Mr. Baker came back to the ship about a couple of hours after the
marooned men had come aboard. He had spent more than an hour in going
to and fro, looking for Smith’s body, but had seen no sign of it, and
had concluded that it had sunk at once. That seemed strange, for the
lungs must have been full of air, but nobody gave it a second thought
unless some of the most disaffected of the crew did; none of them,
in all probability, gave so much as a first thought to the fact.
I do not really doubt that Smith was dead, and that his body was
swaying about in the ooze at the bottom of the sea, unless the sharks
got it first. But I remember that soon after I got home, I saw an
account—merely an item of a few lines in a shipping paper—of a man’s
having been taken off Amsterdam Island, and the description of the
man might have been the description of Smith. He had forgotten who
he was and how he got there, and he had been badly hurt, but he had
managed to live alone for two years on the island. However, whether
that was Smith or not, he passed out of our lives when he dropped
from the yard.
Captain Coffin was in the cabin with Captain Nelson when Mr. Baker’s
boat’s crew came over the side. Mr. Baker showed no surprise when he
heard of it, but Starbuck did. He immediately sought out the two men
who had come aboard with Captain Coffin, and I suppose he got their
story. I was not free, as I was wanted to wait upon the two captains;
but that was no disadvantage, for I got the story as Captain Coffin
told it to Captain Nelson. They sat at the cabin table, leaning back
in their chairs at their ease, with a pitcher of hot rum and water
between them. I remember the pitcher exactly. It was a rather {270}
small white crockery pitcher, with a bluish tinge, such as they used
to serve water in at country hotels, only smaller. They sat there
quietly, and the hot rum and water steamed gently between them; and
Captain Coffin had his fingers clasped loosely about his glass, but
he drank little, and that in little sips. Between times he either
gazed contentedly out of the cabin window, saying nothing, or he
spoke briefly of his experiences in the Battles or on Amsterdam. His
utterances were never long at any one time, but always punctuated by
a sip and a long look out of the window. Captain Nelson said nothing
at all. I stuck around rather more closely than was necessary.
It was the old story of mutiny, but in this case for no reason
whatever except that the mutineers saw a good chance of taking
the vessel. The ringleaders must have laid their plans before the
Battles sailed, Captain Coffin thought, and have enlisted some of
the crew in the scheme. Possibly Wallet knew about it also. They met
the Clearchus at every opportunity, until Wallet went aboard of the
Battles, where he was at the time when Captain Coffin told the story,
so far as he knew; but he had turned out to be such a pusillanimous
cuss that he had not been able to maintain himself in the position
first given him. The bothering of the Clearchus was but incidental;
but the crew got so much fun out of their sport with us—or Drew did,
which was more to the point—that they could not resist the temptation
to try it whenever they had the chance.
Sam Drew was the leader in the mutiny. At the name Captain Nelson
grunted, and said that he knew Sam Drew, and had never known any
good of him. Captain Coffin nodded, and went on with the story. It
had all happened before they got to Fayal. Drew was a boatsteerer.
One morning, as Captain Coffin came on deck, six men fell upon him
at once, pinioning his hands, his arms and his legs, and throttling
him. They must have rehearsed their {271} parts pretty thoroughly,
for each man seized some particular member, and clung to it; he was
seized around the knees, as in a tackle at football—football had
hardly developed the tackle at that time—and thrown to the deck,
while the sixth man choked him. Captain Coffin is a tough customer
to attack, and the men knew it. With two men on each arm, and choked
by another, while the man who had tackled him took a turn about his
ankles with the slack of the main sheet, he still put up a stiff
fight, and almost got the two men on his right arm overboard. The
odds were too great, however. He was soon bound hand and foot, tied
to a stanchion, gasping for breath.
He had been aware of a struggle going on forward. He now saw Mr.
Mayhew, his first mate, beheaded by a single stroke of a spade, and
Jim Carter, the second mate, badly wounded by a lance. The third
mate was not to be seen, but he was soon brought up from below. Then
Drew called a council of a few of his cronies—a Council of State,
perhaps—and spoke briefly to them. Captain Coffin could not hear what
he said to them, but he heard plainly what he said afterward.
“Over with him, men,” he said, indicating the body of poor Mayhew.
The body was unceremoniously pitched into the sea, and the head after
it. Then the men hesitated.
“Over with him!” said Drew impatiently. “You know what happens to the
man who refuses to obey orders.”
The men laid hold of the wounded Carter and began dragging him to
the rail. He was too badly wounded to resist, but Captain Coffin
struggled and roared at them. The men hesitated again, but Drew
smiled.
“Never mind him,” he said. “He can’t do anything. I ’m in command of
this vessel now. Over with him!”
They got Carter up on the rail, and pitched him into the sea. Then
Drew turned to the third mate. He, poor fellow, was not wounded. He
saw that his fate was to be left {272} swimming in the middle of the
Atlantic, and he tried to meet that fate like a man. It was too much.
He could not; and when Drew offered him the choice of joining them or
of going over the side, he joined. It is hard to blame him for his
choice.
Captain Coffin then saw the men start for him; but it was only to
carry him below and to throw him on his bunk, bound as he was. He lay
there until the next morning.
Drew came to him about the middle of the forenoon, at just about four
bells, and sat down beside him and said he wanted to have a talk. He
said that, unfortunately, the third mate had fallen overboard during
the night. This may have been true, or he may have been distrusted
and have been thrown overboard, or his conscience may have tortured
him so that he jumped overboard. Captain Coffin never knew which
was the truth, but the fact was that he was no longer there, and
the vessel was without a navigator excepting the captain. Drew,
therefore, had a proposition to make, and the captain could take it
or leave it. It was this: that the captain should navigate, under
guard in his cabin, coming out only at night for observations. If he
would not consent to that he would follow his three mates.
That was rather a hard choice; but Captain Coffin could see no gain
to anybody by his being thrown overboard, while, if he accepted,
there might be a chance of getting his vessel back. He did not see
how, and he had no plans, but there would be time enough to make
them. So he accepted Drew’s offer, on condition that he was to be
free in his cabin, and that he was not to be compelled to speak to
any of them. Drew smilingly agreed to those conditions; and it had
been strictly true that he was “confined to his cabin,” and that
he left written instructions on the cabin table every morning.
Thereafter, he saw nothing except the view obtained from his
stateroom port, and a brief nightly view of the starlit heavens and a
wide, dark sea. {273} Drew himself told him where they wanted to go,
and he did the rest.
This state of affairs continued until he had navigated, according
to instructions, to Amsterdam Island, and had come to anchor there.
He knew nothing of what had taken place on the schooner since the
mutiny, as he was at all times closely guarded. Then he was told
briefly to come along, and was taken ashore with the two other
men—both foremast hands—and left there, with nothing but what they
had on their persons. Why they did not simply throw all three of them
overboard he could not imagine, unless they had had enough of murder;
and why he had been permitted to navigate so long, when they had a
competent navigator in Wallet, he did not see. But so it was. No
doubt Wallet had been navigator since; the nine months that they had
been on Amsterdam. His plans—he had made many—had come to nothing,
but what could he have done, and why was the situation not better as
it was than it would have been if he had allowed himself to be thrown
overboard? Tell him that.
To that Captain Nelson growled assent. “Where ’d you get your flag?”
he asked.
Captain Coffin straightened in his chair, and brought his fist down
on the table. “Gorry!” he cried. “I forgot that flag. I ’ll have to
go ashore and take it down. It ’s my undershirt.”
“Only one you had?”
“ ’Course. ’D you think I wore two?”
“Cold?”
“Sometimes. But that ’s nothing, and it ’s over and done with.”
The two captains sat silent for a while, Captain Coffin gazing out of
the cabin window.
“I aimed,” he said at last, “to wreck her, if nothing better turned
up, when we got where there were some people, and my chance would
be as good as the next man’s. {274} I guess Drew knew it, and
thought he ’d better get rid of me. I had the Keelings in mind, or
Sunda Strait”—he called it Sunday—“or some parts thereabouts, if
the weather turned favorable for wrecking. Pretty bad gales at the
Keelings in the season. Well—that ’s all, I guess. I ’d like to come
across the Battles again. Maybe I ’ll be able to get some fast little
schooner, and some kind of a crew, at Batavia, and go after her. I ’d
spend my last cent on it.”
Captain Nelson grunted again. “I ’d give you a berth here if I had
one. Better make up your mind to stay on this ship, Fred, and we ’ll
see what turns up. I ’ll ship your two men. We ’re two men short.”
Then he told about Smith.
“Good!” cried Captain Coffin. “Good! Just right, and just like you,
Cap’n. I ’d have given something to have the chance on the Battles,
but there was never a suspicion. Drew was too smart. He ’s a damned
smart man.”
“H’m!” Captain Nelson was noncommittal. “Now that we ’re here, we may
as well lay in some wood. I ’ll have the men take down that shirt of
yours.”
Then he turned to me, and told me that I might as well go on deck,
for they would not need my services right away. I took the hint, and
went. After all, stories of mutinies are much alike; they differ only
in details. But the two captains sat there a couple of hours longer,
with the fresh pitcher of hot rum and water which I had brought just
before I came up.
Something turned up sooner than they could have expected. We were
only a day at Amsterdam laying in wood, for we did not really need
wood. Our anchor was up the next afternoon and we sailed to the
northeast, bound either to Sunda Strait, or for a cruise along the
south coast of Java, as circumstances might determine. We had been
out about a week, and were getting into more comfortable weather,
when I was awakened, very early one morning, {275} by a rumpus on
deck. There were shouts, a tramping of feet, and a heavy report,
like that of a Spencer gun. My heart jumped up into my throat, I
was completely awake, there was that prickling sensation at the
roots of my hair, my breath came short and hard, and I found that
I was smiling. It was no use, I was always taken that way when any
kind of a fight promised. I could no more help it than I could help
breathing; not so easily. I scrambled into some clothes and ran up
the ladder.
I came out into the gray, melancholy half-light of early dawn. I was
conscious of it and of the whispering sea about us. If I had ever
contemplated suicide, I am sure it would have been at just that time
of day, for that is the time when a man’s fortitude is at the lowest
ebb, everything looks black, and the future holds no promise. The
darkest night is not nearly so bad. That gray loneliness of early
dawn is an equally fitting time to choose for going insane, and Mr.
Snow seemed to have chosen it for that purpose. He was standing in
the same spot that Captain Nelson occupied when he dropped Smith from
the yard, and was living over that experience, with himself in the
captain’s place. A Spencer was in his right hand, the barrel in the
hollow of his left arm, and a long, sharp lance leaned against the
after house. Now and then he bellowed an order at an imaginary man
on the yard, and that was apparently what he had shot at. Spencer
bullets, however, are not imaginary, and nothing was to be seen of
the men of the watch. They had run forward and taken refuge behind
the foremast, the try-works, and anything that offered shelter. I
caught a glimpse of one poor fellow who had taken refuge behind the
mainmast, almost directly in front of Mr. Snow, and who was trying
his level best to make himself small. Mr. Snow did not notice him;
did not see him. All his attention was directed to that foretopsail
yard.
Less than half a minute had gone since the report of {276} the
Spencer had startled me into full wakefulness. I had my trousers
on, but I had not stopped to button them, trusting to one suspender
to hold them in place. I had come up the booby-hatch, a very few
feet behind Mr. Snow, and although I was barefoot, I must have
made considerable noise; but he was so taken up with his bellowing
and flourishing that he did not hear me. I think I might have come
through the deck at his very feet and run into him without his being
aware of it. I heard quiet stirrings on the cabin ladder and down the
booby-hatch, and I knew that the mates and boatsteerers would be on
hand in a few seconds; and noises in the cabin told me that Captain
Nelson would not be far behind. Mr. Snow’s attention had at last been
attracted by a movement behind the mainmast—the man there was so
scared that he could not keep still—and he raised his rifle. It was
like shooting point-blank at the side of a barn. He might easily hit
the man, who had not sense enough to keep behind the mast, but kept
popping out. I was upon him in one jump, had him about the body from
behind, and was grabbing for the rifle.
I was much taller and stronger than when I had tackled Lupo, and Mr.
Snow was not the man that Lupo was. Still, I was not prepared for
the strength that he showed. Although I succeeded in deflecting the
rifle, he managed to discharge it, catching the flesh of my thumb
partly under the hammer, making a wound that bothered me for weeks.
The bullet ploughed up the deck. Then another pair of arms enveloped
him. It was Mr. Macy, and in his arms Mr. Snow was helpless. Then
the boatsteerers and the other mates appeared, with the captain just
behind them, and I let go my hold and fell back.
Mr. Snow was violently insane, there was no doubt about that. He
struggled, shouted, and foamed at the mouth. They took him below,
and he was kept locked in his cabin for two days, but he made such
a row there that nobody could get much sleep. On the second day
he {277} succeeded in setting fire to his mattress, which made a
great smoke and almost smothered him. The fire was put out and he
was resuscitated; but Captain Nelson was forced, for the safety of
the ship, to put him in irons and remove him from the cabin. I used
to hear his cries and shouts for days, issuing from the bowels of
the Clearchus somewhere. Finally they stopped, and I was afraid
that he had died; but the steward told me that he was only sulking,
and would not say a word, or take any notice of him when he carried
food to him. I did not blame Mr. Snow for that, and thought it might
be a symptom of returning sanity. The steward was a thoroughly
obnoxious little pest and had a special animosity toward Mr. Snow for
continuing to live and adding to his work. Poor fellow! I refer to
Mr. Snow, and not to the steward. What an unhappy time he must have
had ever since we left Cape Town!
We were standing to the northeast, for the Keeling Islands, hoping
to find some homeward-bound whaler there to which we could transfer
our crazy man. Imagine having such a passenger foisted upon you; but
nobody seemed to have any doubt that any whaler going home would
take him. It seemed to be his only chance—and ours. It was wearing
upon the nerves of every one in the ship to hear the noises that
he made, and then to have the noises stop. I used to listen for
them, and Peter said that the men used to; and the men were highly
superstitious, as ignorant sailors are apt to be. I have no shame in
acknowledging that I was superstitious myself. The men maintained
that nothing but bad luck would come from it, and I found myself
of their opinion, although I knew well enough that it was foolish
and had no sense or reason in it, unless the very belief of the
men should bring on the thing they feared. Nevertheless, I was in
suspense—waiting for it.
The bad luck came soon enough. We had got about halfway to the
Keelings, and had not seen a single spout. That {278} did not bother
Captain Nelson, for I have no reason to think he was expecting to see
any; but one afternoon we raised a solitary spout to leeward. We had
struck the southeast trades two days before, and were then bowling
along merrily, the ship making a great fuss, but not so much headway
as anybody would be led to think who did not know her ways. The wind
was strong from a little south of east, which made it as nearly
close-hauled as was comfortable for the Clearchus, and it was typical
trade-wind weather. The whale was about three or four miles off the
lee bow when we first saw his spout.
We did not lower at once; indeed, there was doubt whether we should
lower at all. I saw Captain Nelson gazing at the spout for a long
time, evidently in doubt what to do. Obviously, he hated to lose
the time, for he was anxious to get Mr. Snow started home as soon
as possible, and any delay might mean that he would miss the ship
which otherwise he would catch. I could almost see the arguments
which passed through his mind. Captain Nelson was a tender-hearted
man under his crust, and I believe his anxiety was entirely for Mr.
Snow, and that he was thinking of getting him started home as soon as
possible rather than contemplating the relief it would be to get rid
of him. But obviously, too, he was out for whales, and there was one
within easy reach; “she blows and she breaches, and sparm at that,”
to quote the immortal classic of Captain Simmons. “Ile is sceerce,
and ile is money.” That settled it. Captain Nelson began to move
slowly to and fro, and I knew that we should lower as soon as we got
into a favorable position.
Soon after Mr. Snow’s collapse Captain Coffin had been offered the
fourth mate’s berth until there should be something better. He took
it at once, like the good sport he was. The two men who came with him
relieved the sailmaker and me, so that I was now nothing but cabin
boy. I did not {279} like being unceremoniously pushed out of my
boat in that way, but there was nothing to do or say about it, so I
held my peace, and tried to be contented.
Mr. Baker and Captain Coffin lowered—I suppose I should not speak of
him as Captain Coffin now, as he was temporarily fourth mate, and
plain Mr. Coffin. The whale was travelling about as fast as the ship,
and had not sounded since we had sighted him. There was something
a little odd about the way he travelled, but it was nothing very
extraordinary, and it was only after we had been watching him for a
good while that it was forced upon our attention. It turned out that
the whale was blind. Mr. Tilton was the first man to say what was the
matter, and it dawned upon him only when he saw how the whale acted
while the boats were pulling up to strike.
They approached from the rear, where the whale could not have seen
them in any case. Mr. Baker was to starboard of him, and about a
boat’s length ahead of Mr. Coffin, who was to port. The wash of the
seas under the strong trade wind was enough to nearly drown the
noise of the oars, and the men were pulling hard. Mr. Baker was
just drawing past the flukes, when the whale seemed to feel that
everything was not as it should be. The slow, steady, pumping motion
of the flukes ceased, and the great flukes moved from side to side,
feeling, as delicately and gently as the antennæ of an insect,
for whatever they might find. Mr. Baker pulled ahead, and avoided
them. Mr. Coffin tried to avoid them, but could not, for they were
just abeam of him, and the men felt the gentle touch upon the keel
amidships. At that moment Starbuck planted his first iron near the
side fin, and at that touch upon the keel, Miller, knowing instantly
that something would happen, hastily seized a harpoon, and darted.
The harpoon struck just under the hump. There was no chance for a
second iron, for the flukes lifted convulsively, staving in {280}
two planks, and rolling the boat over; then came down in a smashing
blow upon the water, and the whale started to run.
The men of Captain Coffin’s boat were swimming about the wreck. I
was watching through my old glass, and counted heads. There was one
missing, although I could not tell, at that distance, who it was.
Mr. Baker was fast disappearing, to the eastward, in the foaming
wake of the whale. Still watching, I thought I saw a head suddenly
bob up in the sea behind the whale. I lost it, and, after a long
search, I found it again. The man, whoever he was, seemed to be
having difficulty in swimming. I dropped the glass to the end of its
lanyard, where it swung and bumped against my chest at every jump,
while I ran to tell Captain Nelson. Mr. Brown lowered at once, and
went after him.
Mr. Brown was soon back with Captain Coffin, who had torn a tendon in
his ankle. He had been caught under his boat when it rolled over, and
a tub of line had been emptied over him, entangling him completely.
The coils of line were wound about his body, arms, and legs, and
the whale was running. He fought desperately to get clear of the
line, and thought he was clear, when a bight of the line tightened
about his ankle. He was jerked under water when the line came taut,
but managed to get hold of the line, pull himself forward, and cut.
Captain Coffin was a powerful man, never lost his head, and was
resourceful; but most whalemen who survive—and many who do not—are
that. He was helped into the cabin, and spent most of the next three
weeks with his bandaged ankle up on the lounge there, fretting
because he could not return to his duty.
[Illustration: THE MATE]
Mr. Brown had made another trip, and brought back the stove boat and
its crew. That was a job for Peter. Mr. Baker had gone off dead to
windward. It was almost hopeless to stand after him in the Clearchus,
but we did so, making short tacks so that he might not lose us. He
{281} came back about dark, rather crestfallen, without his whale.
After running ten or twelve miles, the whale had sounded out all his
line. He waited more than an hour for the whale to come up, in the
hope that he could, at least, get hold of the line again; but nothing
had been seen of the whale. He must have run for miles under water.
{282}