jar that almost knocked Garnett overboard, but Enoch
Moss, gripping his arm where the rifle-shot had passed through, rushed
to the side and peered over in time to see the forward half of the Lord
Hawke sink from view. The native crew barely got clear, and, as the
Silver Sea passed on, they and their boat were the only objects left
floating in her wake.
“Now for the rest,” roared the skipper, smarting from his wound. “Stand
by to wear ship.”
“We’ll never touch them,” said O’Toole. “They’ve picked up Gonzales and
are heading dead to windward, rowing six oars double banked.”
The Silver Sea bore up again to the northward, but the black crew of the
Hawke were then a good mile in the wind’s eye, pulling with giant
strokes. She wore again after jamming for an hour, but when she crossed
their wake the whale-boat was a tiny speck in the distance.
“’Tis a long row home they’ll have,” said O’Toole, looking after them.
“I hope the old man won’t ship any more pretty stewardesses,” growled
Garnett.
“’Pon me whurd, I don’t belave he will.”
“Let her head her course, west-nor’west,” said Enoch Moss, and he went
below holding his bandaged arm.
The last they saw of Gonzales and his crew was the tiny speck appearing
and disappearing upon the high rolling seas of the Pacific Antarctic
Drift.
_JOHNNIE_
At eight bells, after the dog-watch, I went aft to relieve Gantline, and
found him talking to the skipper. It isn’t good ship etiquette to
interrupt a superior officer, so I went to leeward along the poop and
gained the wheel. There I waited until the discussion ended.
Gantline was somewhat excited at a remark made by the “old man,” and was
holding forth in explanation.
“No, sir,” said he; “let the boys come aboard for’ard--through the
hawse-pipe, as the saying is--not in the cabin. It’s the little devils
who run away and ship that make the sailors. They take to a slush-pot or
tar-bucket as if there was honor in getting afoul of them. All the
stinks of the fo’castle, all the hard knocks, bad grub, and every mean
thing that happens in a sailor’s life--and Lord knows there are lots of
them--are all taken as part of that big thing--agoing to sea. I know you
want your boys to sign on, regular like. You say it protects them. Maybe
it does. But I say, give me the little rascals who are full of the song
of the thing. Yes, sir, you may laugh, but that’s it. They go into the
thing different, and hard knocks ain’t going to hurt them much.
“You know a man has to be rough on deep water. No matter how easy he is,
sometimes he gets a hard crew, and he must know how to handle them when
the time comes.”
“But how about that case we were speaking of?” said the skipper; “there
was the investigation, and some of the men gave Jensen a pretty rough
name, considering he’s a dead man. They didn’t lay any particular blame
on you.”
Gantline was somewhat disturbed in mind, and he forthwith went to
leeward and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the sea. Then he came
back wiping his mouth on the back of his great, horny hand, his face
wearing a thoughtful look.
“You see, this is the way the thing was,” said he, stopping and throwing
one leg upon the rail near where the skipper sat.
“That little fellow came aboard while we were lying at the dock in the
East River. He was a dirty, ragged little rascal. I saw him sneak over
the rail and dodge behind the deck-house. When I collared him he began
crying, and asked me not to let the ‘cops’ get him. He begged so hard
and seemed so thin a little shaver I couldn’t see him run in, so I let
him down in the forepeak, and he hid behind some empty harness-casks. We
were going out the next day, and I intended to see him ashore all right
in the morning, and as it was past six bells then I went uptown to have
a last look about.
“Two watchmen stopped me and asked if I had seen a boy come aboard, and
when I asked what they wanted him for they were short enough.
“No, I ain’t much but a deep-water mate, but most men are civil enough
to me.”
Captain Green smiled, but said nothing.
“A mate ain’t supposed to know much,” continued Gantline, not liking the
smile, “but I didn’t have to stand on my head to take the sun the first
time I crossed the line,” and he looked meaningly at the skipper, who
smoked in silence.
“So when those fellows talked short and big, I just told them to hurry
up to the place they were sure to fetch up in some day and went on
uptown. You know what a sailor is, so you know how he spends his last
night on the beach.
“I got aboard in the morning and was feeling pretty blue. After sticking
my head in a pail of water I came on deck just as we got the word to
clear. In a few minutes we were towing out, and I never thought of that
little shaver until the next day. Then Mr. Jensen dragged him aft to the
‘old man’ by the scruff of his poor little neck.
“Crojack was feeling blue then, and he didn’t want any boys aboard, so
he told the mate to flog him and turn him to with his watch.
“The poor little fellow begged hard not to get the rope’s end, but the
mate wouldn’t listen.
“I can’t say I was against lamming him, for I felt he had taken
advantage of me.
“Jensen went too far, though, and we came near having a set-to over the
child before we were off soundings. Johnnie was cast loose and he fell
down on deck. Then old Williams, the bos’n, took him into the
fo’castle. After that Jensen took him in hand pretty regular.
“‘In my day,’ said he, ‘boys were taught something, and there weren’t no
dudes. And the only way to get knowledge into a boy’s hide is to lam it
in with a rope’s end. It stays there then.’ So he would lecture Johnnie
on the wicked ways of the world, and after the poor little fellow would
listen to the rigmarole and gibble gabble he would take him under the
t’gallant fo’castle and lam him beyond all reason, just so he wouldn’t
forget a word he told him.”
“That’s what the men said,” broke in Zack Green. “He was a ruffian to
the little fellow and a d----d coward, and meaner than the wrath of
Davy Jones. It’s all because he wasn’t signed on regular.”
Gantline was silent for a time, and then continued:
“He grew fat and strong and in a couple of months could go aloft with
the men. He feared nothing but Jensen, and the men used to call out for
fun, ‘Here comes the mate, Johnnie,’ just to hear him curse.
“Curse? Lord love ye, he could beat anything I ever heard. Why, I’ve
seen the mate go for’ard to see what the men were laughing at, when it
was just Johnnie calling Jensen names to them.”
“Shows how the coward was ruining him,” broke in the skipper.
“Well, he did have a queer way of training him,” went on Gantline. “He
would ask him questions about navigation, too, and then lam him
afterwards. One I remember.
“‘Johnnie,’ said he, ‘if this hooker should be driven clear to the Pole
and steered away nor’west, how would she steer to get back, considering
she had left something there she wanted to go back for, for instance.’
“‘Steer away nor’west, sir? Get back, sir? Why, just the opposite
direction, southeast’
“‘Now, how in the name of Davy Jones can a vessel get to the Pole
steering southeast, hey?’ he would yell. ‘What’s the matter with you?
I’ll give you till the watch is called to answer, and if you don’t, I’ll
peel you fore an’ aft.’”
“A cowardly, ignorant fool, sure enough,” said the skipper.
Gantline bit off a fresh chew of tobacco and stowed it carefully in his
cheek.
“Still,” he went on, slowly, “when the weather got cold he saw the poor
boy shivering one day, and he went aft and bought him a new set of
slops, good and warm. He must have paid half a month’s wage for them,
for the old man never gave things away off the Horn. You may say it
wasn’t much, but he did it, anyway.
“It was July when we got off the Cape. You know how it is in that month.
Cold, dark, stormy weather, with the giant nor’west sea rolling down
from the Pacific. We had been knocking about now, too, for three weeks
and were down below 61° south, so it was hard enough. The cold was
terrible. Nearly all of us were badly frozen. There wasn’t any floating
ice, but the log-line broke from the weight of ice frozen to it as it
dipped and rose with the ship.
“It was dark nearly all the time and so gloomy, even when it wasn’t
blowing hard; all hands were used up. Jensen kept Johnnie warmed up just
the same, and I guess he thought it helped him.
“One day it got still. The wind died away entirely, and the
maintop-sail--the only rag we had on her--began to jerk fore and aft,
slatting loud as the ship rolled her channels under in a great live sea
that came rolling down on us from the north’ard.
“It was so dark at six bells in the afternoon the forms of the men
loomed strange like through the gloom as they walked fore and aft in the
gangways. It was my watch on deck; but there was nothing to do, so I sat
on the step to windward on the poop and smoked to keep warm.
“The mate came on deck after a little while to take a look around, and
he called Johnnie to coil down some running rigging at the mizzen.
“‘The bloody glass has fallen an inch since eight bells,” said he,
coming to where I sat.
“‘It is sort of bad looking,’ said I, ‘and I don’t quite like the quick
run of this sea,--seems to go faster than ever, as if something was
behind it.’ And as I spoke the old hooker rammed her nose clear to her
knight-heads into a living hill. It rolled under us silently, and the
slatting of the topsail and rush of water in the channels were the only
sounds it made. The voices of the men jarred on my ears, strange like.
“All of a sudden a long, hoarse cry broke from the gloom and silence to
windward.
“‘What’s that?’ asked Johnnie, and he dropped the rope.
“‘That’s the Cape Horn devil,’ said the bos’n, grinning; ‘every time he
winks his eye he gives er yell, an’ wice wersa; see?’
“‘Cape Horn thunder,’ growled Jensen; ‘you an’ me will disagree
somewhat, Williams, if you try an’ scare the boy like that. Jump, blast
you, and lay up on that foreyard an’ see if there ain’t some serving
wanted on that weather lift. Git!’
“‘Cape Horn h----,” he went on to Johnnie. ‘That ain’t nothing but a
bleeding old penguin, and may the devil take his infernal soul.’
“Johnnie didn’t know any more than he did before he spoke, so he kept
looking out of the clew of his eye to windward while he worked. The mate
was strange and queer when he heard that cry. I don’t know what it was,
but it sounded like some one calling out of that great blackness. Jensen
went below, and when he came on deck I smelled rum on his breath.
“Soon the cry was repeated, and I must say it did have a depressing
effect.
“‘Sure sign of westerly wind,’ said Jensen, as he lit his pipe and
walked fore and aft. ‘Better make all snug for’ard there, for, by
hookey, it looks as if we were goin’ to have a fracas.’
“I went for’ard and saw all snug and then came aft again. The old man
had come on deck, and I could see on his face the glow of his pipe as he
drew it. He was standing close to the rail and looking hard to the
north’ard.
“‘I don’t believe a barometer is any good in these here latitudes,’ I
heard Jensen say to him. ‘I’ve seen the glass way below the centre of a
West India hurricane an’ no more wind than now for days on end.’
“It wasn’t five minutes afterwards that I felt a puff, and the topsail
came aback with a crack. The old man was on the break of the poop in a
second, bawling, ‘All hands wear ship; hard up the wheel!’
“The men jumped for the braces, but it was nearly ten minutes before we
got way on her. The wind came slowly. By the time she paid off it had
increased, and came harder and harder at every puff, so before we had
her braced around on the port-tack it was snorting away in true Cape
Horn style. Soon we were switching into it at a great rate, and the big
sea that took us fair on the port-bow made a nasty mess on the
main-deck, while the maintop-sail with the sheet slacked off, to spill
some of the wind out of it, bellied out like some huge monster in the
gloom overhead.
“There was nothing more to do, so when the watch was changed I turned
in, and after wedging myself into my bunk I fell asleep.
“It seemed as though I had hardly closed my eyes before there was a
sharp banging at my door. I turned out, and opening it found Johnnie
standing in the for’ard cabin with the water dripping from his shining
oil-skins and blowing his fingers to try and get them warm.
“‘Eight bells, sir,’ said he, ‘an’ the mate wants you, sir.’
“‘All right; how is it now?’ I said.
“‘Bad night, sir, and plenty of water on deck.’
“I buttoned on my sou’wester and followed Johnnie to the cabin door. It
was on the lee side, so there was no trouble getting out.
“As I stepped on deck I saw that the gale had increased in force, and
the dull booming roar overhead told that the old ship was standing up to
it manfully.
“She was plunging and switching into a giant sea, and every now and then
a huge mass of water fell on deck with a tremendous crash and roared off
to leeward through the water-ways.
“We kept clear of the main-deck and joined the rest of the watch on the
poop, where some of them had stayed to keep clear of the water.
“As my eyes were almost blinded at first from the flying drift, I
couldn’t make out anything, but soon they got accustomed to the darkness
and water, and I looked about me.
“The maintop-sail was still holding with the foot rope stretching and
bending until it was almost on the yard, but the sheet, being slacked
off, eased it, while the way the wind roared out from under the foot of
the sail told plainly of the pressure.
“To leeward, on the main-deck, the foam showed ghastly white, and it
was evident that the waist was full of ice-cold water. I soon made out
the forms of the rest of the watch huddled behind the for’ard house,
swinging their arms to keep their hands warm. The old man stood on the
break of the poop holding on to the pin-rail and beside him stood the
mate, both watching the maintop-sail as it surged and strained at the
clews.
“I saw in a moment that if the sail went there would be nothing to do
but run for it, as it was all two men at the wheel could do to hold her
up to it as it was.
“While I was looking at the sail I heard a loud crack like a gun and saw
the lee-clew part from the yard-arm. It was gone to ribbons in a second,
but the weather-clew still held.
“‘Goose-wing it!’ roared the old man, and Jensen bawled for all hands to
lay out on that yard.
“The men for’ard saw what had happened even if they didn’t hear the
mate. Just as they started aft to the main-rigging a tremendous sea
rolled right over the weather-rail. The for’ard house saved the men, but
they were up to their waists in cold water and held back.