worked the schooner away from the breakers. As there was no wind we had
to do this by means of a drag, which one man carried forward and dropped
overboard, while the rest of us tailed on to the rope which led through
a block on her quarter. By midnight we were out of all danger, and,
after putting the foresail on her, we divided into our regular watches
again.
The next morning we went to work to repair damages, and by noon we had
all the lower sails set. A light air drifted us slowly to the westward,
and before night we saw the reef for the last time.
We had nearly a hundred valuable specimens in the hold, and, considering
our bad luck, we were not entirely unsuccessful. Frisbow fretted a good
deal about his whale, but when we struck the trade-wind his spirits rose
so high at the prospect of being home again in a few weeks that even
this loss was forgotten.
The skipper and Garnett got along together splendidly, and there was
less swearing done on board during the run home than probably ever
before among five sailors afloat. The only great inconvenience was the
loss of our galley, which caused us to have to cook in the cabin and eat
with the forecastle mess things.
On the sixty-first day out we sighted the Farralone Islands, and that
night we were ashore in San Francisco.
After being ashore about a month I was astonished one day to find
Professor Frisbow’s card at my lodgings asking me to call at once on him
at the Museum. I did so and found him greatly excited. Without giving me
a chance to ask questions he immediately began to tell me about the
wreck we saw on the reef.
“She was the Spanish ship Isabella,” he said, “and I want your
confidence in the matter I’m going to arrange.”
I promised secrecy, and then he told me that upon looking up old records
he had found there was a ship by that name lost with all hands somewhere
in the Pacific, and that she was fairly loaded with silver bullion.
I did not place much faith in the matter, but told him I would try and
get a vessel to take him back there if he wanted to go.
He was much disappointed at my reception of his scheme, but he
accompanied me to Garnett’s boarding-place, where we discussed the
matter with that sailor at the risk of losing everything.
After a little talk the mate finally convinced Frisbow that the wreck
was either washed off into deep water or torn to pieces by the sea that
carried us over the reef, so that in either case it would be useless to
hunt for the treasure.
This ended the matter so far as the professor and I were concerned, but
I heard afterwards how Garnett had bribed the skipper of the next ship
he sailed on to put in there and examine the place.
No one ever knew if he found anything, for the captain and he were the
only ones who went ashore during three weeks spent there, but it was his
last voyage, for he afterwards bought a little farm up the valley and
lived quietly with a very young and pretty girl for a wife.
_THE TRANSMIGRATION OF AMOS JONES_
After supper Zack Green came on deck, and, seating himself on the bitt
coverings near the port quarter-rail, lit a villanous looking cigar and
began to smoke.
We had run into the southeast trade and were reaching along to the
southward under skysails. It was just seven bells and O’Toole, the first
mate, had half an hour more of his watch on deck. The evening was clear,
and the lumpy little trade-clouds flew merrily away to the northwest.
Not even a skysail halyard had been touched for a week, so O’Toole
lounged carelessly fore and aft on the quarter-deck, stopping at every
turn when he reached the skipper to see if he had anything to say.
In good weather Captain Green’s discipline was not too strict, and he
would often talk to the officer on watch. “I was thinking,” said he,
without taking his eyes from the horizon-line, “about this
transportation or emigration of souls you hear so much about nowadays.
You know what I mean,--one person’s soul getting the weather-gauge of
another’s; and do you know, by Gorry, I believe there’s some truth in
it”
“Sure! No fear, ’pon me whurd; I know it’s a fact,” said O’Toole.
“There’s no doubt of it.”
“I was just thinking av a case in hand, an’, ’pon me whurd, ’twas
typical av th’ machination. D’ye remember owld man Crojack? But ye must,
fer he was one av th’ owld shell-back wind-jammers av yer time, an’ a
man to decorate a quarter-deck.
“Ye remember th’ time he took Mr. Jones to Chaney? That’s th’ case in
hand. ’Twas transmigration av sowl fer sowl, sure.
“He was a contumacious rask’l, this Jones, an’ ’twas by this token I
came to like him.
“His governor offered Crojack one thousand dollars if he would take him
to sea an’ bring him back again minus th’ unaccountable thirst he had
fer iced wines an’ owld liquors. An’ th’ owld man did it.
“There was money enough in th’ Jones family. But that is where th’
trouble came in. Th’ young divil must have had nigh onto a ton av stuff
sent outside th’ bar to meet us th’ day we sailed. Bottles av all kinds
came over th’ rail whin th’ owld man lay th’ topsail to th’ mast an’
waited to see what th’ small boat ahead av us wanted. Crojack didn’t
object, fer he reckoned to lock th’ stuff in th’ lazarette an’ sell it
at a fair figure in Hong-Kong. I remember th’ outfly th’ youngster made
over th’ grub. We were living better than any ship in th’ Chaney trade,
an’ more like a man-o’-war than any trader afloat, but nothing would do
him.
“Wan morning he came to th’ owld man an’ said there was a bug in his
bunk. ‘Likely as not,’ said Crojack; ‘’pon me sowl, there’s wan in
mine.’
“If it hadn’t been fer me th’ owld man would have made out av th’ wines,
but when he had th’ stuff locked fast th’ young man came to me, so
sorrowful like, I didn’t have th’ heart to refuse him th’ loan av a
capstan-bar. Thin we went halves, an’ as fast as we’d drink th’ stuff he
would fill th’ bottles with good salt water an’ put them back again.
“‘Faith, ye have th’ makin’ av an uncommon nose on ye,’ said th’ owld
man one day to th’ young Jones. He was suspicious av th’ color. “’Tis a
good rule not to belave anything ye see an’ nothing ye hear,’ said that
Amos, cocking his eye at me. An’ th’ owld man never thought to examine
his lazarette till we made Singapore. Thin we came near having a mutiny
aboard.
“After this we grew mighty quiet, fer our grog was cut off intirely, an’
we began to nose around fer something to scratch. Jones drank all th’
Worcestershire sauce from th’ cabin mess, an’ wound up on th’ alcohol av
th’ varnish tins in th’ carpenter’s room.
“I was feeling blue, an’ by th’ time we struck into th’ hot calms av th’
Chaney Sea I was seeing queer things. Wan stifling, foggy morning I
could stand it no longer, fer I’d had a nightmare that set me shaking. I
went aft to th’ owld man an’ said, all tremblin’ like, ‘Captain, there’s
something wrong on this here ship, an’ I had a bad night last night.’
“‘Anything wrong for’ard?’ said he. ‘I thought ye were man enough to
manage a lot av fellers like these.’
“’‘Tain’t that,’ I said. ‘Nothin’ th’ matter there.’
“‘Well, what in blazes is it?’ he roared. ‘Out with it. What’s th’
matter with ye?’
“I must have looked pretty rough, fer he kept his eyes on me, staring
like, but I was a little nervous about telling my suffering. Finally I
had to let it come.
“‘It’s like this,’ said I. ‘Last night I lay out on the main-hatch
durin’ my watch below. I was draming av Billy Malone’s wake,--Bill, yer
know, that used to be mate with Cutwater,--an’ I could see it all so
plain, even Bill’s pet goat. Th’ goat had a pigtail as long as yer arrum
hanging right under his chin, an’ his eyes were bad looking. I gives th’
baste a kick, an’ Malone that’s dead sat right up an’ grinned horrible.
Thin he called fer water, an’ it seemed like th’ new taste was too much
fer him. He drank an’ drank an’ swelled an’ swelled till he got as big
as th’ mainsail, an’ all th’ time I heard th’ splash, splash, splash av
th’ liquid washing down his innerds. Thin he seemed to overshadow me an’
thin draw slowly away, beck’ning me to follow. An’ I tried to follow an’
woke up. ’Pon me whurd, fer a fact, may th’ saints belave me, there he
was drifting off th’ port beam, an’ I could hear th’ splash, splash,
splash fer a minute afterwards.’
“‘Is that all?’ said th’ owld man.
“‘No, sir; ever since we struck this calm, three days ago, I’ve been
feeling quare like, an’ I ain’t slept overmuch--an’, an’--well, if ye
have a drap av th’ craythur it would do me good.’
“‘Go for’ard an’ send th’ carpenter aft, an’ then come here.’
“So I did, an’ whin I got there th’ owld man give me an uncommon long
grog.
“‘Now,’ said he, ‘clear away th’ after battery an’ get out th’ muskets.
Ye air a fine dramist, Mr. O’Toole.’ So I lent a hand an’ got th’ two
six-pounders we carried on th’ poop clear fer firing. Thin I looks out
th’ muskets. Amos Jones came on deck an’ saw th’ manœuvres.
“‘What t’ell!’ said he. ‘Be ye going to engage in an engagement? Where’s
th’ inimy?’ For th’ wasn’t a rag above th’ sea-line.
“‘Pirits,’ said Chips, ramming a bag av powder into wan av th’ guns.
“‘Ye don’t tell!’ said Amos.
“‘Fact,’ said Chips; ‘an’ now if you’ll pass me a ball I’ll finish this
roarer.’
“But there wasn’t wan aboard. No, sir; powder there was in plenty, but
divil a ball aboard th’ ship.
“Th’ owld man swore, an’ we hunted all tween-decks, but ’t wasn’t any
use, so we dealt out th’ muskets an’ waited for night.
“Pretty soon Amos Jones came on deck again.
“‘I have it,’ said he. ‘Here’s th’ thing,’ an’ he held up a bottle
filled full av bullets an’ nails. ‘Stave me, but this is good
ammunition; ’twill fit to a T.’ An’ sure enough it did. It fitted th’
bore av th’ little guns exactly. A most uncommon bad thing to have hove
at ye close up.
“Th’ fog held an’ at night it was blacker than th’ inside av th’ galley
stove-pipe. We had begun to laugh at th’ skipper, but he said nothing,
except that we’d see something before morning or else he’d put me in
irons fer the biggest liar afloat. I was tired that night, but I kept
awake an’ was leaning on th’ port rail about midnight. Suddenly I heard
a rippling in th’ calm ocean off th’ port beam. I passed th’ whurd an’
we lay waiting, Amos standing at th’ lanyard av th’ port gun.
“All av a suddin we saw thim. Two junks right alongside jammed to th’
rail with pigtails.
“‘Turn her loose!’ bawled th’ owld man, an’ Amos let her go slap into
thim. That bottle burst close aboard, fer ye never heard sich yelling.
Thin they ranged alongside an’ was fast to us, an’ they swarmed over th’
rail like so many rats.
“Well, there was bloody murder aboard us fer half an hour. ’Twas a nasty
fight an’ things looked bad at wan time. But Amos trained a culverin
down th’ main-deck an’ gave thim ground glass, bullets, an’ lug-bolts to
th’ quane’s taste.
“Thin we cleared up th’ mess an’ they let go. But Amos had got it bad.
“A big pigtail had hit him a chip in th’ thick av his leg, an’ he was
bleeding fer further orders.
“There we were, two days’ sail from Hong-Kong, an’ no doctur aboard.
“We tied him up th’ best we could an’ drew th’ hooker with th’
quarter-boats ranged ahead. Finally th’ air come an’ we went along.
“Whin we made th’ harbor we had th’ doctur, an’ he said,--
“‘Lost too much blood.’
“‘Well,’ says Crojack, ‘there’s plenty av it in Chaney.’
“‘Fact,’ said th’ doctur, an’ he brought th’ first loafer he found
aboard.
“‘Now,’ says he, ‘I’ll have sum av yer juice, me boy, an’ pay ye tin
dollars fer it.’
“Th’ Chaneyman was scared at first, but th’ doctur said he would have
him skinned alive if he wouldn’t trade, so he finally did.
“He guv him some spirits an’ hitched th’ yeller boy’s artery to Amos
Jones’s. Thin th’ natur av th’ proceedings did th’ rest.
“We shut off grog on th’ voyage home an’ Amos acted like he was trying
to become a dacent member av his father’s church. Whin he landed an’
said good-by, Crojack was making his reckoning fer that thousand
dollars.
“He went to th’ office wan day an’ there he met Amos Jones senior, an’
he reminded th’ gent av his debt. ‘What?’ bawled Jones. ‘Cured him, do
ye say? Well, he was bad enough before, drinking like a gentleman, but
ye’ve ruined him intirely. Here he is getting biled rice cooked fer
every meal an’ getting drunk on Chaney saki every night. No, sir, not a
cent from me, sir.’ An’ they say he cried like th’ good owld father he
was.”
O’Toole stopped here and went to the break of the poop. When he
returned, Zack Green was thinking. “It may be so,” said the skipper;
“but did you ever hear what become of the Chinaman?”
“That I did,” said O’Toole.
“What?” asked Zack Green.
“Well, Amos Jones was a frind av mine, so, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll not
say. ’Pon me whurd, I won’t.”
_MURPHY OF THE CONEMAUGH_
All deep-water ships carry mascots. As the mascot must be some kind of
living creature, a cat will often supply the necessary medium for
carrying on pleasant intercourse with the fickle goddess of fortune. But
men on deep-water ships must be fed, especially those who live in the
after-cabin or who help to form what is called the after-guard.
Therefore it is not an uncommon sight to see a ship’s deck looking like
a small farmyard afloat.
The clipper ship Conemaugh was noted for her long voyages. She was a
product of the old school of wind-jammers and her skipper was a Yankee
of Calvinistic views, who
“Proved his religion orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks.”
He met little Murphy, the ship’s pig, the morning the youngster was
brought aboard. The little fellow was in the arms of his sponsor, James
Murphy, able seaman, and the way he kicked and squealed made the black
moke of a cook poke his head out of the galley door and grin.
“Take good care of that fellow,” said the skipper. “Them white hogs air
wuth two black ones on the West Coast, so if we don’t have to eat him I
kin swap him off easy enough.”
So Murphy was put in a pen under the top-gallant-forecastle, and Jim was
detailed to scrub him and otherwise attend to his wants. With all this
care it would seem that he could hardly help becoming a good pig. But he
was like many youngsters who have the best of care lavished upon them;
that is, he was thrown with mixed company. It is very hard, however, to
separate the sheep from the goats, and as luck would have it Murphy’s
lot was thrown with Jim, the sailor who had the worst reputation among
the mates of any man aboard the ship.
The day the vessel put to sea the skipper mustered the men according to
his custom, and made them an address.
“The master,” said he, “air greater than the servant, and the servant
ain’t above the master.” Here he looked straight at Jim. “So saith the
holy gospel,--an’ whatsoever saith the gospel is er fact,--an’ is truth.
If it ain’t, I’ll make it so if I have to take the hide off every
burgoo-eating son of a sea-cook aboard the ship.”
There were many men aboard there who had heard little of the Scriptures,
but even if they had heard much they would doubtless not have cared to
discuss them or any other matter with the skipper. His voice rose to the
deep, roaring tone of the hurricane on all occasions, and when it failed
to convince the listener of the owner’s logic, a sudden clap from his
heavy hand generally ended verbal matters about as effectively as a
stroke of lightning. Most of the men on board were used to kicks and
curses, for the skipper reckoned he could handle any class of men that
ever trod a deck. He had a fair sprinkling of all on this cruise. As the
mates followed the skipper’s example in matters of discipline, the ship
was as near to being a floating hell as anything above water could be.
Jim Murphy resented even the curses of the captain and mates, so he was
rated among the after-guard as the worst man on board. His friendship
for the pig was against him in the forecastle, and soon even the men of
the starboard watch began to hold off from him.
“What d’ye want to fool with that porker fer? Yell never get er taste of
him, hide or hair,” growled old Dan.
“He ain’t the only pig aboard this here ship,” answered Jim, “an’ I like
him better than most.”
“Kind goes with kind,” observed the second mate, whenever he saw them
together.
Remarks like this made by the second officer caused great amusement to
the men of the starboard watch. But those who applauded the most were
old Dan and his chum Bull Davis. These two worthies gave Mr. Tautline to
understand that he was the wittiest second mate afloat, in the hope that
he would “pet” them. When they found this was useless, the united curses
of the whole crew were weak in expression as compared to the audible
reflections of this worthy pair.
When the ship reached the latitude of the River Plate, old Dan came out
openly for mutiny. He told with grim coolness and great detail of how
he had taken part in an affair of this kind before. How he had crawled
along the projecting sheer-strake outside the bulwarks towards the
quarter-deck, while a companion had done likewise on the side opposite.
How they had made the sudden rush aft and had engaged with their
sheath-knives against the revolvers of the after-guard. A little more
nerve in a few men who hung back and the ship would have been taken.
He had served part of a ten-years’ sentence for this, had escaped, and
had been continuously afloat ever since.
Bull Davis was an escaped convict from Australia, and he seconded the
old villain’s project in every detail.
One day, off the Horn, Dan was careless in modulating his voice when the
second mate gave an order. The next instant he was sprawling in the
lee-scuppers and the second mate was addressing him coolly.
“Don’t make no remarks about the weather in my watch. It’s a square
wind, so up you go on that yard now a little quicker’n greased
lightning.”
The devil was peeping from the old villain’s eyes as he gained the
ratlines, but he said nothing.
When the ship ran into the southeast trade-wind, Murphy, the pig, was
turned out on the deck to root at the seams. He would start down the
gangways suddenly, without apparent reason, and go rushing along the
water-ways at full speed, punctuating his squeals with deep “houghs”
that would have done credit to a bear. On these occasions Jim, the
sailor, was perfectly happy. He would call the little fellow to him and
the pig would follow him like a dog.
“He is a cute little baste, an’ he makes me homesick,” Jim would say,
and the mates and men would rail and curse at him for it. The only
living thing on board the ship that was in sympathy with them was the
blasphemous green parrot belonging to the carpenter. This bird would
pray and curse in the same breath, and whenever Jim came near the galley
would call out “pig,” “pig,” in a high key. Then it would curse him and
pray for his soul.
One night Jim noticed that old Dan sat up late, sharpening his knife on
a piece of holy-stone. Just before his watch turned out at midnight he
awoke, and found that neither Dan nor Bull Davis were in the forecastle.
He went on deck and walked aft, waiting for the bells to strike.
In a moment Davis appeared, coming out of the cabin with Mr. Tautline.
“There’s something wrong with the port backstay in the fore-riggin’,”
said the sailor to the mate.
“What’s that?” asked Tautline.
“The lug-bolt in the lee fore-riggin’ is busted. You had better take a
look at it afore away goes the backstay,” said Davis.
“All right. Wait here till I get a pipe o’ tobacco, and we’ll look at
it.”
Jim hurried forward. He looked over the rail and peered into the
blackness alongside. The phosphorus flared in a ghostly manner as the
water rolled lazily from the vessel’s side, but everything appeared all
right.
Suddenly a gleaming bit of something shot upward. He started back
quickly, and a hand holding a knife struck savagely at his chest. The
blade ripped his shirt from neck to waist, but did not wound him. The
next instant old Dan arose from the channels and climbed over the rail
to the deck.
“The wrong man, ye murtherin’ villain,” growled Jim.
“So it was, messmate,” said Dan, coolly.
“What’s the row?” asked Tautline, coming up to where the men stood. He
saw something was wrong, but had not seen Dan come over the side.
“That busted dead-eye,” answered Dan. “I was just lookin’ at it.”
“Well, get out before I put a couple of dead-eyes in your ugly
figgerhead. Slant away!” And Dan slunk around the corner of the
deck-house.
As the good weather held, the galley cat came out of hiding and sunned
herself in the lee of the galley during the warm part of the day.
Jim saw her and tried to make friends.
“Keetie, keetie,--nice leetle keetie,” said he, trying to stroke the
brute on the head. But long confinement had told on Maria’s liver, and
she reached out and drew several long, bloody lines on the sailor’s
hand.
“Ye infernal shnake!” cried Jim; and he aimed a blow at the animal that
would have knocked it clear across the equator had it not jumped nimbly
to one side. His hand brought up against the galley with a loud bang.
“Let that cat alone. What d’ ye mean by trying to spoil a dumb brute’s
temper?” roared the voice of Tautline, and his form came lurching down
the weather gangway.
“Don’t strike me!” cried Jim, as they closed.
The belaying-pin in Tautline’s hand came down with a sickening crack on
the sailor’s skull.
“Stop!” he cried again.
But Tautline was carried away by his passion and they went to the deck
together.
It was all over in a moment. Tautline lay gasping in a red pool and Jim
sat up, sheath-knife in hand, staring about him in a dazed manner. Then
the captain and mate rushed up.
“Handcuff him! Put him in double irons!” cried the skipper, stretching
Jim with a heavy blow.
The next day little Murphy ran up and down the deck. The ports over the
water-ways had been knocked out as the ship was very deep; they had not
been nailed in again. Murphy came to where Jim was lying in irons under
the top-gallant-forecastle. He sniffed his bloody clothes and ran away
with a squeal. The sailor called after him, but he did not stop until he
reached the open port in the waist. Then he sniffed at the ominous stain
on the bright deck planks and poked his head through the open port.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!” screamed the parrot in the galley.
Murphy started, slipped, and was gone. The cook rushed to the side,
bawling out something that sounded like “man overboard,” and the noise
brought the starboard watch on deck with a rush.
“That bloomin’ old pig,” growled Dan, looking over the rail.
There he was, sure enough, swimming wildly and striking himself under
the jowl with every stroke.
The captain watched his pig drifting slowly astern for a moment. Then he
turned to the mate. “All hands wear ship!” he bawled, and the men rushed
to the braces.
“Mr. Enlis,” said the skipper, “you go aloft and keep the critter in
sight. Take my glass with you.”
The ship was heavy, so before she could be wore around the little pig
was lost in the blue waste of sparkling waters.
The mate came down from the ratlines with the glass and a smile which
peculiarly emphasized the singleness of a solitary tooth. He did not
like pork.
The skipper walked the quarter-deck and mused with his chin in his hand.
“That’s too bad. Too bad. Too bad,” said he. “I paid two dollars for
that pig.” And his voice was as mournful as the sound of the sea washing
through the ribs of a lost ship.
“Poor little pig,” muttered Jim, and he tried to look astern from his
place under the top-gallant-forecastle. “Poor little pig!” And the
tears ran down his dirty, sun-bronzed face.
“Wonder!” cried Dan, coming forward; “there’s a murderer for you. Crying
over an old pig he won’t get a taste of, hide nor hair.”
“It’s all that young devil’s fault,” mused the skipper. “The master is
above the servant an’ the servant ain’t the master’s equal. So says the
Holy Scriptures. When a man takes up with them what is below him, he is
gone wrong. That’s Jim with the pig. Yes, sir, the Scriptures say them
very words somewhere,--I can’t call to mind exactly where,--but they are
so. If they ain’t I’ll make them so, and I’ll hang that Irish dog when I
get him to ’Frisco.” And he did.
_MY PIRATE_
We were sitting in old Professor Frisbow’s room in the West Coast
Museum, and our host had been listening to accounts of wonderful
adventures on deep-water. Each had spoken, and it was Frisbow’s turn. We
settled ourselves comfortably, and he began:
“Few people remember the old town of St. Augustine as it was before the
war, with its old coquina houses and flat, unpaved streets, that
abounded with sand-fleas in dry weather and turned into swamps of mud
and sand when it rained. Those who can look so far back through life’s
vista will remember its peculiar inhabitants.