attention to several large “alberco” which had followed the ship until
she lay becalmed, and then plunged and jumped like so many porpoises in
the wake. We drifted slowly all the morning, and about noon the
sea-breeze set in from the southward and sent us along at a comfortable
rate. Nothing occurred to make it necessary for a man to go aloft in the
foretop, and those who had gone up the main and mizzen in the early
morning had noticed nothing unusual. The platform in the top was as
large as that in a full-rigged ship, so the men who were hiding were not
visible from the deck as long as they lay flat on their backs or faces.
Gantline had decided to tell the skipper the whole affair of the night
before, but the old man was in such a bad humor that the mate delayed
telling him until the prospect of a serious burst of anger was less
apparent.
The day wore on and the bark held steadily on to the westward, making
from eight to ten knots an hour. After supper the skipper came on deck
with his passengers and they were soon joined by Miss Green. They sat
aft around the taffrail and chatted, the men smoking and very much at
their ease.
Miss Green was of an extremely religious disposition, but it was easy to
see that it was not entirely the devoutness of the younger passenger
that attracted her to him. There was a mysterious power about the man
that was apparent to any one after being an hour in his company.
Something in his deep, vibrating voice, when he was talking, appeared
to hold the attention, and I, more than once, looked at him as he sat
next to the skipper’s daughter, holding forth on matters of the church.
Zachary Green was still in a bad humor because of his low freight money,
and it was evident that he would ease his pent-up feelings on some one.
He had listened to the talk of the missionaries with ill-concealed
contempt, whenever they fell to discussing their ecclesiastical affairs,
and now he asked the younger abruptly when he was to return.
“Ah,” replied he, “I shall return as soon as possible, for my flock will
get along poorly without me. I have converted many chiefs, who wrangle
among themselves, as has also my friend here.”
The skipper turned with a look of disdain at the big-bearded man who
appeared to understand the implied interrogation and hastened to answer.
“It is true, I have converted many to the Christian faith,” he said, in
a low voice, “but I shall not return to the islands of the Pacific, for
I think there is a better field nearer home. Not that I believe my
labors wasted, for the converted natives never stole anything but
ammunition and utensils, while the others stole everything from me they
could lay hand to. Not that the effort was entirely vain, I say, but
that better work can be done among our own people, such as sailors, for
instance.”
“Eh! What’s that?” growled Zachary Green, as he listened to the last
part of this sentence. “What do you mean by sailors?” and his eyes
flashed ominously.
“Why, go among them, and see that they get the proper books in the
libraries sent out on vessels for them to read, for instance.”
“Now, by Gorry! you are talking some sense. Instead of whining around
among a lot of good-for-nothing niggers, like your friend here, you’ll
really do something if you follow that up. Yes, sir, if you’ll only put
something in these libraries besides ‘Two Years before the Mast,’ Bible
dictionaries, and the like, and get some police reports nicely bound,
along with some yarns like ‘Davy Crockett,’ you’ll be a blessing to
sailors, and skippers, too, for that matter. No, sir, don’t play fool
with those islanders any further. They were all right before they ever
saw a Christian, and they’ve been all wrong ever since. Hang it, you
talk like a man of sense, after all, and I hope what I’ve said won’t be
lost on you.” And as he finished his peroration he stood up and looked
astern.
“Hello!”
Before the astonished missionaries could say a word the skipper started
for his glasses, and, seizing them, he looked steadily at a faint trail
of smoke which rose above the horizon directly in the vessel’s wake.
“Now, by Gorry! That’s strange,” he muttered. “There’s no steamer bound
out to-day, and yet that fellow seems to be standing right after us.”
“Mr. Gantline!” he called, as he turned towards where the mate stood.
“Go aloft with the glass and see if you can make out that fellow astern
of us.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Gantline. And he took the skipper’s glass and
made his way leisurely up the main-ratlines.
From the lower top he could see nothing but a black funnel and masts
without yards, so he went higher. On reaching the cross-trees he looked
forward, and there, lying prone on their stomachs, were the two hiding
men. Their eyes were straining at the vessel astern, and even if
Gantline had not already made out who she was, one look at those faces
would have told him. He came on deck and returned the skipper’s glasses
without a word, and then started forward, but Zachary Green stopped him.
“Could you make her out?” he asked.
“Well, there isn’t much of her rising yet, but I suppose she’s the
Blanco Encalada,” he answered.
“Seems to me it is hardly time for her to put to sea,” growled the
skipper, “and she’s heading almost the same course as we are. It is
generally the way with you, though, after you get ashore on the beach,
and it will take a week to soak the liquor out of you so you can see
enough to know a downhaul from a clew-line.” And the old man turned back
to his passengers.
Before two bells in the first watch that evening it was blowing half a
gale to the southward out of a clear sky, and the old bark flew along on
her course with everything drawing below and aloft.
There was no sea running, so she heaved over and drove along at a rate
that bade fair to keep the Blanco below the horizon for several hours.
As it grew late the air became quite chilly, and the skipper went below
with his passengers.
The moon rose and shone with great brilliancy, so that our towering
main-skysail must have been visible a long distance, while the foam
flaked and surged from the vessel’s black hull as white as a mass of
liquid silver. All night we drove along with nothing visible astern, and
at daylight the hull of the steamer was still below the horizon. At
seven bells Zachary Green came on deck.
“Name o’ thunder! What’s he after?” he growled, as he gazed astern. “By
Gorry! It is the Blanco, after all, Gantline; but what makes him hold on
like this? We are going to the westward of Juan Fernandez, and that is
more than a hundred miles out of his course.”
The mate made no answer, but went on with his work overseeing the
washing down of the quarter-deck. “It’s just like those Dagoes to go
running all over the Southern Ocean for no other purpose than to wear
out their gear and burn coal,” continued the skipper. “If this wind
keeps slacking up, he ought to be abreast of us before noon, though I
never knew this old hooker to send the suds behind her at the rate she’s
been doing all night. Breakfast! did you say? Well, steward, just give
those sky-pilots a chance to shake off the odor of sanctity they’ve
slept in and put on their natural one of hypocrisy and gin-and-bitters.
Pshaw! there’s lots lazier men than missionaries in the world, though I
can’t call to mind exactly where I’ve seen them. Mr. Gantline, you may
let her head a point more to the north’ard.” Saying this, the skipper
took a last look at the approaching steamer and then disappeared down
the companion-way.
Although the vessel still raced along at a rate that sent the foam
flying from her sharp clipper bows, she was no longer doing her utmost,
and the Blanco rose rapidly in her wake with the black smoke pouring
from her funnel.
Suddenly, while Gantline was watching her, she appeared to be enveloped
in a white cloud of steam. Then there was a sharp, shrieking rush as
something tore its way through the air close to the
main-top-gallant-yard, and struck the smooth sea almost half a mile
ahead, followed by the sullen boom of a heavy rifled gun.
The rush of the shot brought Captain Green on deck, closely followed by
his passengers.
“Gorry! what’s the matter?” he bawled, as he rushed to the taffrail,
while the younger passenger, who had followed close at his heels, smiled
grimly.
The Blanco came driving heavily along a couple of miles astern. She was
rapidly drawing up.
“Wants us to heave to, I suppose,” growled Gantline, and he eyed the
skipper suspiciously.
“Man alive!” roared Green, “why in the name of thunder don’t you do it,
then, before he cuts the spars out of us? Fore-and main-royals, there,
quick! Let go by the run. Main-clew-garnets--all hands!” And the skipper
bounded onto the poop and cast off everything he could lay hands on.
The bark was soon luffed and her main-yards backed. Then the Blanco came
abreast, and all hands had a chance to look into the muzzles of her
ten-inch rifles, which were trained towards us. A swarm of men crowded
the deck of the ironclad while a boat shot out from her side and
approached us rapidly, with a short, thick-set man in uniform sitting in
the stern-sheets.
Zachary Green stood at the break of the poop, scowling at him as he
swung himself lightly into the mizzen-channels and leaped onto the
quarter-deck, followed by six men. Hardly had he done so when the
younger of our two passengers drew a heavy revolver from somewhere about
his back and fired point-blank at this officer.
The Chilian was in the act of drawing his sword and the hilt was across
his breast at that instant. The bullet intended for him struck the hilt
and flattened on the brass. The next instant there was a rapid
fusillade, the six Chilians firing together, and the passenger with a
six-shooting revolver in each hand, backing away behind a cloud of
smoke.
It was all over in half a minute. Three of the blue-jackets were dead
and their officer badly hurt when the firing ceased. The passenger
tossed his empty pistols over the side and staggered aft, and not one of
the survivors dared follow him. He gained the after companion-way, and
as he did so the figure of the captain’s daughter appeared on deck. I
could see her face pale as she caught the look in the passenger’s eyes,
but she said no word. He went to her, kissed her lightly, and passed on
to the starboard taffrail. The Chilians now recovered themselves and
rushed for him. He climbed over with difficulty, but did not hesitate.
Then he plunged headlong into the sea before any one could seize him;
and as we rushed to the side we could see his body sink slowly down into
the green depths until it finally vanished.
The skipper, Gantline, and the big missionary stood looking on in
amazement, and then the wounded officer turned towards them.
“That was Señor José Huaticara; of course you did not know.” And he
nodded to the skipper. Then the dead were placed in the boat, while a
tourniquet was passed around the officer’s leg to stop the flow of blood
until he could reach his ship. In a few moments he and his men were on
their way back to the Blanco.
Zachary Green stood staring after them without a word. The name of the
dead desperado was too well known to him to protest against the manner
he was treated while on an American ship, but he desired some
explanation.
The Blanco dipped her colors, and he came to his senses. “Hard up the
wheel, there!” he bawled. “Stand by the lee-brace!” and the bark paid
off again on her course.
The ironclad headed away to the northward and in a few minutes was a
couple of miles away on the starboard quarter.
“I met him only a week ago,” explained the big missionary, in answer to
the skipper’s look, “and I thought, of course, he was what he claimed to
be.”
Zachary Green give a grunt of disgust and went aft.
“Mr. Gantline,” said he, as he met the mate, “are there any more
missionaries aboard this ship, for if there are we will put them ashore
on Mas-á-Fuera.”
“There are two more,” answered Gantline, looking the skipper in the
eyes.
“Show them to me,” said the skipper.
Gantline went forward and looked aloft.
“Come down from there!” he bawled, and two lean figures stood in the
foretop and then painfully descended the ratlines before the astonished
gaze of the crew.
When they gained the deck they followed the mate aft to Zachary Green,
who stared at them in amazement.
“We are off soundings and that fellow has no right to board me,” he
said, “but if you belong to that José gang, I’ll signal for him to come
back for you.”
“Faith, an’ if we did, Captain Green, it isn’t such a crowd av
cutthroats as ye seem to belave,” said McManus. “The fact is we’re just
broke away from bein’ shot fer no more than th’ carryin’ av a few
Remingtons. I see ye remember me, so for th’ sake av auld times ye
better give us a passage to th’ States an’ not make Crusoes av us on
the Fernandez.”
Zachary Green looked at Gantline.
“It’s the truth,” said the mate.
“Truth be hanged! Who says it’s the truth? I’ll----”
At that moment a slight figure appeared at the companion-way, and the
next instant Miss Green seized her father’s arm. He turned roughly, but
there was something in the poor girl’s face that made him look to her.
She led him below, and the escaped men stood staring after her.
“You fellows can turn to with the men forward,” said Gantline. And they
went.
A little later Zachary Green came on deck again and stood looking
silently over the bright Pacific. He stood there by the taffrail looking
long at the eastern horizon. No one approached or spoke to him, for all
knew Captain Green when his mind was full of unpleasant memories.
_A BLUNDER_
About three o’clock in the morning Garnett slid back the hatch-slide and
bawled, “Cape Horn, sir!”
Captain Green was asleep, but the news brought him to his feet in an
instant, and stopping just long enough to complete his toilet, which
consisted of gulping down four fingers of stiff grog, he sprang up the
companion-way and was on deck.
It was broad daylight, although the wind had shifted to the northward
and brought with it a thick haze which partly obscured the light of the
rising sun. Some miles away on the weather-beam rose a rocky hump,
showing dimly through the mist; but its peculiar shape, not unlike that
of a camel lying down with its head to the westward, told plainly that
it was the dreaded Cape. Beyond it lay Tierra del Fuego, now almost
invisible, and past it swept the high-rolling seas of the Antarctic
Drift.
Captain Green stood blinking and winking in the crisp air of the early
morning as Garnett walked up. It was January and daylight twenty hours
out of twenty-four, but it was cold and the morning watch was a
cheerless one. The old mate came up and pointed to the northward.
“It’s the Cape, I make it, though it don’t show up mighty high. We’ve
been holding on like this most of my watch, but it’s been getting a
dirty look to the west’ard,” and as he spoke he leaned over the
weather-rail and spat into the foam, which drifted past at the rate of
six knots an hour.
“It’s the Cape, right enough,” said Zack Green; “and if we can hold on a
few hours longer we ought to weather the Ramirez and get clear. How’s
she heading now?”
“Sou’west b’ sought,” answered the man at the wheel.
“Well,” said Green, “there’s almost four points easterly variation here,
so that brings her head a little to the s’uth’ard of west b’ south. Let
her go up all she will, Mr. Garnett, and call me when we make the
Ramirez. I don’t believe much in that drift; it’s all in that big
easterly variation. Watch the maint’gallant-sail if it begins to come
down sharp from the north’ard,” and as he finished speaking the skipper
disappeared down the companion-way.
Garnett sniffed the air hungrily as the odor of stiff grog disappeared
also.
“’Tis a pius drink, s’help me, ’tis a pius drink,” he muttered. “Yes, a
truly moral beverage, as they would say in the islands; but there’s no
use thinking a dog of a mate will get any pleasure in these days of
thieving ship-masters.” He walked fore and aft in no pleasant frame of
mind, glancing at each turn at the distant loom of the land on the
weather-beam.
“How d’ye head?” he bawled to the man at the wheel, in total disregard
for the skipper and sleeping passengers.
“Sought b’ west a quarter west, sir,” answered the helmsman.
“Well, what in the name of the great eternal Davy Jones are you running
the ship off like that for?”
“She’s touchin’ now, sir, an’ goin’ off all the time.”
“Going to----” but before he could finish the maintop-gallant-sail came
aback against the mast.
“For’ard there! clew down the maint’gallant-sail!” he roared, ad he
looked sharply to windward, where the giant Cape Horn sea came rolling
down through the deepening haze.
“Maint’gallant-sail!” echoed the cry forward, as the men sang out and
jumped for the halyards, while some of the watch sprang into the
ratlines and made their way aloft.
“Come, bear a hand there! Get that sail rolled up and lay aft to the
mizzen-top-sail.”
The vessel was driving along at a comfortable rate in spite of the heavy
sea, and it looked as though she might give the grim Cape the slip and
go scudding away on the other side of the world. A few hours running to
the westward with the wind holding and she would go clear. But the giant
sea began rolling down from the northwest, growing heavier, so by the
time the maintop-gallant-sail was rolled up and eight bells struck it
had the true Cape Horn heave to it.
Mr. Gantline came on deck to relieve the mate, and he soon had the ship
dressed down to her lower topsails. It was not blowing more than an
ordinary gale, but the tremendous sea made it dangerous to force the
vessel ahead, so she drifted and sagged off to leeward. The “sea-calmer”
was rigged forward, and soon the water to windward had an oily look,
while the wind, catching up the tops of the combers, hurled a spray down
upon the ship that made shroud and backstay, downhaul, and clew-line
smell strong of fish-oil, as they cut the wind like bow-strings and
hummed in unison until the volume of sound swelled into a deep booming
roar.
“Let her come up all she will!” bawled Garnett into Gantline’s ear, as
he started to go below. “If she sags off any more you better call the
old man, for it looks bad. By the way, Gantline, where’s that bottle of
alcohol the old man gave you for varnishing the wheel? I’ve got one of
his porous plasters on my chest, and the blooming thing has glued itself
to every hair on my body, and I can’t get it adrift.”
“It’s in the right-hand corner of the boson’s locker,” said the mate,
with a grin. “But go easy, Garnett. The old man put a spoonful of
tartar-emetic into the stuff, ‘for,’ says he, ‘tartar-emetic makes the
varnish have a more enduring effect against the weather.’”
“Sink him for a scoundrel!” growled Garnett, his little eyes flashing
and beard bristling with rage. “It’s always something he’s doing to make
bad feeling aboard ship. Why should he suspect a man of drinking raw
spirit, hey?”
“Why, indeed,” said Gantline.
And Garnett went below muttering a string of fierce oaths.
At six o’clock the gale had increased, and the noise of the bawling men
struggling with the fore-and mizzentop-sails awakened the skipper, who,
fearing all was not well, hastily made his toilet again and appeared at
the head of the companion-way.
“How is it now?” he asked of Gantline, who stood near the wheel.
“Gone off two points, and there’s an almighty sea running. I’m
shortening her down fast. Whew!”
As he spoke a great hill of water full forty feet high rolled down on
the weather-beam. The ship headed it a couple of points and sank slowly
into the slanting trough. Then she began to rise to it. The combing
crest struck her forward of the main-rigging, and with a roar like
Niagara crashed over the top-gallant-rail. It hove her down on her
bearings and filled the main-deck waist-deep, while the shock made the
skipper and Gantline clutch for support. The next instant Green sprang
on to the poop.
“All hands there!” he bawled. “Get that fore-top-sail on the yard!”
Garnett came struggling on deck, muttering something about being afloat
in a diving-bell, and was almost washed off his feet by the roaring
flood in the waist. In a few moments he was on the foreyard bellowing
out orders to the men stowing the topsail.
The uproar and cries of the men startled the two passengers, Dr. Davis
and his wife, who had undertaken the passage at a physician’s advice.
The physician, knowing nothing at all about the sea, had unhesitatingly
recommended a sea-voyage for the Reverend Dr. Davis as a certain cure
for the nervous ailment from which that gentleman suffered. The strain
at being face to face with death so often was doing wonders for the
minister, and he in turn was doing what he could for the crew. All
except Mr. Garnett had profited much by his presence on board, but the
mate stubbornly held out against any form of religion.
“Keep the main on her as long as it will hold!” bawled Green. “It looks
as if we will catch it sure.” Then, catching a glimpse of Dr. Davis’s
face at the companion-way, he added, “I’ll be hanged if I ever overload
a ship again and run such risk.”
The minister stepped out on deck.
“Good-morning, doctor; we are having a touch of the Cape this morning,”
cried the skipper.
“So it seems; is the Cape in sight?”
“No; but I guess you’ll see it again before we get clear.”
“Mr. Garnett said he thought we would make some northing to-day. He does
not believe in so much easterly variation, but says it is the drift that
makes it appear so. It seems to me an easy thing to decide.”
“Garnett be hanged!” snorted Green in disgust “He will get into trouble
some day with his fool’s ideas. Hello! there goes the steward with the
hash,” and the skipper dived below, where he was followed by his
passenger.
Garnett appeared at the table, but Mrs. Davis kept her bunk, as the
plunging ship made it difficult to eat with comfort. No one spoke during
the meal, as the crashing noise from the straining bulkheads drowned all
sounds save the roar of the elements on deck.
Garnett stopped in the alley-way to light his pipe and get a few whiffs
before relieving Gantline. Then he made his way to the poop and stood
close to the mizzen, trying to get shelter from the wind and spray,
while Gantline went below.
Dr. Davis came on deck and found the second officer trying to smoke, so
he joined him.
“It’s harder to be mate with a man like Green than anything I’ve
tackled,” said he. “I’ve been to a few places and seen a few men in my
day, but most of them would reason things out. There’s no reason in
him.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Dr. Davis.
“It’s all about variation now. He’s always trying to work off
new-fangled notions on me. When I first began coming around this way the
drift was good enough to figure by.”
“But hasn’t it been proved?”
“Proved nothing. How’s a man going to prove he’s steering north when
he’s heading nor’west in a three-knot drift with nothing to get a
bearing on? I’ll allow there’s some variation in a compass, but nothing
like that. Besides, he does other unreasonable things. There’s no reason
in him.”
“Well, I suppose it is hard to get along with unreasonable people,” said
the minister; “but there are some things we know are true without being
able to reason about them. For instance----”
“No, sir,” interrupted Garnett. “There ain’t anything we know about
anything unless we can reason it out. You have your ideas and I have
mine; that’s all there is to it.”
“Fore-staysail!” bawled the skipper from the wheel, and that piece of
canvas was run up, quickly followed by the trysail on the spanker-boom.
Dr. Davis, left alone, started aft. He went safely along until he
reached the middle of the poop, when a heavy sea struck the vessel and
made her heel quickly to leeward. The minister tried to seize the rail,
but missed it, and the next instant fell headlong into the seething
water alongside.
Garnett was not ten feet distant working at the trysail, and without a
moment’s hesitation he seized a downhaul and plunged overboard with the
line about him.
The passenger arose with a look of peaceful resignation on his face
which contrasted strongly with the old mate’s fierce expression of
determination. As the vessel was making no headway against the sea it
was less difficult than it appeared to seize the drowning man and give
the signal to haul away.
In another minute Garnett was on deck again with Dr. Davis, neither of
them much the worse for their bath. The cold, however, made it
necessary for them to change their clothes.