Perhaps no mutineer in the history of the world ever succeeded, as did
Dyck Calhoun, in holding control over fellow-mutineers on the journey
from the English Channel to the Caribbean Sea. As a boy, Dyck had been
an expert sailor, had studied the machinery of a man-of-war, and his
love of the sea was innate and deep-seated; but his present success
was based upon more than experience. Quite apart from the honour of his
nature, prison had deepened in him the hatred of injustice. In soul he
was bitter; in body he was healthy, powerful, and sane.
Slowly, sternly, yet tactfully, he had broken down the many customs
of ship life injurious to the welfare of the men. Under his system the
sailors had good coffee for breakfast, instead of a horrible mixture
made of burnt biscuits cooked in foul water. He gave the men pea-soup
and rice instead of burgoo and the wretched oatmeal mess which was the
staple thing for breakfast. He saw to it that the meat was no longer a
hateful, repulsive mass, two-thirds bone and gristle, and before it
came into the cook’s hands capable of being polished like mahogany. He
threatened the cook with punishment if he found the meals ill-cooked.
In all the journey to the West Indian seas there had been only three
formal floggings. His attitude was not that of the commander who
declared:
“I will see the man’s backbone, by God!”
He wished to secure discipline without cruelty. His greatest difficulty,
at the start, was in making lieutenants. That he overcame by appointing
senior midshipmen before the Ariadne was out of the Channel. He offered
a lieutenancy to Ferens, who had the courage to decline it.
“Make me purser,” remarked Ferens. “Make me purser, and I’ll do the job
justly.”
As the purser of the Ariadne had been sent to the sick-bay and was
likely to die (and did die subsequently), Ferens was put into his
uniform-three-cornered cocked hat, white knee-breeches, and white
stockings. The purser of a man-of-war was generally a friend of the
captain, going with him from ship to ship.
Of the common sailors, on the whole, Dyck had little doubt. He had
informed them that, whatever happened, they should not be in danger;
that the ship should not join the West Indian fleet unless every man
except himself received amnesty. If the amnesty was not granted, then
one of two things should happen--the ship must make for a South American
port, or she must fight. Fighting would not frighten these men.
It was rather among the midshipmen that Dyck looked for trouble.
Sometimes, with only two years’ training at Gosport, a youngster became
a midshipman on first going to sea, and he could begin as early as
eleven years of age. A second-rate ship like the Ariadne carried
eighteen midshipmen; and as six lieutenants were appointed from them,
only twelve remained. From these twelve, in the dingy after-cockpit,
where the superficial area was not more than twelve square feet; where
the air was foul, and the bilges reeked with a pestilential stench;
where the purser’s store-room near gave out the smell of rancid butter
and poisonous cheese; where the musty taint of old ropes came to them,
there was a spirit of danger.
Dyck was right in thinking that in the midshipmen’s dismal berth the
first flowers of revolt to his rule would bloom.
Sailors, even as low as the pig-sty men, had some idea of fair play; and
as the weeks that had passed since they left the Thames had given them
better food and drink, and lessened the severity of those above them,
real obedience had come.
It was not strange that the ship ran well, for all the officers under
the new conditions, except Dyck himself, had had previous experience.
The old lieutenants had gone, but midshipmen, who in any case were
trained, had taken their places. The rest of the ship’s staff were the
same, except the captain; and as Dyck had made a friend of Greenock
the master, a man of glumness, the days were peaceful enough during the
voyage to the Caribbean Sea.
The majority saw that every act of Dyck had proved him just and capable.
He had rigidly insisted on gun practice; he had keyed up the marines to
a better spirit, and churlishness had been promptly punished. He was,
in effect, what the sailors called a “rogue,” or a “taut one”--seldom
smiling, gaunt of face but fearless of eye, and with a body free from
fatigue.
As the weather grew warmer and the days longer, and they drew near to
the coast of Jamaica, a stir of excitement was shown.
“You’d like to know what I’m going to do, Michael, I suppose?” said Dyck
one morning, as he drank his coffee and watched the sun creeping up the
sky.
“Well, in three days we shall know what’s to become of us, and I have
no doubt or fear. This ship’s a rebel, but it’s returning to duty.
We’ve shown them how a ship can be run with good food and drink and fair
dealing, and, please God, we’ll have some work to do now that belongs to
a man-of-war!”
“Sir, I know what you mean to do,” replied Michael. “You mean to get all
of us off by giving yourself up.”
“Well, some one has to pay for what we’ve done, Michael.” A dark,
ruthless light came into Dyck’s eyes. “Some one’s got to pay.” A grim
smile crossed his face. “We’ve done the forbidden thing; we’ve mutinied
and taken to the open sea. We were fired on by the other mutiny ships,
and that will help our sailors, but it won’t help me. I’m the leader. We
ought, of course, to have taken refuge with the nearest squadron of the
king’s ships. Well, I’ve run my luck, and I’ll have to pay.”
He scratched his chin with a thumb-nail-a permanent physical trait. “You
see, the government has pardoned all the sailors, and will hang only the
leaders. I expect Parker is hung already. Well, I’m the leader on the
Ariadne. I’m taking this ship straight to his majesty’s West Indian
fleet, in thorough discipline, and I’ll hand it over well-found,
well-manned, well-officered, on condition that all go free except
myself. I came aboard a common sailor, a quota man, a prison-bird,
penniless. Well, have I shown that I can run a ship? Have I learned the
game of control? During the weeks we’ve been at sea, bursting along,
have I proved myself?”
Michael smiled. “What did I say to you the first night on board, sir?
Didn’t I say they’d make an officer of you when they found out what
brains you had? By St. Patrick, you’ve made yourself captain with the
good-will of all, and your iron hand has held the thing together. You’ve
got a great head, too, sir.”
Dyck looked at him with a face in which the far future showed.
“Michael, I’ve been lucky. I’ve had good men about me. God only knows
what would have happened to me if the master hadn’t been what he is--a
gentleman who knows his job-aye, a gentleman through and through! If he
had gone against me, Michael”--he flicked a finger to the sky--“well,
that much for my chances! I’d have been dropped overboard, or stabbed in
my cabin, as was that famous Captain Pigot, son of an admiral, who had
as much soul as you’d find in a stone-quarry. When two men had dropped
from the masts, hurrying to get down because of his threat that the last
man should be thrashed--when the two men lay smashed to pieces at his
feet, Pigot said: ‘Heave the lubbers overboard.’ That night, Michael,
the seamen rose, crept to his cabin, stabbed him to death, pitched his
body overboard, put his lieutenants to sea in open boats, and then ran
away to South America. Well, I’ve escaped that fate, because this was a
good ship, and all the officers knew their business, and did it without
cruelty. I’ve been well served. It was a great thing making the new
lieutenants from the midshipmen. There never was a better lot on board a
ship.”
Michael’s face clouded. “Sir, that’s true. The new lieutenants have
done their work well, but them that’s left behind in the midshipmen’s
berth--do you think they’re content? No, sir. The only spot on board
this ship where there lurks an active spirit against you is in the
midshipmen’s berth. Mischief’s there, and that’s what’s brought me to
you now.”
Dyck smiled. “I know that. I’ve had my eye on the midshipmen. I’ve never
trusted them. They’re a hard lot; but if the rest of the ship is with
me, I’ll deal with them promptly. They’re not clever or bold enough
to do their job skilfully. They’ve got some old hands down
there--hammock-men, old stagers of the sea that act as servants to them.
What line do they take?”
Michael laughed softly.
“What I know I’ve got from two of them, and it is this--the young
gentlemen’ll try to get control of the ship.”
The cynicism deepened in Dyck’s face.
“Get control of the ship, eh? Well, it’ll be a new situation on a king’s
ship if midshipmen succeed where the rest dare not try. Now, mark what
I’m going to do.”
He called, and a marine showed himself.
“The captain’s compliments to the master, and his presence here at once.
Michael,” he continued presently, “what fools they are! They’re scarcely
a baker’s dozen, and none of them has skill to lead. Why, the humblest
sailor would have more sense than to start a revolt, the success of
which depends upon his personal influence, and the failure of which
must end in his own ruin. Does any one think they’re the kind to lead a
mutiny within a mutiny? Listen to me I’m not cruel, but I’ll put an end
to this plot. We’re seven hundred on this ship, and she’s a first-class
sailer. I warrant no ship ever swam the seas that looks better going
than she does. So we’ve got to see that her, record is kept clean as a
mutineer.”
At that moment the master appeared. He saluted. “Greenock,” said
Dyck, “I wonder if you’ve noticed the wind blowing chilly from the
midshipmen’s berth.” A lurking devilish humour shot from Greenock’s
eyes.
“Aye, I’ve smelled that wind.”
“Greenock, we’re near the West Indian Islands. Before we eat many meals
we’ll see land. We may pass French ships, and we may have to fight.
Well, we’ve had a good running, master; so I’ll tell you what I mean to
do.”
He then briefly repeated what he had said to Michael, and added
“Greenock, in this last to-do, I shall be the only man in danger. The
king’s amnesty covers every one except the leaders--that lets you off.
The Delegate of the Ariadne is aboard the Invincible, if he’s not been
hanged. I’m the only one left on the Ariadne. I’ve had a good time,
Greenock--thanks to you, chiefly. I think the men are ready for anything
that’ll come; but I also think we should guard against a revolt of
the midshipmen by healthy discipline now. Therefore I’ll instruct the
lieutenants to spread-eagle every midshipman for twelve hours. There’s
a stiff wind; there’s a good stout spray, and the wind and spray should
cool their hot souls. Meanwhile, though without food, they shall have
water as they need it. If at the end of the twelve hours any still seems
to be difficult, give him another twelve. Look!”
He stretched out a hand to the porthole on his right. “Far away in front
are islands. You cannot see them yet, but those little thickening
mists in the distance mean land. Those are the islands in front of
the Windward Passage. I think it would be a good lesson for the young
gentlemen to be spread-eagled against the mists of their future. It
shall be’ done at once; and pass the word why it’s done.”
An hour later there was laughter in every portion of the ship, for the
least popular members of the whole personnel were being dragooned into
discipline. The sailors had seen individual midshipmen spread-eagled
and mastheaded, while all save those they could bribe were forbidden to
bring them drink or food; but here was a whole body of junior officers,
punished en masse, as it were, lashed to the rigging and taking the wind
and the spray in their teeth.
Before the day was over, the whole ship was alive with anticipation,
for, in the far distance, could be seen the dark blue and purplish
shadows which told of land; and this brought the minds of all to the end
of their journey, with thoughts of the crisis near.
Word had been passed that all on board were considered safe--all except
the captain who had manoeuvred them to the entrance of the Caribbean
Sea. Had he been of their own origin, they would not have placed so much
credence in the rumour; but coming as he did of an ancient Irish family,
although he had been in jail for killing, the traditional respect for
the word of a gentleman influenced them. When a man like Ferens, on the
one hand, and the mutineer whose fingers had been mutilated by Dyck in
the Channel, on the other--when these agreed to bend themselves to the
rule of a usurper, some idea of Calhoun’s power may be got.
On this day, with the glimmer of land in the far distance, the charges
of all the guns were renewed. Also word was passed that at any moment
the ship must be cleared for action. Down in the cockpit the tables
were got ready by the surgeon and the loblolly-boys; the magazines were
opened, and the guards were put on duty.
Orders were issued that none should be allowed to escape active share
in the coming battle; that none should retreat to the orlop deck or the
lower deck; that the boys should carry the cartridge-cases handed to
them from the magazine under the cover of their coats, running hard
to the guns. The twenty-four-pounders-the largest guns in use at the
time-the eighteen-pounders, and the twelve-pounder guns were all in good
order.
The bags of iron balls called grape-shot-the worst of all--varying
in size from sixteen to nine balls in a bag, were prepared. Then the
canister, which produced ghastly murder, chain-shot to bring down masts
and spars, langrel to fire at masts and rigging, and the dismantling
shot to tear off sails, were all made ready. The muskets for the
marines, the musketoons, the pistols, the cutlasses, the boarding-pikes,
the axes or tomahawks, the bayonets and sailors’ knives, were placed
conveniently for use. A bevy of men were kept busy cleaning the round
shot of rust, and there was not a man on the ship who did not look with
pride at the guns, in their paint of grey-blue steel, with a scarlet
band round the muzzle.
To the right of the Ariadne was the coast of Cuba; to the left was the
coast of Haiti, both invisible to the eye. Although the knowledge that
they were nearing land had already given the officers and men a feeling
of elation, the feeling was greatly intensified as they came through the
Turk Island Passage, which is a kind of gateway to the Windward Passage
between Cuba and Haiti. The glory of the sunny, tropical world was upon
the ship and upon the sea; it crept into the blood of every man, and the
sweet summer weather gave confidence to their minds. It was a day which
only those who know tropical and semitropical seas can understand. It
had the sense of soaking luxury.
In his cabin, with the ship’s chart on the table before him, Dyck
Calhoun studied the course of the Ariadne. The wind was fair and good,
the sea-birds hovered overhead. From a distant part of the ship came the
sound of men’s voices in song. They were singing “Spanish Ladies”:
“We hove our ship to when the wind was sou’west, boys,
We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear;
Then we filled our main tops’l and bore right away, boys,
And right up the Channel our course did we steer.
“We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll range and we’ll roam over all the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England
From Ushant to Scilly ‘tis thirty-five leagues.”
Dyck raised his head, and a smile came to his lips.
“Yes, you sing of a Channel, my lads, but it’s a long way there, as
you’ll find. I hope to God they give us some fighting!... Well, what is
it?” he asked of a marine who appeared in his doorway.
“The master of the ship begs to see you, sir,” was the reply.
A moment afterwards Greenock entered. He asked Dyck several questions
concerning the possible fighting, the disposition of ammunition and all
that, and said at last:
“I think we shall be of use, sir. The ship’s all right now.”
“As right as anything human can be. I’ve got faith in my star, master.”
A light came into the other man’s dour face. “I wish you’d get into
uniform, sir.”
“Uniform? No, Greenock! No, I use the borrowed power, but not the
borrowed clothes. I’m a common sailor, and I wear the common sailor’s
clothes. You’ve earned your uniform, and it suits you. Stick to it; and
when I’ve earned a captain’s uniform I’ll wear it. I owe you the success
of this voyage so far, and my heart is full of it, up to the brim. Hark,
what’s that?”
“By God, it’s guns, sir! There’s fighting on!”
“Fighting!”
Dyck stood for a minute with head thrust forward, eyes fixed upon the
distant mists ahead. The rumble of the guns came faintly through the
air. An exultant look came into his face.
“Master, the game’s with us--it is fighting! I know the difference
between the two sets of guns, English and French. Listen--that quick,
spasmodic firing is French; the steady-as-thunder is English. Well,
we’ve got all sail on. Now, make ready the ship for fighting.”
“She’s almost ready, sir.”
An hour later the light mist had risen, and almost suddenly the Ariadne
seemed to come into the field of battle. Dyck Calhoun could see the
struggle going on. The two sets of enemy ships had come to close
quarters, and some were locked in deadly conflict. Other ships, still
apart, fired at point-blank range, and all the horrors of slaughter
were in full swing. From the square blue flag at the mizzen top
gallant masthead of one of the British ships engaged, Dyck saw that the
admiral’s own craft was in some peril. The way lay open for the Ariadne
to bear down upon the French ship, engaged with the admiral’s smaller
ship, and help to end the struggle successfully for the British cause.
While still too far away for point-blank range, the Ariadne’s guns began
upon the French ships distinguishable by their shape and their colours.
Before the first shot was fired, however, Dyck made a tour of the decks
and gave some word of cheer to the men, The Ariadne lost no time in
getting into the thick of the fight. The seamen were stripped to the
waist, and black silk handkerchiefs were tightly bound round their heads
and over their ears.
What the French thought of the coming of the Ariadne was shown by the
reply they made presently to her firing. The number of French ships in
action was greater than the British by six, and the Ariadne arrived just
when she could be of greatest service. The boldness of her seamanship,
and the favour of the wind, gave her an advantage which good fortune
helped to justify.
As she drew in upon the action, she gave herself up to great danger;
she was coming in upon the rear of the French ships, and was subject
to fierce attack. To the French she seemed like a fugitive warrior
returning to his camp just when he was most needed, as was indeed the
case. Two of her shots settled one of the enemy’s vessels; and before
the others could converge upon her, she had crawled slowly up against
the off side of the French admiral’s ship, which was closely engaged
with the Beatitude, the British flagship, on the other side.
The canister, chain-shot, and langrel of the French foe had caused much
injury to the Ariadne, and her canvas was in a sore plight. Fifty of her
seamen had been killed, and a hundred and fifty were wounded by the time
she reached the starboard side of the Aquitaine. She would have lost
many more were it not that her onset demoralized the French gunners,
while the cheers of the British sailors aboard the Beatitude gave
confidence to their mutineer comrades.
On his own deck, Dyck watched the progress of the battle with the joy
of a natural fighter. He had carried the thing to an almost impossible
success. There had only been this in his favour, that his was an
unexpected entrance--a fact which had been worth another ship at least.
He saw his boarders struggle for the Aquitaine. He saw them discharge
their pistols, and then resort to the cutlass and the dagger; and
the marines bringing down their victims from the masts of the French
flag-ship.
Presently he heard the savagely buoyant shouts of the Beatitude men,
and he realized that, by his coming, the admiral of the French fleet had
been obliged to yield up his sword, and to signal to his ships--such as
could--to get away. That half of them succeeded in doing so was because
the British fleet had been heavily handled in the fight, and would have
been defeated had it not been for the arrival of the Ariadne.
Never, perhaps, in the history of the navy had British ships clamped
the enemy as the Aquitaine was clamped by the Beatitude and the Ariadne.
Certain it is that no admiral of the British fleet had ever to perform
two such acts in one day as receiving the submission of a French admiral
and offering thanks to the captain of a British man-of-war whom, while
thanking, he must at once place under arrest as a mutineer. What might
have chanced further to Dyck’s disadvantage can never be known, because
there appeared on the deck of the Beatitude, as its captain under the
rear-admiral, Captain Ivy, who, five years before, had visited Dyck and
his father at Playmore, and had gone with them to Dublin.
The admiral had sent word to the Ariadne for its captain to come to the
Beatitude. When the captain’s gig arrived, and a man in seaman’s clothes
essayed to climb the side of the flag-ship, he was at first prevented.
Captain Ivy, however, immediately gave orders for Dyck to be admitted,
but without honours.
On the deck of the Beatitude, Dyck looked into the eyes of Captain Ivy.
He saluted; but the captain held out a friendly hand.
“You’re a mutineer, Calhoun, but your ship has given us victory. I’d
like to shake hands with one that’s done so good a stroke for England.”
A queer smile played about Calhoun’s lips.
“I’ve brought the Ariadne back to the fleet, Captain Ivy. The men have
fought as well as men ever did since Britain had a navy. I’ve brought
her back to the king’s fleet to be pardoned.”
“But you must be placed under arrest, Calhoun. Those are the
orders--that wherever the Ariadne should be found she should be seized,
and that you should be tried by court-martial.”
Dyck nodded. “I understand. When did you get word?”
“About forty-eight hours ago. The king’s mail came by a fast frigate.”
“We took our time, but we came straight from the Channel to find this
fleet. At the mouth of the Thames we willed to find it, and to fight
with it--and by good luck so we have done.”
“Let me take you to the admiral,” said Captain Ivy.
He walked beside Dyck to the admiral’s cabin. “You’ve made a terrible
mess of things, Calhoun, but you’ve put a lot right to-day,” he said at
the entrance to the cabin. “Tell me one thing honestly before we part
now--did you kill Erris Boyne?” Dyck looked at him long and hard.
“I don’t know--on my honour I don’t know! I don’t remember--I was drunk
and drugged.”
“Calhoun, I don’t believe you did; but if you did, you’ve paid the
price--and the price of mutiny, too.” In the clear blue eyes of Captain
Ivy there was a look of friendliness. “I notice you don’t wear uniform,
Calhoun,” he added. “I mean a captain’s uniform.” Dyck smiled. “I never
have.”
The next moment the door of the admiral’s cabin was opened.
“Mr. Dyck Calhoun of the Ariadne, sir,” said Captain Ivy.