CHAPTER I.

This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

ROUNDING CAPE HORN

. . . AND . . .

OTHER SEA STORIES

* * * * *

BY WALTER MCROBERTS.

* * * * *

Illustrated by Grant Wright.

* * * * *

“_Roll on_, _thou deep and dark blue ocean_—_roll!_

_Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;_

_Man marks the earth with ruin_—_his control_

_Stops with the shore_.”

* * * * *

PEORIA, ILL.

H. S. HILL PRINTING COMPANY.

1895

* * * * *

Entered according to Act of Congress,

in the year 1894,

BY WALTER MCROBERTS,

In the office of the Librarian, at Washington.

[Picture: The Sagamore]

. . . To . . .

J. MURPHY, M.D.

These Stories are Affectionately Dedicated

By his friend,

THE AUTHOR.

INDEX.

PAGE

The Life-Savers 7

Thanksgiving on the Dicky Bird 27

My Brazilian Adventure 57

Bringing in a Derelict 85

The Monomaniac 113

Crossing the Line 161

Missing 193

A Dangerous Cargo 211

The Parson’s Text 233

Rounding Cape Horn 241

THE LIFE-SAVERS.

[Picture: The Life-savers] The hands of the clock in the life-saving

station pointed to a quarter of nine, on a wild March night along the New

England coast. A bitter north-easter raged outside, driving the rising

tide higher and higher upon the beach. It was almost at the flood, and

only a narrow ridge of stones lay between the sea and the station. The

surf thundered in like a solid wall—great combers that nothing could

resist, flung themselves upon the beach with a sullen roar, and broke

into a seething flood of foam. This foam was not the sparkling white

substance into which the waves resolve themselves in time of peace, but a

turbid yellowish froth, which, by the time it reached the shore, was

nearly of the consistency of white of egg, beaten stiff. Great patches

of it were caught up by the fierce wind and blown far inland, while

others lodged against the walls of the life-saving station, where they

mingled with the pelting snow that thickly covered the weather-side of

the building. The water’s edge was piled with a tangled mass of

sea-weed, drift-wood, bottles, dead crabs, and a hundred different

objects which the ocean had cast up. The undertow dragged out myriads of

pebbles, which gave forth a peculiar musical roar as they were swept from

the beach where they had lain through weeks of pleasant weather, now to

be again swallowed up in the deep. The blackness out to sea was almost

tangible—the force of the wind and the driving snow nearly blinded the

patrolmen, struggling along their beats with every sense on the alert,

and with only their beach lanterns for company. In a word, it was one of

those awful nights when the government life-savers are often called upon

to work like Spartan heroes, and suffer incredible hardships and dangers

that imperilled lives may be saved. One such night far out-balances the

long term of inactivity (broken only by daily drill) that may have

preceded it.

Captain Litchfield, the keeper of the station, was in the observatory,

whose windows commanded a view of the ocean and beach for a long distance

in either direction. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the lighthouse

two miles to the north, but the cheerful beacon was rendered dim by the

snow which filled the air, and was invisible much of the time. As a

violent gust beat against the frosty panes and shook the stout building,

the keeper thought of the _Peruvian_, and other good ships that had met

their fate on the Massachusetts coast during just such nights as this.

He had doubled the beach patrol and now strained his eyes in momentary

expectation of seeing the signal to all that coast that a disaster had

occurred. It is a thrilling time—waiting and watching to hear the news

of a wreck that is certain to take place; striving to locate the doomed

craft in the profound darkness out at sea; hoping against hope that some

miracle may avert the impending catastrophe!

Just at dusk that evening, the men at Fourth Cliff Station (a few miles

to the south) had sighted a large brig close-hauled and struggling

northward under storm sails. The blinding storm had apparently prevented

those on board from seeing how perilously near they were to land, but

they soon after discovered their danger, for more sail was clapped on the

vessel—much more than she could safely carry—and she tore through the

water at a great rate, in a desperate endeavor to drive past the outlying

rocks and shoals off Scituate and Cohasset. The attempt might have

succeeded had it not been for the fearful leeway the craft was making,

but it seemed as though every cable’s length she advanced brought her

perceptibly nearer to the beach.

Night soon hid the brig from view, but the keeper’s experience told him

that her fate was sealed, and he burned red rockets to warn the adjacent

station to be on the lookout for the wreck which must soon take place.

Thus it was that Captain Litchfield and his crew had been for several

hours in momentary expectation of a summons to save human life. Half way

between the two stations a rocky point jutted out into the water, and

here it was that both keepers expected the brig to strike; but by an

extraordinary exhibition of pluck and good seamanship, she cleared this

danger.

As the minutes passed, the crowd of half-frozen villagers on the beach

concluded that the vessel had managed to escape to the open sea, and

began to realize that their limbs were cold and numb. The greater part

betook themselves to their cottages; mayhap to listen to some harrowing

tale of shipwreck and death from the lips of an octogenarian smoking his

pipe in the chimney corner, while drift-wood snapped and blazed upon the

fire, and the housewife heated over the remnants of a chowder with which

to cheer the stomachs of the returned watchers, ere they sought the

doubtful warmth of their bed rooms.

But the station crew redoubled their vigilance. They well knew the brig

could not tack in that furious gale, and there was not room to wear,

without taking ground;—

The signal!

A patrolman on the northern beat had suddenly ignited his Coston

light—the red emblem which both tells the watchful keeper that a wreck

has been sighted, and assures the crew of the unfortunate vessel that

succor is at hand.

The surfmen and patrolmen passed the signal along the beats and hurried

to the station, each to perform his allotted part in the work of rescue.

The keeper burned a rocket to inform the Fourth Cliff crew. It was

answered almost simultaneously by a distant patrolman with his handlight,

and by a white rocket sent up from Fourth Cliff; the crew and apparatus

from that point would soon be hurrying to the scene of the wreck.

The patrolman who gave the alarm had sighted the brig just before she

went aground. She was then headed directly for the beach, bows on, her

captain evidently realizing that escape was impossible, and that his only

chance lay in getting the craft near the shore. The tide was high, and

she had taken ground scarcely a quarter of a mile from the beach, and

almost directly in front of the station. Immediately after striking, she

had swung around broadside on, and now the dim outline of her canvas and

rigging could be faintly distinguished through the storm.

In the station all was excitement and action, but there was no confusion.

Within a few moments of the time the wreck had been sighted, the keeper

issued the first order: “Open boat-room doors—man the beach-cart!”

Laden with the life-saving apparatus, and drawn by six surfmen, the cart

was hauled out of the station and over the loose, yielding stones that

lay between it and the ocean. The wide tires prevented the vehicle from

sinking among the stones and rendered the task not difficult. The

tremendous surf booming in made it impossible to launch the life-boat,

and it was through the medium of the breeches buoy that the brig’s crew

were to be rescued.

Bad news travels swiftly, and a rapidly increasing knot of men, boys, and

even a few women was already assembled, many of whom offered assistance,

while one or two did not hesitate to give advice. The keeper directed

them to procure dry wood from the station and start a bonfire, which they

did with alacrity, the flames soon crackling merrily.

The cart having been halted, the crew proceeded to unload it, and while

Captain Litchfield placed the gun in position, the others buried the

sand-anchor, prepared the shot-line box, set the crotch in the proper

place, and performed other duties of importance. Everything about the

stranded vessel was dark and silent. She displayed no mast-head lantern

or any light whatever, her crew having probably taken to the rigging as

soon as she struck to avoid being washed overboard. The fierce gale cut

the faces and blinded the eyes of the life-savers when they attempted to

look towards the wreck, but the keeper contrived to train the gun and

raise it to the proper elevation for firing. All things being ready, he

gave the lanyard a sharp pull. There was a report, a puff of smoke, and

away sped the metal cylinder into the blackness, with the shot-line

attached.

A few minutes passed, during which some of the crew had a chance to warm

their numb fingers at the fire. The direction of the wind was favorable,

and the keeper had strong hopes of getting that first line over the

vessel. But there was no pull upon it—nothing to show that those on the

wreck had seen it. And yet it had certainly fallen on the brig, for all

attempts by those on shore to withdraw it were futile. Perhaps the

unfortunate crew knew the line was on deck, but were unable to reach it

without being washed away; perhaps they were too thoroughly chilled to

make any exertion in their own behalf, although this seemed scarcely

possible in view of the short time the vessel had been aground. But at

any rate they failed to secure the line, and in trying to haul it back on

shore it parted somewhere off in the darkness.

The operation had to be repeated, and a second shot was fired as quickly

as the apparatus could be made ready. This was a complete failure, for

it did not go over the brig at all. The third attempt promised to be

crowned with success, for the line not only fell upon the vessel, but

came within reach of the beleagured crew—a fact that was soon made

apparent by a decided pull upon it. It was the first evidence of life

upon the wreck, and sent a thrill through the breasts of the rescuers.

Number One had just bent the shot-line around the whip, and the keeper

was about to signal the wreck to haul off, when the line again parted.

This was a keen disappointment, for precious moments must be consumed in

preparing the apparatus for another shot; and evidence was not lacking to

show that the seas were making a clean breach over the wreck, sweeping

her decks of everything movable. A small boat, one end in splinters, was

flung upon the beach almost at the foot of the rescuers; in the edge of

the surf was something that resembled a hen-coop; one of the villagers

discovered a flight of steps and several planks a little to the right of

the station; and other familiar objects were rapidly coming ashore.

[Picture: The Life-Savers at Work]

The fourth shot proved successful, and after the brig’s crew secured the

line, the whip was attached to it and those on the wreck hauled off until

the whip was within their reach. The two surfmen tending the shore ends

soon felt several pulls, which they interpreted as a signal that the

tail-block had been made fast on the brig. Now the lee part of the whip

was bent on to the hawser close to the tally-board, {17a} and while one

man saw that it did not foul the hawser, others manned the weather whip

and thus hauled the hawser off to the wreck. The breeches buoy block

{17b} was next attached, after which operations were suspended until a

signal should be received from the stranded vessel that the hawser had

been made fast to one of the masts. The length of time that the brig’s

crew required to perform this ordinarily simple act told the life-savers,

as plainly as words could have done, how greatly they were exhausted by

their two hours’ exposure to the bitter wind and icy spray. Their

stiffened fingers at length gave the signal, and the station crew quickly

hauled in the slack of the hawser. The crotch was now raised, which had

the effect of elevating the hawser above the surface of the ocean

sufficiently for the breeches buoy to travel upon it without touching the

water. All was ready, and the keeper ordered: “Man lee whip—haul off!”

As the buoy slid easily along the hawser and vanished in the darkness

towards the wreck, the pent-up feelings of the villagers burst forth.

The boys yelled, shouted hurrahs, and danced like sprites about the fire,

upon which they flung more drift-wood. Men and women pressed closer

about the keeper and his assistants, shading their eyes with their hands,

as they strove to follow the course of the buoy. Lips moved and limbs

trembled, but as much from excitement as from cold.

At this juncture the Fourth Cliff crew arrived, having toiled for two

hours through snow-drifts, and over loose stones, with their heavy

apparatus. It had been found impossible to obtain horses in the

neighborhood without great delay, and the men were thus compelled to set

out without them. The major part of the work of rescue was already done,

allowing the half-frozen crew time to warm themselves at the fire, where

they held themselves in readiness to render instant service.

The signal from the brig having been given, Captain Litchfield commanded:

“Man weather whip—haul ashore!” The men hauled in the whip with a will,

while the villagers, eager to get a glimpse of the approaching buoy and

its human freight, crowded about until the keeper was compelled to order

them back.

Now the poor fellow was visible! Just as he neared the edge of the surf,

a huge comber about to break reared its foaming crest and buried hawser,

buoy and man in a cloud of spray, as though making a last attempt to

seize its intended victim. When the buoy emerged and was drawn up to the

crotch, the keeper and Number Seven stepped forward and helped the

rescued seaman out. The buoy was then hurried back to the wreck, while

its drenched occupant was turned over to the Fourth Cliff crew, who took

him to the station.

He was a large man, and evidently a Scandinavian, but seemed exhausted or

stunned to such an extent that little information could be obtained from

him, except that there were seven men still on the wreck. His wet

clothes were removed, and after a good rubbing, he was placed in one of

the snowy beds in the upper story of the station. Here in a large,

pleasant room, stood a number of single iron bedsteads with heads to the

wall—one for each of the crew, besides a few extra in case of emergency.

In this haven of rest the sailor fell into a deep sleep, heedless of the

storm and cold without.

The next man landed proved to be the mate—a small, wiry fellow, who bore

his sufferings well. He thanked the keeper and surfman who helped him

out of the buoy and stamped upon the wet sand as though enjoying the

sensation of having something firm beneath his feet. His hands were

stiff from clinging to the rigging, and were almost useless from the

action of the bitter wind and freezing water. But he picked up fast, and

after borrowing a dry suit of clothes and an overcoat, insisted on

returning to the beach.

He reported the vessel to be the _Huron_, a 400-ton brig, bound from

Porto Rico to Boston, with molasses. The weather had been thick, and

though for two days they had had no observation, the captain believed

himself a good distance from the coast. When land was sighted on the

port bow, they shook out more sail and tried to drive past; but all

efforts to keep the brig off shore were futile, and seeing that she must

soon strike, the captain headed her for the beach at full speed. The

mate reported the wreck to be breaking up rapidly, but thought she might

hold together until all had been saved.

The cook and three more seamen had been landed meanwhile, leaving only

the captain and a Spanish sailor on the stranded vessel. The buoy had

just started on its seventh trip to the brig, when those tending the whip

noticed something wrong. The hawser suddenly slackened to such an extent

as to allow the buoy to touch the water. A second more, and the great

rope which had bridged the chasm between the brig and the shore became

perfectly limp, and fell into the ocean! A groan broke from the throng

upon the beach as they realized the extent of this misfortune. The mast

which upheld the two remaining castaways—the mast to which the hawser was

secured, had fallen! All communication between the wreck and the shore

was effectually cut off. Even at that moment the two unfortunates were

being buffeted about in the freezing water, unless they had been killed

or rendered unconscious by the falling spars.

Both men had on life-preservers, which gave them a slight chance for

their lives. The chance was indeed a frail one, but it was all there was

left—the poor fellows might possibly be thrown upon the beach before life

was extinct.

Both station crews and dozens of volunteers were marshalled into line and

stationed along the edge of the surf, ready to grasp the bodies should

they come within reach. Wreckage was coming ashore rapidly; and alive or

dead, the keeper felt certain that the brig’s captain and his companion

would soon appear in the breakers.

Scarce fifteen minutes passed before two surfmen in close proximity

flashed their lanterns, and all those near by hurried to the spot. One

of the bodies was in sight close to the shore. As the rescuers prepared

to wade in, a breaking wave took up the limp form and hurled it down with

terrific force, at the same time carrying it towards shore. The receding

water drew the body back a short distance, and then left it upon the

sand. Willing hands took up the burden and hurried it to the station. A

glance showed it to be the captain.

The other body was discovered by the Fourth Cliff keeper, a considerable

distance down the beach to the right of the station. It, too, was

floating near shore. Six men ranged themselves along a rope, the keeper

being at the outer end with a grappling hook, Thus they waded into the

surf and endeavored to catch the body. Four successive times were those

furthest out carried off their feet and thrown down in the water before

their object was accomplished, and the body drawn out of the breakers.

Like that of the captain, it was seemingly lifeless.

The men’s clothing was ripped off, and for several hours the crews worked

over them, skilfully practicing the most approved methods for restoring

the apparently drowned,—methods by which scores of people seemingly dead

have been resuscitated, and in which all persons connected with the

United States Life-Saving Service are required to be proficient. Every

means approved by science and the wide experience of the operators was

tried, but all to no purpose. The vital spark was extinguished; the

captain of the brig and the Spanish sailor had drawn their last breath.

Next morning the sky was clear, the snow had ceased, the wind shifted

into the north-west, and it was stinging cold. The sea had been busy

with its work of destruction during the hours of darkness, and the

staunch brig of yesterday was strewn piece-meal along the beach. Stout

oak beams and iron girders were splintered, twisted, or rent asunder,

while the thick coat of ice with which they were covered, caused them to

assume strangely fantastic shapes. The two masts had come ashore;

mattresses, provisions of all sorts, boxes, rigging, the cabin floor, and

countless casks of molasses, lay scattered upon the beach for leagues in

both directions.

Many vessels ended their careers on that terrible night, and many lives

were lost, from the Delaware Capes to the shores of Nova Scotia. But

scores were saved and alive next morning, who, but for the heroic

exertions of the government life-savers, would have perished miserably.

These men did only their duty, but in many cases that duty compelled them

to take their lives in their hands, and they did it without shrinking.

People all over the country read in the papers that morning of wrecks by

the dozen; of deaths innumerable from freezing, drowning, and exposure;

of terrible hardships endured for many hours by unfortunates whom human

aid was powerless to save; and they said, “What an awful night it was!”

Then they turned to their usual occupations, and the subject was

forgotten. How should those who spent the night in a warm bed, far from

the sound of the waves, have any real conception of the fearful struggles

with death represented by those inanimate lines?

THANKSGIVING ON THE DICKY BIRD.

[Picture: Thanksgiving on the Dicky Bird] Many years ago I was mate of

the little schooner _Dicky Bird_. She traded mostly between the West

Indies and Gulf ports, once in a while getting a charter for some point

in Central America. On this particular voyage, she was bound across the

Gulf from Pensacola to Vera Cruz.

We were a queer company; three whites and eight blacks. Cap’n Thomas

Pratt was a first rate seaman when he wasn’t in liquor, although too

easy-going to suit some people. He didn’t believe in knocking the hands

about, and always said that swearing at ’em did just as much good. I

have met some people who didn’t think even that was right, but they were

mostly preachers or lubbers who knew mighty little of merchant sailors.

Let them try moral suasion on a mule for a while if they want to see how

it works with a sailor. If you never swear at ’em, they get lazy and

despise you, besides thinking you a milk-sop.

But as I said, Cap’n Pratt took a drop too much now and then; mostly

after dinner, for he kept pretty straight until the sun was taken. I’m

no teetotlar myself, though I was green enough to sign the pledge before

I’d got to what they call “the age of reason.” Still, it goes against my

idees for a skipper to drink much when on duty, and if Pratt hadn’t owned

his schooner, I reckon he’d lost his berth long before I knew him. After

working out his sights he used to take a drink by way of celebration in

case the day’s run had been good, and if we’d made a poor record he just

took something to drown his sorrows—and sometimes it needed a deal of

liquor to drown ’em.

There was no second mate, so the Cap’n and me stood watch and watch. We

had a negro bo’s’un called Prince Saunders—a strapping big fellow as

black as the ace of spades—who was on duty all day from seven in the

morning till six at night. Then he turned in till next day, unless all

hands were called. Prince acted as general overseer, and the way he made

those darkeys come to time wasn’t slow. In fact, I wouldn’t ask for a

better bo’s’un or a better crew. All the Cap’n and me had to do was to

lay out the day’s work and Prince saw that it was done.

The three fellows in my watch looked exactly alike—I never could tell one

negro from another—so I called ’em Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. I forgot

what Pratt named his.

Steamers were scarce in the Gulf those days, and people wanting to go any

distance had to take passage on whatever craft they could find, which was

how we came to have the Honorable Mr. Warriner for a passenger. I

couldn’t see as he had any more honor than lots of other people, but all

of his mail was addressed that way, and Pratt said it was a kind of title

they have on shore. He was a red faced, pompous old duck, with too much

corporation, and looked as much out of place on the deck of that little

schooner as I would scraping before Queen Victoria. Every time we had a

squall he got almighty sick, and when a good hot day came how he did

sweat and mop his face! I really pitied him.

Once he said to me: “Mr. Hunt, I would give any reasonable amount to be

as slender as you are.”

“We thin chaps certainly have the advantage in the tropics, Mr. Warriner;

and ever since I was seventeen, and had the yellow fever at Rio, there

ain’t been any more meat on me than there is on a starved horse,” I

answered.

I had no call to feel flattered, but I was, just the same, for Pratt

sometimes poked fun at me for being so d—d lean; and didn’t I find a

picture drawn on the bulwarks forward of an oar with clothes on that

looked kind of like me? If I could have found out which of those black

sons of Belial did it, he would have caught a whaling, you bet!

We had a cook who also waited off at table,—a steward was too much luxury

for the _Dicky Bird_, and of all the infernal liars that ever lived, I

believe that Cornwallis Tecumseh Jones was the worst. He knew his

business pretty well, and could turn a flap-jack by throwing it up in the

air from one window of the galley, and catching it as it came down by the

window on the opposite side. {31}

The passenger, Pratt and me were talking of various things one afternoon

when Warriner said: “Captain, to-morrow will be Thanksgiving, and I

propose that we observe the day by having some appropriate dish for

dinner. Turkey and pumpkin pie are out of the question, so what do you

say to an English plum-pudding?”

“Anything, sir; anything to keep the peace. Plum-pudding or

pear-pudding, Thanksgiving or lobscouse.”

(Pratt was about half heeled over, as usual with him that time of day.)

“Lobscouse! Captain Pratt, I will thank you not to mention that

abominable mixture in my presence. It passes my comprehension how you

can eat such stuff. Neither do I like this flippant reference to so

august a day as Thanksgiving.

“But a plum-pudding will be excellent—that is, if you think that darkey

won’t ruin it in the making. I have a splendid recipe in my trunk, and

although some of the necessary ingredients are probably lacking, it will

be possible to produce a very fair pudding.”

“Let’s have it,” said I. “Anything for a change is my sentiments.”

“Darkeys usually have quite a knack for cooking, and I suppose if the

recipe is placed before Cornwallis he will do the subject justice. I

will get it at once.”

“The Lord only knows, Mr. Warriner. Did you ever hear a certain proverb

that is common at sea: ‘God sends meat and the devil sends cooks?’ It’s

astonishing how good provisions can be changed into all sorts of queer

shapes. But get your directions and take them to the galley. The black

imp may surprise us.”

Pratt went below, and soon after, Warriner and me went forward with the

directions for the pudding. He told the cook what was wanted and then

read off the recipe, so as to be sure and have no mistake. Never did I

hear of such a lot of truck being put together, and I don’t believe the

cook did either, for his eyes got bigger and bigger as Warriner read the

list of what he called “ingredients.” My! that pudding took some of

everything. There was raisins, currants, brown sugar, beef-suet, flour,

bread-crumbs, citron, candied lemon-peel, eggs, nutmeg and salt! “Boil

seven hours in a buttered mould. A sprig of holly should be stuck in the

center. Pour brandy around the pudding when ready to serve, and set it

on fire.” Holy Moses! Then there was a sauce with brandy and other

things in it.

The cook sat down on a bench and looked at Warriner.

“Golly! you done took my bref away, boss. Bile seben hour! Whar we

gwine to git dese yere tings? I ’low dere ain’t no brandy on dis craf’,

an’ as fur ten eggs—waal, de hens is completely gi’n out, eben ef I does

feed ’em on de Champyun Egg Food.”

“How should the poor things lay, shut up in a small coop? But as for the

brandy, I will furnish that, and also some nice layer raisins. Currants,

lemon-peel and citron we must do without, but ten eggs are a necessity,

and the other things you have.”

“We has jes’ got ’leben eggs, an’ ef yo’ takes ten from ’leben, dar ain’t

but bery few lef’. Where we gwine to get moah?”

“I neither know nor care,—we shall reach Vera Cruz sometime I devoutly

hope,—but ten eggs go into this pudding. The question is, can you make

it?”

“_Can I make it_?” repeated the cook, as if someone had asked him whether

he could breathe. “Waal, sah, dere ain’t no dish knowed to man or debil

dat dis chile can’t make, Mistah Warmer. Must I bile de sass seben hour

too?”

“Certainly not. The sauce must not be made until to-morrow morning just

before dinner, and is only to be boiled a few minutes. Can’t you read?”

“Me read? Well, I hope not, boss. I’s got all my receipts in my head.

None o’ yo’ new-fangled notions fur dis niggah.”

I had to laugh, poor Warriner looked so disgusted. He just all gave up

for a minute and thought the pudding was done for. Then he stamped his

foot and said:

“I am not to be thwarted by trifles, and will weigh out everything

myself. Then you can mix the articles together.”

Warriner fetched the raisins and brandy—if he’d been smart he wouldn’t

have brought the brandy till the last minute—and between ’em they managed

to mix up all the truck and get it in the mould. It was about the middle

of the afternoon when they got it on to boil.

Next day was fine, and Warriner was up before we finished washing down

the decks. Pratt and me were curious about the plum-pudding, for we’d

never seen one, and wanted to know what sort of idees the passenger had

about cookery. He kept telling all the morning what fine ones his wife

used to make, and said he’d show us a thing or two. We sat down to

dinner—our Thanksgiving dinner. The Honorable looked more self-satisfied

and important than usual, I thought; Cap’n Pratt was real good-natured

and told a lot of lies that Warriner swallowed like an albacore does a

flying-fish; I had scraped my face with an old hoe of a razor and put on

a necktie; and Cornwallis stood in the pantry door behind Pratt with a

white cap over his wool, and looking as solemn as a judge. He did well

that day, and we had a first rate dinner. There was vegetable soup;

chicken, rice and curry with Ceylon chutney; potatoes; boiled onions;

lime-juice; and each a cold whiskey punch. At last it was time for the

dessert. Cornwallis took away the things, while Warriner told us how

much we had to be thankful for, and how he and the cook had worked to

make the pudding a success.

[Picture: “It was stuck full of long feathers!”]

Well, the minute that pudding hove in sight Pratt and me laughed. The

middle of it was stuck full of long feathers!

“Heavens and earth! What are those things for?” cried Warriner.

“Dem is fedders, sah. You tole me dat holly was to be stuck up in de

middle, but dat bush ain’t to be foun’ in dese pahts. I done de best I

could, Mass’.”

“Was ever such a thing heard of! And are those feathers from the chicken

we have just eaten?”

“Laws, no. I done kotched de rooster—Golly! how dat ole bird did

squawk—and I yanked de fedders out ob his tail. Dere dey is, a wavin’

like a flag.”

Warriner was about to pull the feathers out and throw them away, but the

Cap’n and me rather liked the looks of ’em, so he stopped. Then the

sauce appeared. White of egg beaten stiff was on top of it. Next

Cornwallis brought a dish and turned the brandy around the pudding. How

awful it smelled! Not a bit like any brandy that I ever saw. Warriner

looked a bit puzzled, but before he had time to say a word the cook

struck a match and touched it to the liquor.

The whole thing blazed right up to the skylight, and scared all hands

nearly to death! You could have knocked me over with a fish-hook, and

that darky rolled up the whites of his eyes and acted as if he was

praying. Warriner’s face turned all colors, and Pratt was scared and mad

both. He jerked the cloth and everything off the table, took off his

coat and threw it on the blaze. Then he stamped on it.

None of us spoke a word for a minute; we were clean on our beam ends.

Then Pratt looked at the passenger and roared out: “Well, sir, you’ve

raised h— with your pudding, I must say! Like to have burned us all up

into the bargain. That’s what comes of setting brandy on fire. I

thought when you spoke of it, it was the d—dest nonsense to burn up a lot

of good liquor that might better be drunk.”

Warriner had found his voice by this time.

“Captain Thomas Pratt, you forget yourself. I am not accustomed to being

addressed in that fashion, and you will please remember that I am a

passenger on this craft—this miserable apology for a schooner—and did not

come here to be sworn at!”

The old boy was on his mettle, and Pratt saw it.

“No offense meant, Mr. Warriner, but I insist that your having that

brandy set on fire was a rash proceeding.”

“Brandy! That was not brandy. Do you suppose I never saw a plum-pudding

before? If that had been the brandy I gave that imp of Satan” (pointing

to the cook) “it would never have blazed up like that. And what foul

odor did we smell when he poured the stuff around the pudding? What odor

do we smell now? Kerosene, or I’m no judge.”

“Kerosene!” echoed the Cap’n.

I began to think the passenger knew what he was talking about. All of us

smelled oil, and we cast our eyes on Cornwallis. He looked as innocent

as a lamb.

“Gents, dat ain’t possible,” said he, his black face shining like

polished ebony.

“We will see about that,” answered Warriner. “Let’s taste the sauce—I’ll

warrant it’s full of kerosene too.” He took some in a spoon and smelled

of it before putting his tongue to it.

“Curious,” he muttered, “there is no odor of oil or brandy either.”

Then the old chap tasted it.

“This is extraordinary! There’s nothing to this sauce—it has no body.

There is positively not a drop of brandy in it; nor of kerosene, for that

matter.”

“Dat am bery strange, Mass’ Warmer. De brandy must ’a’ done ’vaporated.”

“Evaporated down your throat, you black villain! Captain Pratt, I

consider this a flagrant outrage. I furnished a quantity of good brandy

for this pudding, not a drop of which has been used. What has become of

it?”

“Dat Monday or some ob de han’s might ’a’ stole it when I wahn’t

lookin’,” suggested the cook.

Prince, the bo’s’un, was standing outside near the door, and had

evidently heard part of the confab. He now called out:

“Ef you ’lows me, Cap’n, I reckons I kin find out de truf in dis

argument.”

“Come in, Prince,” answered Pratt. “If you can get any truth out of

Cornwallis you’re smarter than I think you are.”

The cook looked indignant—not so much at being called a liar as having

the bo’s’un admitted,—for he and Prince were not on good terms, and he

considered the bo’s’un’s interference a piece of pure impudence.

Prince entered, cap in hand. I’m tolerable tall myself, but he was a

good four inches above me, and a right good looking darkey into the

bargain. He walked right up to the cook.

“Walrus Jones, you stole dat gemmen’s brandy. You lies ef you says you

didn’t.”

Cornwallis looked at his accuser defiantly.

“What yo’ want wid me, niggah? Is yo’ lookin’ fur trouble? Go ’long

’bout yo’ bizness now, an’ doan’ be comin’ in de cabin whar yo’ betters

is. I’s willin’ to obey de Cap’n ob dis craf’, but I tells yo’ now dat I

won’t take no sass from lowdown bo’s’uns. Go an’ scar’ de life out ob

dose pore debils in de crew, fur all I keer, but doan’ git gay wid me.

Huh! Yo’ mus’ tink I’s jes’ turned out!”

“You awoids de subjek’. Dat am a shuah sign ob guilt.”

“Lemme tell yo’ somfin’, yo’ onery niggah! I doan’ sociate wid sech

trash as yo’ be, what can’t tell who his own fadder and mudder was. I

come from a hono’ble fam’ly what was tole ob in hist’ry. Ef yo’ keeps on

probokin’ me to wraf I’ll put pizen in yo’ wittals, dat’s what I’ll do,

an yo’ now has fair wahnin’!”

Prince showed signs of wrath himself at this speech, but Pratt interfered

before he could answer.

“No more talk about poisoning people, Cornwallis. Answer me this: Where

did that brandy go to?”

“Ef it didn’t go in dat sass an’ aroun’ dat puddin’, Cap’n, den I ’lows

some ob de crew done stole it. Dem critters ain’t to be trusted, no how.

Cockroaches is bery bad in dat galley, too, an’ dey likes sech drinks, I

hearn tell. Whose to know if dey wahn’t at de bottle?”

“Why, you black rascal, you said not ten minutes ago that the brandy was

put in the sauce and around the pudding!”

“So I did, Cap’n. Ef dat ain’t de truf an’ nothin’ but de truf, I hopes

de good Lawd will hab me pah’lized, an’ make me fall dead heah in my

tracks.”

“Impious creature! Unworthy descendant of Ham!” cried Warriner.

“Me a ham? Me, a linear decen’ant ob de great Lawd Cornwahlis, what

lan’ed at Yohktown an’ chased de Yanks all ober de plains ob Ole

Virgintay? Dat’s de stock I come from, Mistah Warmer, an’ so I want yo’

to understan’.”

The cook’s reference to his ancestors astounded Warriner, though none of

the rest of us saw anything queer about it.

“Good heavens! What curse is there like ignorance?” said he, looking up

at the ceiling.

It was lucky for me that Warriner spoke up, for I was just going to show

off about Lord Cornwallis, and would likely have made a fool of myself.

My history is a bit uncertain; so I stood by and kept mum.

Prince had been considering while the rest of us talked, and now said:

“Cap’n Pratt, I would ax you, sah, for de Bible, an’ I promises to bring

dis sinful critter to time, eben of he does b’long to de quality ob

Virginny, which he don’t, unless de debil hab turned saint.”

All of us were surprised at this, but Pratt went to fetch the book.

Prince could read large print tolerably well, and write a little, which

facts he was very proud of. His confident air, and the new tack he had

taken, made the cook a bit uneasy for the first time. He had no idee

what was coming next.

Pratt beckoned to me from the door of his room, and whispered in my ear:

“The Bible’s mislaid. Hasn’t been used for so long it can’t be found.

Here’s a book the same size, though.”

“Maybe that’ll do,” said I. “We’ll try, anyway.”

Prince took the volume of Lieut. Maury’s sailing directions and said

impressively: “Now, Mistah Jones, appearances is agin you, but dey is

bery deceptible, an’ not alwuz to be trusted. You may be innocenter den

a kitten, which fur y’ur own sake, I hopes you is. I has here, gemmen,

de Good Book, out ob which I will read what happens to cooks which

steals.”

Cornwallis looked uneasily from one to the other, and at the sacred

volume. He was ignorant and superstitious, and Prince as reader and

oracle was much more to be feared than Prince the bo’s’un, with all his

threats and accusations.

“Dis chile better be gittin’ back to de galley an’ washin’ dem dishes.

Neber will git nothin’ done at dis rate, stan’in’ aroun’ an’ talkin’ like

a lot o’ wenches at a pic-nic.”

“Hold on, Cornwallis,” said Pratt, taking hold of him as he neared the

door. “You don’t need to be afraid as long as you didn’t get away with

the liquor. Stay right here and let’s hear how well Prince can read.”

The bo’s’un had been turning over the leaves as if searching for

something, and finally stopped at a page which told the route vessels

should take when bound from New York to Hong Kong and the Far East.

Clearing his throat and putting on a long face, he read: “Cooks an’

stoords what steals ’taters and won’t confess, is boun’ to be set on de

capstan all night long till dey owns up. Nex’ day, dey is to be

whitewashed, but ef it’s a white pusson, he mus’ be painted black.

“Dem dat takes sugah is to be made to drink bilge-water an’ nothin’ else,

an’ is to larn to take de sun ebery mawnin’ an’ ebenin’.

“Ef you kotch one stealin’ gin, make a rope fas’ to him an’ t’ow him

oberboard all day long. Ef he don’t die de fust day, try him ag’in de

second.

“Gittin’ away wid w’isky is bery bad. Ef a cook or stoord is foun’ out,

he mus’ be drove full o’ marling-spikes till he stops yellin’, eben ef it

done kills him.

“But ef one steals brandy,—wahl, der ain’t nothin’ bad ’nough fur him.

Brandy is awful hard to make, an’ costs a hun’red dollahs a poun’; so

’tain’t no sort o’ use foolin’ with one dat steals it. De craf’ will

sink ef he ain’t took in hand.

“Gib de wicked sinnah time to say his prayers, an’ den h’ist him up an’

down de main stay fou’ times, so his blood circ’lates good. Tie a

grin’stone roun’ his neck an’ heave him oberboard, while all han’s prays

an’ sings like de bery debil. Ef he sinks he’s guilty shuah, an’ ef he

floats, haul ’im aboard an’ tie more weights on top of ’im. Ef he keeps

on a floatin’, he’s a innocent man, an’ his wages is to be made biggah.

Heah de chaptah ends.”

Prince made this up as he went along, pronouncing his words with much

gravity, and it had such an effect on Cornwallis that we had all we could

do to keep from roaring right out. We had to look solemn, though, or he

would have smelt a rat. He stood with his back against the wall, rolling

up the whites of his eyes and looking around in a scared way as if he

didn’t know whether the whole thing was a joke or not. Finally he said:

“Cap’n Pratt, I axes you, sah, ef what dat niggah done read is wrote down

in dat book, or is I bein’ made a wictim ob what dey calls de

cu’cumstances?”

“It’s all down in cold type, Cornwallis, and now we must put you to the

test, so as to know if you’re guilty.”

“What test am dat, sah?”

“Why, we must hang a grindstone round your neck and heave you overboard.

If you didn’t steal the brandy, you’ll float. That’s what the book says.”

The cook’s jaw dropped, and he fell down in a heap. Throwing his arms

around Pratt’s knees, he gasped: “Does yo’ mean dat, Cap’n?”

Pratt nodded.

“Oh, fur de good Lawd’s sake, what hab dis pore chile done dat he mus’ be

kilt in cole blood! Ain’t I sarved you, sah, fur one, two, six,—wahl,

seberal yeahs? An’ now is yo’ gwine to let dat blood-thu’sty niggah

what’s been hankerin’ arter my life—is yo’ gwine to let him murdah me?”

“I feel sorry for you, Cornwallis,—d—n me if I don’t,—but there’s no help

for it. The book says the craft will never reach port if the guilty

person escapes, so it’s a case of your going overboard or all of us

giving up the ghost.”

“Gents, is der no marcy in yo’ buzums?”

This piteous appeal was addressed to Warriner and me, and the cook looked

so miserable that I could hardly play my part.

“No, you must prepare for the ordeal,” said Warriner, “and if you have

told the truth you will surely float.”

“What, an’ a grin’stone made fas’ to me?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, Mass’ Warmer, I’s not ready to die; ’deed I’s not. I’s been

powe’ful wicked in my time, an’ dem kin’ o’ people has to jine de chu’ch

an’ hab r’ligion ’fore deh heahs de trumpet blow.”

“No more fooling. Prince, you bring aft the grindstone that the crew

sharpen their knives on. Hunt, you get the fog-horn and blow like h—

when we heave him overboard. The d—d thing makes more noise than any

trumpet I ever heard.”

“Yes,” added Warriner, “It may comfort the condemned.”

When we got back with the horn and grindstone, Cornwallis was jumping up

and down and yelling like a maniac.

“I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! An’ ef yo’ drap me

overboard dat’s why I’s boun’ to sink! Only lemme lib till we reaches

dry lan’ an’ I’ll go into one ob dem conbents whar dey is said to be dead

to de worl’, an’ I won’t nebber see none ob yo’ no moah.”

“The sinner owns up,” cried Pratt, and Prince grinned till every one of

his ivories showed. “Now, Cornwallis, your life will be spared on

condition that you make a clean breast of this matter. No more lies; and

you must pay for the brandy you drank at the rate of one hundred dollars

a gallon—wasn’t that it, Prince?”

“A hun’red dollahs a poun’, sah,” corrected Prince.

“I doan know how many poun’ I drank,” sniffed the cook, “an’ ef I has to

pay dat much fur each one ob ’em, I’s got to wo’k more’n a year fur

nothin’.”

“That’s better than being drowned to-day,” said I, “and you’d better be

thankful. Now tell us how you took the brandy.”

“I’s been close to de dahk riber, gents, an’ will perceed to tell de

truf,” said Cornwallis, now much relieved after his narrow escape. He

looked down at the floor and began in a low tone: “Yo’ see, it was jes’

dis way. Mass’ Warmer, he done brung de brandy an’ say, ‘Put some ob dat

in de sass an’ some roun’ de puddin’.’ De las’ was to be sot on fire

soon as ’twas on de table.

“Wahl, I was stan’in’ lookin’ at de bottle when I heerd a noise. I turn

roun’, an’ as shuah as I lib, ef de debil wahn’t right ’side ob me! Oh,

he looked orful, an’ I like to died from de shock ob seein’ him. Ef yo’

wants to know what he looks like, jes’ take a good look at dat Prince

Sahnders, fur ef him an’ de debil ain’t brudders I’m a cod-fish!

“I says, ‘Debil, go ’way. I doan want no trouble wid you.’ But he gib

me.a push towa’ds de bottle, and says, reel soft-like, ‘Yo’ pore,

mis’able, skinny, oberwo’ked critter, you’s all fadin’ away.’

(Cornwallis weighed at least two hundred.) ’Dere ain’t nothin’ lef’ ob

yo’ but skin an’ bone. Jes’ take a drap ob dat liquor, an’ it mought do

lots ob good. You’s gittin’ ole, and needs some stimilant.’

“I knowed it was de gospel truf, yo’ understan’, but at de same time it

wahn’t right, an’ I tried to put ole Nick out ob de galley. He wahr

bigger den me, an’ jes’ made me drink dat brandy till de bottle looked

a’most empty. ’Deed I tried to git him out, but ’twan’t no use, an’

ebery drap ob dat liquor done wanished ’fore he quit pesterin’ me. I’d

had a misery in my head de hull mawnin’, but I felt right pert arter de

brandy was gone. I sot down to reflec’ a spell.

“‘Now,’ I says, ‘ef de brandy was to be sot fire to an’ burned up, it am

plain dat it can’t be drank.’ I ’lowed dat keerosene ansahs de pu’pose

jes’ as well, so I puts it roun’ de puddin’. Golly! how dat ile did

burn! I was real dis’pinted ’bout de sass, fur I reckoned dat ile mought

pizen yo’. So I lef’ it out, an’ hoped dat fak’ would ’scape de company’s

obserbation.

“I’s spoke de truf, yo’ understan’, an’ is resolbed to die ’fore I eber

agin disto’ts de fak’s.”

We all laughed till we nearly parted our braces, especially Warriner. I

wouldn’t have believed he had so much humor. The passenger pulled away

the tablecloth and the smashed crockery till he sighted the pudding.

What with the smell of oil and burned feathers, and being all scorched up

and stepped on, it wasn’t a very fine sight by this time.

“Did any of you ever read ‘Great Expectations?’” he asked.

None of us had.

“It tells of a certain lady called Miss Havisham, who expected to be

married one evening. The wedding supper was spread and everything ready,

but the bridegroom never came. For years and years after did Miss

Havisham keep that feast untouched in the deserted room—kept it until

spiders spun webs over it, and mice and damp played havoc with the faded

yellow cloth and the viands. Sometimes a boy named Pip would pay her a

visit, and then the wax tapers would be lighted, while the strange pair

walked round and round the decaying feast.

“Even so, my friends, should I preserve this pudding and enthrone it in

my Brooklyn home to remind me of my lost brandy and of this most

extraordinary Thanksgiving. But that is impossible, so follow me.”

He picked the pudding up from the floor and held it out at arm’s length,

at the same time leading the way out on deck. Sunday and Tuesday, Flip

and Jackson and all the crew forgot what they were about at sight of the

queer procession, and Warriner holding out the pudding. He marched over

to the lee bulwarks, got on top of an empty box, and began to look at the

pudding with a very sorrowful expression, his eyes blinking and his head

on one side.

“What the devil is he about?” thinks I.

He looked around at us and wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief; then

held out the blasted pudding in both hands so all of us could see it.

“Gentlemen, behold! This was a plum-pudding. Yea, thou dark and sodden

mass, pierced with feathers and baptized in kerosene; thou culinary

triumph, concocted by Samuel Warriner and the descendant of Lord

Cornwallis;—thou fond inspiration of our brain, which, owing to the

combined assaults of Satan and yon sable African, hast so abominably

miscarried; we bid thee an eternal farewell!”

“Good G—, if he ain’t blubbering!” whispered Pratt, while Warriner looked

so affected that Prince, Cornwallis and me nearly cried.

“Good-by, pudding. Go-od-b-bye,” (heaving it overboard) “and be thou

food for worms—I should say, fishes!”

Away it went, and struck the water with a splash. All hands stared until

it sunk, and then we looked at Warriner. He had taken up the fog-horn,

and just as the pudding went under, he blew a mournful blast.

“May the dear departed rest in peace,” he said, feelingly.

Then we all pulled ourselves together and went back to work.

MY BRAZILIAN ADVENTURE.

[Picture: My Brazilian Adventure] Alice and I were seated at the

breakfast-table in our rambling old house on the outskirts of the French

quarter in New Orleans. She was glancing over the _Picayune_, while I

was wrapped in deep thought concerning the most vivid and remarkable

dream I had ever had,—the strangest part being that it was about a place

I had never seen or even heard of. My sister, who had never married, was

ten years my junior, and after my wife’s death, Alice had accepted my

invitation to take charge of my household. We lived a retired life, with

no one else in the big house but a maid-servant and old black Bilbo, a

trusted domestic, who had been a slave in our family during the halcyon

days before the war. “Alice,” said I, suddenly, “I have concluded to

take Dr. Antoine’s advice, and go off on a sea voyage. You remember the

last time he prescribed for me, he said my poor health was simply the

result of overwork and too close attention to business, and that a long

voyage would benefit me more than anything else.”

My sister laid aside her paper, both surprised and pleased.

“How glad I am, George, that you at last see the necessity of it. Where

shall you go?”

“Well, according to my dream of the last two nights, my destination will

be latitude 3° 50′ 30″ South, longitude 32° 24′ 30″ West.”

Alice stared at me as though she doubted my sanity, while I folded my

arms, nodded my head, and tried not to look foolish.

I waited a moment, thinking she would speak, and then continued: “Yes, I

know you will say that a man forty-three years old ought to know better,

especially so prosaic a one as you often say I am. But let me tell you

my vision, and then ridicule it if you can.

“Night before last I slept unusually well, and was conscious of nothing

until I heard a clock somewhere strike four. I dozed off soon after, and

had this dream:

“I was seated alone in the stern of a little boat, that floated on a calm

and gently-heaving moonlit sea; while close on my right hand was a small,

densely wooded island, with phosphorescent waves breaking upon its sandy

beach. Behind it, and belonging seemingly to another body of land, a

lofty peak towered into the air.

“The silvery white light fell upon a stately palm that grew near a large

rock on the islet, and upon two figures, one of whom, in military

uniform, leaned against the trunk, while the other carefully smoothed

over the ground at the base of the tree. Then the former glided to the

rock and wrote or scratched something upon it, but though I looked and

looked, I saw no words, nor could I get even the smallest view of the

faces of the two men, although their figures were perfectly plain.

“While striving to see their features, I became sensible of a veil of

mist enveloping both land and sea, and when it passed, island and peak

were gone. In their stead was a gigantic blackboard rising out of the

ocean, with these characters upon it, in figures and letters so large

that they terrified me:

3° 50′ 30″ S.

32° 24′ 30″ W.

“As I looked, the great object seemed to advance upon me—I should be

annihilated! I tried to grasp an oar in the bottom of the boat, but

could not move a muscle. On it came, rapidly, noiselessly. At the

instant it was upon me, I made a frantic lunge and found myself sitting

up in bed, drenched in perspiration, and my heart beating so I could

hardly breathe.

“On realizing where I was, I got up, struck a match, and looked at my

watch. A quarter past four! All that had happened since I heard the

clock strike fifteen minutes before.

“I said nothing to you yesterday, Alice, but now you know why I have been

so preoccupied. Again last night I had the same dream.”

My sister said little, except to advise me to dismiss the whole subject

from my mind, but I could see that it had made more of an impression on

her than she chose to admit.

I had already consulted the atlas in regard to the spot of which I had

dreamed, and found it to be an island with an unpronouncable name, lying

near the coast of Brazil.

That night I wrote to my nephew Ralph at New York, telling him that I had

decided to take a sea voyage, and asking him what was the best way of

getting to Fernando de Noronha, for that was the name of the island. He

was master, and one-third owner of the brig _Sea Witch_, and I knew his

advice was to be depended on.

I was very busy for several days following, arranging my business affairs

and giving certain necessary directions to my partner, Simon LaForte.

Each night I retired fully expecting a repetition of the dream, but my

expectations were not realized.

Ralph’s answer came Saturday. Here it is:

“DEAR UNCLE GEORGE,—

“Yours of the 9th received. I am glad you’ve concluded to go to sea,

but what possesses you to steer for Fernando de Noronha? It’s a

Brazilian convict island one hundred miles from the coast, where all

the life prisoners are confined, and except the government

transports, not a vessel stops at the place for months together.

There is absolutely nothing there but a fertile island of about

twenty square miles, inhabited only by convicts, soldiers, and a

governor.

“The _Sea Witch_ has been chartered to load for Pernambuco, and from

there will come back to New York. Now uncle, take my advice and go

along. The only way to see the ocean as it really is, is on a

sailing vessel, and we shall probably sight this island of yours

either going or returning, which ought to satisfy you. You would

have a good time as a passenger, but as you’ve always been such a

worker, it might not suit you to loaf, and in that case you could

ship before the mast. We’ll show you how to make sennit, mouse

blocks, overhaul buntlines, tie a reef-point, and do other things you

never heard of.

“The brig is repairing at Poillon’s yard. We had a rough passage

from Tampico, and the little hooker had a couple of sticks jerked out

in a blow off Hatteras.

“If you’re in New York in three weeks it will be time enough. I must

run over to South Street now, so good-bye. Love to yourself and Aunt

Alice.

“RALPH.”

This epistle I read aloud, and we both laughed over Ralph’s joke about my

shipping before the mast, but that part of the letter referring to the

sticks being jerked out of the brig made me feel rather dubious. I

consoled myself, however, by reflecting that such things probably did not

occur often, and after long deliberation decided to go, and wrote Ralph

to that effect.

It was the afternoon of July 2 that the tug _Charm_ pulled the brig out

from Pier 1, East River, and took her in tow for Sandy Hook. It is a

long tow, and the stars were shining when the pilot went over the side,

the tug’s hawser was cast off, and we were left to shift for ourselves.

Everyone aboard was so busy that I did not get a chance to say half a

dozen words to Ralph that night. He and the mate were roaring out

orders; the yards were being hoisted to the accompaniment of the wild

sailors’ chant, which begins “From South Street slip to ’Frisco Bay,” and

I finally turned in and slept sounder than I had for months, in spite of

the racket on deck. Next morning was beautiful, and we were spinning

along at a great rate when I came on deck. I felt fine, but somehow

couldn’t walk very well. Ralph told me the names of the sails and some

of the ropes, and was surprised that I hadn’t been sick.

Before we sailed, I had told him my dream, which he ridiculed until I

spoke of the lofty peak, when he became serious.

“There is just such a peak at one end of the island,” he had said. “It

is eight hundred feet high, and the observatory at its summit overlooks

the island, and the ocean for sixty miles in every direction.”

This was enough for me to know; I was now determined at any cost to get

ashore on that island and try and find the scene pictured in my vision,

for that such a scene existed I no longer doubted.

Three weeks passed, and we had made good progress since leaving port. I

soon found my sea legs, as Ralph expressed it, and often climbed the

rigging as far as the tops. I went out on the jibboom and caught

bonitas—a deep-sea fish of a steely blue color which preys remorselessly

upon the flying-fish; I read; I learned to make nautical knots of various

kinds, and actually felt ten years younger than I had in New Orleans.

There was nothing to bother or irritate me; no telephones, no whistles

blowing, no mail to open, no newspapers to read; in a word, I was in a

new world altogether, and began to get so fat that Seth Hawkins, the

mate, one day told me that I should have to shake a reef or two out of my

clothes by the time I got back to New York.

After a particularly fine day’s run, I said to Ralph, who had just marked

it on the chart, “I had no idea that sailing vessels could go fast. As

this rate we shall soon be across the Equator. You say we are only 8°

North this noon.”

“Don’t crow, uncle, till we’re through the Doldrums,” he replied. I had

heard a little about this bugbear, but had a rather vague idea as to what

sort of a place it was. I was soon to know, for upon going on deck next

morning, I found a dead calm. There was not even enough wind to steer by.

The atmosphere was hot and muggy, while great masses of wet-looking

clouds were piled up all along the horizon. The sails flapped against

the masts and rigging with loud reports each time the brig rolled, and

when I saluted Seth Hawkins, he said: “Well, Mr. Spencer, how do you like

the Doldrums?”

During the forenoon a violent rain squall struck us from due South, and

we tore along at a nine-knot rate, while such torrents of rain I never

saw before. Barrels were put in position to catch the water, but before

noon the rain ceased suddenly and the wind with it. Thus it was all that

day, all the next day, and for a whole week,—nothing but calms,

rain-squalls, and variable winds (usually from the wrong direction),

until I was nearly beside myself. Some days we made less than thirty

miles in the twenty-four hours, and it was no unusual occurrence to tack

ship three, and even four times a day, which put Ralph and the mate in a

horrible humor.

But there is an end to all things, and on the twenty-ninth day out we

crossed the line with a fair wind, and when Ralph figured out our

position the next noon, he announced that we should probably be in

Pernambuco inside of three days.

After much persuasion, I induced him to promise to stop at Fernando de

Noronha on the way back long enough for me to go ashore, for the wind we

now had would carry us a long way inside the island, and we should not

even sight it. Three days later the first half of our journey was

completed, and we were safely in port after a good passage of thirty-four

days.

I found much to interest me in Pernambuco. The harbor was crowded with

shipping, amongst which the British and Norwegian flags predominated; but

my eyes were gladdened quite frequently by the sight of the stars and

stripes. The head stevedore, who had charge of loading the brig, was a

half-breed named Pedro. He spoke very fair English, and during one of

our frequent talks, I casually mentioned Fernando de Noronha.

“Ah, Diabalo!” he exclaimed, his black eyes glittering, “My brother—poor

Manuel—he is there!”

“Why, is he a prisoner?” I asked in surprise.

“What for else should he be there?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Santa Maria! he will never come back.”

Then he related the story of Manuel, after which, by a little

questioning, I found that Pedro knew several things about the island of

interest to me. He said that occasionally, when vessels were becalmed

there, a boat was sent ashore for melons, which grew in great abundance

on a very small island near the larger one. A suit of clothes or a sack

of flour would buy more melons than would go in the boat.

We were thirty-one days in Pernambuco discharging and reloading, but at

last the stores were on board and everything ready, and the day before

sailing, I accompanied Ralph to the Custom House to “clear the brig.”

We put to sea on Monday afternoon, and at daybreak next morning the

convict island should be in sight, if the wind held at northwest. I was

much excited, now that my hopes were so near fruition, for that something

of value was concealed at the foot of the palm tree I did not doubt; else

why had I dreamed of this out-of-the-way spot, of which I had never even

heard?

That night we consulted together, and carefully matured our plans, for

Ralph had come to take nearly as much interest in the outcome of the

affair as I. He refused to go ashore himself, saying that it was against

all custom for a captain ever to leave his vessel while she was on a

voyage, but that Seth Hawkins and two of the crew should go in the boat

with us.

“And now, Uncle,” said Ralph, “please realize one thing. In putting off

a boat, I shall be doing something I’d do for no one but you, as it is

the duty of a captain to take his vessel from one port to another without

any unnecessary delay. So don’t lose any time on the island, for I shall

feel guilty as it is.”

I grasped his hand warmly, and whispered: “Ralph, if I am any richer

to-morrow night than I am now, you shall profit by it.”

He smiled, and said: “By the way, I shall have to let Hawkins into the

affair to a limited extent, for he knows very well I’d not send ashore

simply to get melons. He’s been with me two years, and can be trusted.”

Eight bells struck; the second dog-watch was over, and Ralph went below

to turn in, while Seth Hawkins and I paced the deck together,—he telling

me some interesting reminiscences of his life in Hong Kong, where he had

once kept a sailors’ boarding house.

I rose very early next morning; in fact, it was but little past sunrise,

and the crew had not finished “washing down.”

The mate was standing by the starboard taffrail, and after the usual

“Good morning,” he was about to speak, when I exclaimed, pointing to the

east, “Look! what great lighthouse is that?”

I had just seen it,—a distant outline clearly defined against the rosy

eastern sky.

“That’s no lighthouse, though it does look like one. That’s the peak on

your island.”

The last words were spoken with so peculiar an emphasis that I knew Ralph

had told him our plans. He went forward, and I continued to devour that

majestic peak, that gradually lost its shadowy appearance and assumed

definite form.

The wind was light, and we raised it slowly. As I looked, a feeling of

bewilderment stole over me. There was the peak of my dream to a

certainty, and yet something was lacking. There should have been an

island in front of it.

At two bells in the forenoon watch we could distinguish objects on shore.

For some time past I had noticed a small islet near the main one, and as

we continued to sail on, we gradually brought it between us and the peak

on Fernando de Noronha. Then I recognized it all.

Ralph spoke to me, but I was speechless with emotion.

“Rouse yourself,” I at last heard him say; “In half an hour it will be

time to launch the boat.”

Those words restored me, and I went below to make my preparations.

[Picture: The Convict Island]

The boat was hoisted into the air by means of a bowline rigged over the

fore yard-arm, and was then lowered over the side. Hawkins, a couple of

hands, and myself entered it.

I noticed that instead of heading for Wood Island, as Ralph called it, we

were making for Fernando de Noronha itself. “Where are we going, Mr.

Hawkins?” I asked.

“We’ve got to get permission of the Governor, Mr. Spencer, before we can

carry off any melons, or even land on that island,” he replied.

A number of soldiers were gathered about the rude quay, evidently much

surprised to see a vessel stop at the island. When the mate and I

stepped ashore, a distinguished looking man whom we had not seen before

came forward and said something in Spanish, which I did not understand.

Hawkins did, and bowed with a grace which I had never suspected him of

possessing; and I knew that this was the Governor.

The mate possessed some knowledge of Spanish, and finally managed to make

himself understood. The Governor evidently took him for the master of

the brig, as the two addressed each other respectively as “Senor El

Capitan” and “Excellenza,” which was all I could understand.

At a signal from the mate, one of our men brought a sack of flour from

the boat, and we prepared to embark. Two of the soldiers advanced to the

boat with us, and I saw them exchange glances of surprise. “They’ve seen

that spade and pick-axe, the rascals!” said Seth, aside to me. “I’ve got

leave to get all the melons we want,” he continued, as the men pulled

away for the landing, “but that smirking Governor was a sight too polite

and inquisitive to suit me.”

Wood Island is separated from Fernando de Noronha by a narrow channel,

but Hawkins ordered his men to row around a point of land, to be out of

sight from the quay, which was then something over a mile distant.

After grounding on the beach, a little wave carried us further up, and we

all leaped out. Seth dispatched the two men towards the north end of the

islet after melons, and as soon as they were out of the way, we grasped

our tools and commenced the search for the rock, which ought to be near

the shore.

We followed the beach all along that side of the islet, Seth eying me

curiously, and occasionally admonishing me to “Look out for centipedes.”

Near the southern extremity, I came to a palm that seemed to me identical

with the one of my dream, but not a solitary rock was there near it.

After considerably more than an hour had elapsed, the mate ventured the

remark that our prolonged stay on the island might arouse suspicion in

the Governor’s mind, especially if the soldiers told him of the spade and

pick-axe in the boat.

I had seated myself on the decaying trunk of a fallen tree to rest a

moment, and wonder if my expedition was to result in failure, but at

Hawkins’ words I started up.

I advanced towards a mango tree to refresh myself with some of the ripe

fruit, when, through an opening in the underbrush, _I saw it_—the rock of

my dream at last!

There could be no doubt of it. I breathlessly approached, and touched it

with the spade.

This is what was scratched on the broad surface, in characters quite

fresh and distinct: “Mas distante occidente.”

“Further west,” said Hawkins, behind me.

“Is that what it means in English?”

He nodded, and I turned to find the palm, which should be only a short

way to the left.

Could this be it—this blasted trunk, looking as though lightning had

struck it? Judging from its position it must be, and making a sign to

Seth, we fell to with pick and spade.

We worked until I thought my back would break, and must have dug down

more than three feet in the rich soil, when the spade struck an

obstruction, and we heard the muffled grating of metal. Then the top of

what seemed a small zinc box was uncovered.

Silently we toiled away, and within ten minutes more were able to drag

forth the box from its resting place.

It was perhaps a foot square, and weighed so much that Seth and I took

turns in lugging it along the beach towards the boat. Upon arriving

there, I wrapped the box in a piece of tarpaulin, that the men might not

see what it was, and placed it in the boat.

We saw nothing of our crew, but the sight of nearly a dozen immense

water-melons laid on the beach proved that they had not been idle.

“Great Scott! I s’pose they’d bring melons for a week if I didn’t yell

‘Belay!’” ejaculated Seth; “how many do they think the boat can hold?

I’ve got to hunt them up, for Captain Spencer wants no time wasted.”

He disappeared, and I occupied myself in devouring the box with my eyes,

and speculating as to its contents. What fabulous wealth in gold and

jewels was hidden away in that dull casket? Millions, possibly. In what

century had it been buried? Through what scores and scores of years had

this little islet been the hiding-place of the ancient box I now looked

on? All other eyes that had beheld it must have long since mouldered

into dust.

While absorbed in these reflections relating to the past, I was rudely

recalled to the present by a crashing in the underbrush, and Seth

Hawkins, with our men, appeared, running towards the boat.

“Lay aboard lively there, Mr. Spencer!” cried the mate.

Much alarmed, I tumbled in, and he followed a moment later. The men, a

Scandinavian and a negro, were about to put some of the melons into the

boat, when Seth cried, “Drop ’em, and pile in here, you sons of

sea-cooks!”

They obeyed, and shoved off the boat, though greatly bewildered at

leaving the island without the very fruit we had ostensibly come after.

The oars were plied vigorously, and when about a ship’s length from the

beach, I espied a catamaran {79} coming around the north end of the

islet.

The truth burst upon us. “We are followed!” I exclaimed. Seth nodded.

“Why? Did the Governor not give us permission to land?”

“That’s true; but those dark-skinned devils that saw the spade and

pick-axe like enough told him, and he’s bound to see what we’re up to.

If they overhaul this boat, and see that box of yours, and find we’ve got

no melons, there’ll be trouble. I’d have brought off a few, but they’d

weigh the boat down too much. These Brazilians have no use for Americans,

anyhow.”

Our situation was certainly unpleasant. We were nearly a mile from the

brig, and the catamaran was not over half that distance astern of us, and

running dead before the wind, which was freshening. I was beginning to

wonder what Ralph could be doing, for he actually seemed to be going away

from us, when the mate cried out: “Look! the brig’s in stays! the

Captain’s putting her about, so as to fetch us on the starboard tack.

Hurray!”

Five minutes later, the _Sea Witch_, with the wind abeam, was running

down to us at nearly right angles, evidently aiming to go between us and

our pursuers, who were now hardly a quarter of a mile astern. We easily

made out five people on the catamaran, two of whom Seth thought were

convicts, while one of the others he took for the Governor himself. The

latter was waving something in a hostile manner, but as the brig was

going six feet to the catamaran’s one, we no longer felt alarm unless our

pursuers should use fire-arms.

The brig’s helm was now put down, and she shot up into the wind, thus

checking her progress; when halyards were let go, and the light sails

came fluttering in. We were only a couple of cable lengths away, and

soon had the boat alongside, and my newly acquired property aboard.

The catamaran had given up the pursuit, and was on her way back to the

island, those on board indulging in violent gesticulations as long as we

could distinguish them.

Some time later, we were closeted in Ralph’s room (which was much larger

than mine) with the box between us. It was necessary to bring tools from

the carpenter shop to open it, and the first discovery we made was that

the zinc was simply the covering for a wooden box, which my nephew said

was made of teak, one of the rarest and most durable of woods. It was

lined with sailcloth, and upon drawing this aside we saw a small

crucifix. Beneath this was a folded paper, and then—a golden vision!

For one moment we stared at it in silence, when I stretched out my hand

and took up a coin, half expecting to see it melt away. It bore the

embossed head of Dom Pedro, and the date 1885, besides an inscription.

“Ha, this is modern!” I exclaimed, much surprised at the recent date.

“Wait,” said Ralph, as I prepared to turn out the contents of the box,

“let me read this paper; it is in Spanish.

“This 34,000 M. is the property of Leon da Costa, Commander of His

Imperial Majesty’s troops at Pernambuco, by whom it was here concealed

September 16, 1889, pending the settlement of the dissentions which are

now rending our unhappy country, and which make it unsafe for one

enjoying the favor of the noble Dom Pedro to own property in Brazil.

“Invoking the blessing of the church, and the protection of Holy Mary, I

here commit my all to Mother Earth.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute. I felt awed, as though a voice from

another world had spoken.

“Ralph,” I said, slowly, “if I had known this treasure had been here but

two years, and belonged to a man who is probably still living, I should

never have taken it. As it is, I shall keep it until inquiries are made,

but it shall not be used except in the event of this man’s death.”

Ralph bowed his head in acquiescence.

The milreis is the standard coin of Brazil, as I learned at Pernambuco,

and is worth about fifty-five cents in our money, so that the box

contained nearly $18,700, some of which was in currency.

“This Da Costa,” said Ralph, “evidently had the duty of conducting the

convicts from Pernambuco to the island; and it was doubtless on one of

these trips that he buried his money, though why he has let it remain so

long puzzles me. And as for ‘Mas distante occidente,’ which you say was

traced on the rock, the words were probably written as a guide to the

location of the tree.”

The convict island faded away in the distance, the great peak being

visible for several hours after all other parts had vanished; and that

evening, long after the damp night-wind had stiffened the sails, and a

drenching dew lay heavy on the bulwarks, I stood watching the glorious

phosphorescent display in the brig’s wake, and marvelling over the

strange fulfillment of my dream.

The inquiries which we instituted upon my return home resulted in the

discovery that Leon Da Costa had died of yellow fever in 1890 at Santos,

one of the chief ports of Brazil, and at the same time about the most

pestilential and unsanitary place on the face of the earth. I had no

further scruples about using the money, $5,000 of which I sent to Ralph,

without whose assistance I should have accomplished nothing. He now owns

two-thirds of the brig _Sea Witch_, of which vessel Seth Hawkins is still

mate.

Occupying a prominent place in our parlor is a peculiar motto—the work of

Alice. The figures are white, on a background of black, like this:

3° 50′ 30″ S.

32° 24′ 30″ W.

It never fails to attract the attention of visitors, many of whom inquire

what it signifies. We tell them it is a marine puzzle.

BRINGING IN A DERELICT.

[Picture: Bringing in a Derelict] The West India hurricane of August,

1893, was one of unusual severity, and caused great havoc among shipping

on the Atlantic seaboard from Florida to Maine. Besides the large number

of vessels lost by going ashore, many were abandoned by their crews at

sea after having sprung a leak or become water-logged. A large part of

these craft subsequently foundered, but a number of them were vessels

bound from Georgia ports to Boston and New York with cargoes of hard pine

lumber, and in these cases the vessels, after becoming full of water,

“floated on their cargoes;” that is to say, the buoyancy imparted to the

wrecks by the lumber in their holds kept them from sinking as they

ordinarily would have done. Some of these derelicts have been known to

float for a year or two, round and round in a beaten track, forming a

source of great peril to navigation; until, the lumber becoming

thoroughly saturated with water, the wreck finally sinks. In some

instances the abandoned vessel is torn to pieces by the violence of

successive storms before this stage has been reached.

The most remarkable case of this character is that of the American

schooner _Fannie E. Wolston_, which was abandoned at sea in October,

1891, and was still afloat three years afterward. She was sighted scores

of times during this long interval, and was more than once set on fire by

passing vessels. Her travels brought her from Cape Hatteras to

mid-ocean; from the tropical Bahamas nearly to the shores of Europe; and

in almost every part of the North Atlantic she was frequently seen.

Covered with barnacles and sea-weed, reduced to a mere skeleton, and with

one rusty anchor still hanging from her bow, this celebrated derelict

continued for thirty-six months her long pilgrimage without captain or

crew. The bitter gales of three Atlantic winters, that disposed of the

ill-fated Naronic and a hundred other staunch vessels were unable to sink

the Fannie E. Wolston. When last seen in September, 1894, she had nearly

completed the third year of her phenomenal career as an abandoned wreck,

during which long period it is computed that her drift was more than

eight thousand miles. She was the record-breaker of derelicts.

A sailing ship arrived at Philadelphia early in September, having on

board the captain and crew of the brig Neptune, which had been abandoned

four days previously, two hundred miles east of Cape Hatteras, while on a

voyage from Savannah to Boston with a cargo of Georgia pine. Within a

month the brig was sighted no less than five times by steamers arriving

at New York—the last time being in Lat. 42° N., Long. 65° W., a point

several hundred miles directly east from Boston. Thus in four weeks this

derelict had drifted nearly six hundred miles to the northeast of the

spot where she was abandoned.

Nothing having been done towards recovering her, at the expiration of a

month the owners of the powerful ocean tug _Atlas_, of Philadelphia,

determined to despatch that vessel in search of the _Neptune_; for, could

the latter be brought into port, the owners of the tug would reap a

profitable harvest in the way of salvage.

Accordingly, one fine autumn morning, the _Atlas_ steamed out from the

Point Breeze Oil Wharves on the Schuylkill River, with a three weeks’

supply of coal and all the most efficient apparatus for wrecking and

sea-towing. She was a staunch tug of 800 horse power, and was equipped

with a powerful electric search light. There were on board Captain James

and ten men, besides Albert Shaw, the captain’s cousin, who had no

connection with the tug, but had obtained permission to make one of the

party more through a love of adventure than anything else.

After rounding the Delaware Capes and entering the open ocean, the course

was laid N.E. by N., and Captain James remarked to his cousin as he

finished examining the chart, “Yes, Al, if all goes well we ought to

overhaul that brig within five days, somewhere about 44 and 62.”

“You appear to regard falling in with her as a foregone conclusion,”

replied Mr. Shaw, somewhat surprised. He was a pale, slender young

fellow of twenty-two, and was much more expert at entering up cash and

taking off trial balances than at figuring latitude and longitude.

“Why,” answered the captain, “I’ve marked on this chart the date and the

place where she was abandoned; then I’ve put down a cross and the date at

the exact spot she’s been sighted five different times since, and by

connecting all my crosses with a pencil mark and figuring the distance

between each one, I can tell about how much and in what direction that

wreck is drifting each day. She’s in the Gulf Stream, which she won’t

get out of till I tow her out. There’s the dinner bell.”

The captain’s explanation had enlightened Albert as to the method to be

pursued in locating the wreck; though, to tell the truth, he was a little

skeptical in regard to the final outcome of the matter. There was a brisk

sea running, and in spite of the table-rack, it required no little

dexterity to prevent beef, vegetables and condensed milk from mingling in

one confused jumble; but every one was in good humor, and the fresh, salt

air had sharpened the appetites of those who gathered about the little

table, and especially that of the captain’s cousin, who averred that he

had not been so hungry in six months. Dinner over, Albert busied himself

in exploring every part of the tug and investigating the night signals,

when suddenly Captain James called to him from the upper deck. Upon

ascending thither, he was informed that the _Atlas_ was bearing down on a

floating lumber yard. Looking ahead he saw, still some distance away,

great quantities of planks floating about; in fact the ocean seemed

literally covered with them, forming a curious sight.

The tug soon reached the outer edge of the moving mass, and Jim Speers,

the mate, remarked as he surveyed the white clean planks with a critic’s

eye, “Fine lumber, that. Some good-sized vessel’s lost her deck-load, I

reckon.”

The planks rose and fell on the long regular swell, and as some of them

were occasionally lifted partly out of water by a sea, their shining wet

surfaces reflected the sun’s rays with dazzling brilliancy. In some

places they were massed together so closely that it was difficult to find

a passage through them, and though the greater portion of this valuable

lot of timber was soon left behind, masses of planks were met continually

for a distance of nearly twenty miles. Captain James took the bearings

of the main body so as to report the matter upon reaching port.

A six-knot breeze was blowing next morning but the sun did not show

himself, and noon having come with the sky still cloudy, the Captain was

compelled to figure out his position by dead reckoning, which is not so

accurate as a solar observation. He calculated that if everything went

well, the tug should not be far from the _Neptune_ at the end of

twenty-four hours, providing his estimates of the brig’s drift were

correct.

The afternoon wore on, and the skipper and his cousin had paced the

narrow deck for some moments in silence, when the former remarked

meditatively, “I had a queer experience with a derelict once,—just after

I took this tug.”

“How was that?” asked Albert.

The captain finished filling his pipe with fragments of tobacco which he

cut from a plug, and continued:

“It was about two years ago that I received orders to go after the

derelict bark _Pegasus_. She had sailed from a Nova Scotia port for the

West coast of Ireland with one million feet of deals aboard, and after

being abandoned in a big blow was sighted several times. I’m a sinner if

we didn’t cruise twenty-five hundred miles and use up half our coal when,

on the twelfth day out as I came on deck, my mate said to me, “Captain,

there’s a lame duck two points on the port bow.” (We seamen often speak

of a crippled vessel as a lame duck.) Well, we’d run that bark down at

last, and we lost no time in getting her in tow. After towing her two

days, what do you think happened?”

“The hawser parted?”

“She sank—went right down—and I went back to port the most disgusted man

in Philadelphia. We found, after we got in, that a steamer passing the

wreck and considering her dangerous to navigation had set fire to her;

but after burning the main deck nearly through, and a hole in the stern,

the fire had been put out, probably by the seas which the bark shipped.

This was only a couple of days before we sighted her. While we had her

in tow I noticed that a good deal of lumber washed out every time a big

sea struck her, and I didn’t like it much either, though I made no doubt

she’d float till we reached port. But, as I said, she played me a mean

trick and foundered about four hundred miles off the Delaware Capes.”

“That was tough luck,” commented Albert, as he glanced at the dial of the

taffrail log which trailed astern—its brass rotator revolving rapidly

just beneath the surface of the dark blue water.

Next day was bright and sunny, and an extra sharp lookout was kept, for

it was hoped to sight the derelict within the next twelve hours. After

ascertaining the tug’s position at noon, the course was changed to

N.N.E., and things went on as before. Mr. Shaw pored over the chart of

the North Atlantic, and was in a state of impatient expectancy all day,

although the mate kindly informed him that they might not sight the brig

for a week yet, if indeed they ever did.

It lacked but a few minutes of sunset, when the captain, who for some

time had been standing near the pilot-house sweeping the horizon with his

glass, cried sharply, “Starboard your helm, there!”

“What’s up now?” asked Albert, ascending the ladder to the upper deck.

“A wreck of some kind, dead ahead.”

Taking the glass, he saw nothing at first, but finally made out an object

that looked like a pole sticking out of the water.

“That stick is the mast of a vessel,” replied the captain, in answer to

Shaw’s inquiry, “and at least half of it is carried away. The hull must

be awash too, or we could see it plainly now, for she can’t be over six

miles off. If the craft was in her natural condition, I’d have sighted

her long ago—at twelve miles certainly. A little more and we’d have run

right away from her.”

“Does she look like a brig, sir?” asked Speers.

“Can’t make out her rig yet. The chap we’re after is hereabouts

somewhere if I’ve calculated right,” said the captain, taking another

survey of the object ahead.

The tug was rapidly closing up the gap between herself and the wreck, and

the faces of those on board presented an interesting study. Captain

James was anxious to know whether the wreck they were approaching was the

brig he was in search of. The usual excitement caused by the sight of an

abandoned vessel did not affect him; it was simply a matter of business.

So also with Speers, though perhaps to a less extent. The majority of

the crew contemplated the stranger with feelings akin to indifference.

Many of them did not know the name of the vessel they were in search

of,—neither did they care. But Albert was looking at a genuine wreck for

the first time, and his heart beat faster as the ocean waif grew more and

more distinct, with her shattered masts, disordered rigging and general

appearance of desolation.

“_Neptune_!” cried Captain James, as he made out the gilded letters on

the port bow. He had already formed the opinion that she was the craft

of which he was in search, as enough of her spars were left to show that

she had been square-rigged on her foremast, and brigs are now

comparatively scarce.

When the tug was within a few rods of the _Neptune_, her boat was

launched, and the mate, Albert, and two of the crew entered, when it was

rowed around to the brig’s bows in search of a favorable place for

boarding. A large rope, probably the starboard fore-brace, was entangled

in the standing rigging in such a manner that fifteen or twenty feet of

it trailed in the water alongside the wreck. The mate picked up the

rope’s end, and drew the boat so close to the brig that, taking advantage

of the next roll she gave towards him, he seized a lanyard and was soon

on board. Albert and Joe Miller followed. The other man, known as

“Sharkey,” remained in the boat to see that she did not get stove against

the side of the wreck.

Speers took a cursory glance around, and then hailed the tug. “All

ready, sir,” he cried. A rope had been fastened to one end of the tug’s

big hawser, and the other end of this rope Captain James now hove, so

that it landed on the brig’s forecastle deck. The mate and Joe Miller

hauled it in, and secured the hawser to the brig’s bows. This important

task having been accomplished, the boarding party proceeded to take a

thorough survey of the wreck.

The foremast was gone at the lower mast-head, leaving the fore yard still

in its place, upon which the tattered remnants of the foresail were still

visible. It had apparently been clewed up without having been furled,

and the winds of five weeks had whipped it into ribbons. The entire

mainmast was gone about ten feet above the deck, and in falling had

smashed the bulwarks on the port beam and quarter so that the water

flowed all over the deck, where it was several inches deep. She was so

low that her main deck was level with the ocean, and small seas were

constantly toppling over her bows and low bulwarks, where they broke in

showers of spray. The main boom was hanging over the side, while the

bowsprit and all the jibs were entirely gone. The main hatch was

battened down, but the fore was off, and upon looking below the cargo of

lumber was seen pressed up close under the hatch, where it occasionally

surged slowly from side to side in obedience to the sluggish motions of

the brig. On top of the after house a small boat painted white was

lashed, having in some way escaped the general destruction. The wheel

and rudder appeared uninjured. There was a perfect litter of ropes,

blocks, standing rigging, etc., floating about the deck, all tangled in a

confused mass.

The party now entered the cabin. Everything here was drenched; the

skylights were gone; fragments of glass encumbered all that portion of

the floor not under water; and there was a damp, musty smell such as one

encounters on entering a cellar not often opened. The captain’s compass

was still in its place under the centre skylight, but its brass work was

badly stained with salt water. The state rooms were in much the same

condition as the cabin, and the whole port side of the after house seemed

to be slightly stove. The companion-way door was ripped off, and nowhere

to be seen.

On emerging from this dismal place the mate took a peep into the crew’s

quarters. The rows of bunks in which the men had slept still contained a

mouldy mattress or two, while a large cask that had doubtless been used

as a table was rolling about the floor. A couple of rusty pannikins

floated about in the shallow water. It was of course impossible to enter

the lazarette or the fore peak, for they were submerged. All the

provisions were ruined, but the scuttle butts contained plenty of fresh

water.

Having finished his examination, Speers sent the boat back to the tug for

a supply of provisions for Miller and Sharkey, who were to remain on the

wreck to steer her. As soon as the stores were placed aboard, and a few

directions given, Albert and the mate pulled away from the derelict, for

a squall was making up in the north-west and it was high time to get

under way. Mast-head lanterns were run up, and the two vessels started

for Boston.

[Picture: Towing the Wreck]

There was plenty to talk about that night, and Albert staid up long past

the usual time conversing with the master of the tug, who was in a

jubilant mood, and who more than once invited his cousin to “splice the

main brace.” {101}

“The owners will have to give me credit for quick work this time,” the

captain said. “Monday we left Philadelphia; Wednesday we picked up the

derelict; and on Friday—or Saturday at furthest—we ought to steam up

Boston Harbor. Speers says the brig’s cargo seems in good shape, and if

so it should easily bring $7,000 at auction. The hull may fetch a

thousand more. Not a bad haul, Mr. Shaw for five days’ work.”

“This derelict business seems profitable.”

“It is—if you can find the derelict. For instance, the schooner _Sargent_

has been floating about the North Atlantic ever since last spring, with

twenty thousand dollars’ worth of mahogany in her hold. There is a prize

worth trying for, but although a score of vessels have sighted her,

several of which attempted to tow her in, she is still drifting about

with a small fortune on board. Last month some Baltimore parties

organized an expedition and chartered a steamer to find the _Sargent_ and

bring her in. They searched for several weeks, and then returned to port

considerably out of pocket, to find that a Cunarder had just seen the

schooner not forty miles off the course they had taken.

“But I must go on deck; the night looks squally.”

Albert turned in, and dreamed of drifting about the ocean for many weeks

on a water-logged wreck, which foundered the instant assistance was at

hand and he escaped only by leaping out of his berth against the wall.

The heavily laden brig, submerged to her decks, offered a great

resistence to the water, and when a brisk head wind sprang up, the

powerful tug was scarcely able to make headway. Several rain-squalls

were encountered during the night, and by sunrise there was every

indication of a gale.

A heavy swell was running, the wind increased, and Captain James felt

some concern for the safety of his tow. By noon a hard northwester had

set in, accompanied by an ugly head sea. Both vessels were under water

most of the time, nothing of the derelict being visible but her masts and

deck-houses, while the tug struggled through the heavy rollers and

blinding spray with only her smoke-stack and pilot house above water.

It was a day of anxiety. The wreck was simply a sodden mass of timber,

without buoyancy, and dragged and pulled on the huge hawser in a manner

that caused continual apprehension. Instead of rising to meet the big

rollers, she went lurching and floundering through them; burying herself

in the brine, and then coming up with a backward jerk that made the

captain catch his breath. Even a steel hawser has its limits of

endurance.

Night closed in chill and comfortless, with no sign of immediate

improvement. Albert put on a life-preserver, braced himself in his bunk

without undressing, and wondered if he should ever see terra firma again,

while the cook shook his head and confided to a deck-hand that “this was

what come of having landsmen aboard.”

The wind blew harder, and even a full steam pressure hardly sufficed to

drive the _Atlas_ along. The middle watch was half over when the

straining tug plunged suddenly forward, rolling and pitching violently,

as though freed from a cumbersome weight. At the same instant a muffled

cry was heard by those on the upper deck. All knew its meaning—the

derelict was adrift!

The night was black as pitch; mist and spray obscured everything; and

almost before the order to reverse the engines could be given, the wreck

was vanishing in the gloom. The tug’s head swung round and she started

in pursuit.

Fifteen minutes sufficed to show Captain James the utter futility and

peril of attempting to recover the brig until the gale moderated. The

_Atlas_ was being literally overwhelmed and forced under water by the

furious seas which overtook her. She could not steam fast enough to

escape them. One great comber bent the smoke-stack, smashed the

pilot-house windows, tore away the life-boat, and bore the tug down until

it seemed as though she would never come to the surface. It was madness

to continue, and the _Atlas_ was put about and hove to.

Never in his life had her captain suffered such keen exasperation as now.

With water streaming from his oilers, he stood grasping the pilot-house

rail, and watched the derelict’s mast head light glimmering astern like a

will-o’-the-wisp; now hidden by a great wave,—now reappearing

fitfully,—now swallowed up in the black night. He strained his eyes

through the salt mist till they ached, but the dismantled wreck and her

imperilled crew were seen no more.

The captain went below, and calculated as accurately as possible the

tug’s position when the derelict broke adrift, the direction and velocity

of the wind, and force of the current. Nothing could be done until the

gale moderated. There was ample time for everyone to discuss the

misfortune, and speculation was rife as to the fate of Joe Miller and

Sharkey, who had last been seen at dusk, lashing themselves to the

shrouds. This would save them from going overboard while the rigging

held, but their slender stock of provisions must have been swept away or

ruined by water, which would render their position desperate unless

quickly rescued.

The gray dawn came, by which time the worst was over, and eager eyes

scanned the sea for some trace of the brig. But the wreck, sitting very

low in the water and with only a few feet of her masts left, had drifted

out of the line of vision, though she was probably not fifteen miles

away. Wind and sea were still boisterous, but the search began

immediately.

The conditions in general seemed to favor a speedy recovery of the

_Neptune_, for the wind was still in the same quarter, the day was

clearing rapidly, and the wreck having no sails and being practically

under water, could drift but slowly. But the brig’s condition, coupled

with the fact that the tug herself sat very low, formed no slight

obstacle to early success. Had the _Atlas_ possessed a tall mast, the

derelict might have been visible from it, but nothing could be seen from

the roof of the pilot-house save the smoke of a steamer on the northern

horizon. As time passed, bringing no tidings of the missing vessel, the

excitement increased, and a handsome reward was promised any man who

should first sight the wreck. Twice a false alarm was given, but the day

waned until the shadows stole over the deep. Still there were no tidings.

Through the starlit night Captain James thought of his absent men and of

the sufferings they must be enduring. He sent up rockets at intervals,

though with little hope of an answer; for the _Neptune’s_ signalling

apparatus was doubtless ruined by water, and his men would be powerless

to make their presence known.

The sea was calm at daybreak, the sun shone brightly as the hours flew

by, and the tug covered many leagues, while the promised reward kept all

hands on the alert. The _Atlas_ overhauled a large bark, and spoke her,

but she had seen nothing of the _Neptune_; and another day drew to a

close.

One of three things had happened: the derelict had foundered, had been

taken in tow by a passing steamer, or was still drifting helplessly

about. The first supposition was improbable, if not impossible.

Experience has shown that a vessel in the _Neptune’s_ condition can

survive tempests that send stout ships to the bottom. As to the second,

the number of steamers having facilities for towing wrecks is small, and

the castaway’s value must be great to induce one to attempt salving her.

The last supposition was probably the true one. A vessel may float about

the steam-traversed North Atlantic for weeks without being seen, and not

five derelicts in a hundred are ever brought into port. After weighing

the chances carefully, the captain came to the conclusion that the brig

was still an aimless wanderer, though it was incomprehensible how she

could have eluded so thorough a search.

The next day was but a repetition of the one preceding, and this

continued until the days became a week. Hope was almost gone, the coal

was two-thirds consumed, and still Captain James would not give up.

Finally, ten days after the loss of the _Neptune_, the _Atlas_ abandoned

the search and returned to Philadelphia.

As soon as she was sighted by the operator in the marine signal station,

the fact was telephoned to the city; and when she reached the dock, one

of the owners was on hand to meet her. Joe Miller and Sharkey were there

also, sitting on a box of merchandise, and exhibiting no traces of

suffering or emaciation.

The surprise of the tug’s people was great, but the captain was soon

enlightened as to the derelict’s fate. That troublesome craft had been

picked up the morning after she broke adrift, by a West India fruit

steamer bound to Boston. Three-fourths of the steel hawser was still

attached to the _Neptune_, so the steamer had only to fish up the broken

end, secure it to her stern bits, and continue on her way. The weather

remained fine and she reached her destination the second day afterward.

The division of the salvage money was a delicate matter. An abandoned

vessel becomes the property of whoever brings her into port, but in the

present instance the derelict was held to be the tug’s property even

after she broke adrift, because she continued in possession of two of the

tug’s crew, who remained on her from the time the hawser parted until she

was safely beached on the mud-flats in Boston harbor. Consequently, she

was not legally “an abandoned vessel” when the fruiter picked her up; nor

could the latter have handled her at all except for the tug’s hawser.

But the steamer had rendered an unquestioned service by towing the wreck

into port, and was therefore entitled to a portion of the money. She was

finally awarded 25%, while the remainder went to the _Atlas_.

The lumber cargo realized a trifle over $6,000 at auction, but the brig’s

hull had been badly strained and battered in the last gale, and brought

only $500. Her age, combined with her severe injuries, made it

unprofitable to put her in sea-going condition, and she was converted

into a lighter for transferring merchandise about Boston harbor, in which

humble capacity she will probably end her days.

THE MONOMANIAC.

CHAPTER I.

[Picture: The Monomaniac] The homeward passage from New Zealand is made

via Cape Horn, and as westerly winds prevail all over the South Pacific,

the craft bound back to the States has everything in her favor. Five

weeks had elapsed since the thousand-ton bark _Western Belle_ sailed from

Auckland and Wellington for Boston, and on this June morning she was in

the South Atlantic, steering a north-easterly course.

It was evidently mid-day, for the captain and mate were squinting at the

sun through their sextants; while a young lady stood near, wondering, as

she had often done before, how it was possible for such queer-looking

instruments to aid in determining their exact position upon so vast an

expanse of water.

She was slightly above the medium height, and decidedly pretty, with a

fine color in her cheeks. The sun’s rays and ocean’s breezes had tanned

her fair skin until, as she expressed it, “her dearest friends couldn’t

have told her from a South Sea Islander.” A heavy blue flannel dress,

sailor blouse, jaunty cap kept in place by a long pin, and rubber-soled

tennis shoes—the finest things in the world to keep one’s footing in a

heavy, sea—completed the picture; and there you have Miss Laura Blake.

“What would become of us, Captain, if you and Mr. Bohlman were to fall

overboard, or otherwise disappear from the scene? It never occurred to

me before, but there would be no one left to bring us into port. Mr.

Freeman knows nothing about taking sights.”

Miss Blake said this half in jest, half in earnest. The captain regarded

it as a good joke.

“No, the second mate has never used a sextant, I believe, though he could

doubtless navigate the bark for some time by dead reckoning. Meanwhile,

my dear young lady, you and Mrs. Evans could study my Epitome, and learn

to take the sun yourselves.”

The idea of her aunt “taking the sun” caused a quick smile to overspread

Miss Laura’s features.

“I’m afraid the _Western Belle_ would soon run ashore, or go to the

bottom, if we women undertook to sail her,” she replied. “As the widow

of a sea-captain, Aunt Sarah believes she knows all about ships, but I

fear it would require even more than her nautical knowledge to bring us

into port.”

Captain Maxwell shared this opinion, but he was far too gallant a man to

say so.

“Mrs. Evans certainly learned a great deal during the few voyages she

made with her husband, and with your assistance, Miss Blake, there is no

telling what you might not be able to accomplish. However, both Mr.

Bohlman and I are not liable to fall overboard, so you will probably have

no chance to distinguish yourselves as navigators.”

Though considerably past sixty, and with a head of snowy white hair, no

one ever thought of Captain Maxwell as elderly. His dark eyes still

shown with the fire of thirty, and every motion of the erect, military

figure was surprisingly quick and agile. In ordinary conversation, his

words were spoken with an effective deliberation that is none too common

now-a-days, while a fine courtly air—“old fashioned” some people called

it—lent additional dignity to his presence.

Mrs. Evans appeared at this moment emerging from the companionway, and

Captain Maxwell hastened to place a chair for the widow of his old

friend.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Captain?” the lady exclaimed. “I cannot

recall a more delightful morning.”

“I agree with you, madam; it certainly is a fine day, although, as your

niece says, a trifle cool perhaps.”

“Possibly. But we are approaching the Line, Laura, and it will become

warmer as the bark sails north. For my part, I think this bracing air

delightful, and have not regretted returning to Boston in this manner

rather than by steamer to San Francisco. It reminds me of the two

voyages I made with the late Captain Evans.”

The widow’s good-natured face beamed with amiability and placid content.

She was a comely matron, and though not endowed with a great amount of

intellect, its absence was in a measure supplied by the charms of a

thoroughly feminine and womanly nature.

The ladies had been visiting relatives in Sydney, and had expected to

return to America by the Oceanic Liner _Monowai_. Happening to meet

Captain Maxwell on the street one day, he had jokingly proposed that they

take passage with him to Boston. Mrs. Evans had known him well in past

years, and she instantly regarded the plan with favor. Her niece,

however, knew no more of sailing vessels than does the average landsman,

who judges all craft of this description by the coasting schooners which

he has casually noticed, and had a vague idea that it was flying in the

face of Providence to go anywhere in one. Yielding to the joint

entreaties of her aunt and Captain Maxwell, and considerably reassured by

a view of the _Western Belle_, she at length consented, and had so far

enjoyed the novelty of the trip exceedingly.

“Neither do I regret it, Aunt,” she said, “although it would be agreeable

to know about what time we may expect to reach Boston. That is the one

drawback to going anywhere on a sailing vessel—you can’t tell how long

the voyage may last.”

“The time required to go from New Zealand back to the States does not

vary much,” the captain answered, “and I think I can promise you, Miss

Blake, that the trip will not greatly exceed ninety days. We have made a

good run nearly every day so far, and ought to pick up the southeast

trades next week.”

“Even if the voyage should require four months, it would be nothing

dreadful, Laura. We seamen do not mind a few days more or less, do we,

Captain?” said the widow.

Carl Bohlman, the portly mate, seemed a little surprised at this reckless

disregard of time, while Captain Maxwell stroked his beard and looked

rather doubtful.

“Perhaps not, madam. Your wide experience enables you to judge of such

matters. I remember one time, though, when your late husband had the

_Davy Crockett_, and I commanded the _Sunrise_, we were racing from Hong

Kong to New York; and I can assure you that every minute and every hour

were of the utmost importance. We both passed St. Helena on the

fifty-eighth day out, but the _Sunrise_ was beaten on the home stretch by

twenty-four hours.”

“How exciting!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans. “Think of it—racing clear around

the world! That was before I met my husband, but I have often heard him

mention the affair.”

“It must be dangerous, Aunt. We have the pretty Cape pigeons to race

with, which satisfies me perfectly. How sorry I shall be when we see the

last of them.”

“You are timid, Laura, which is excusable in one of your limited

experience. You have crossed the Atlantic twice, but running over from

New York to Liverpool is a mere bagatelle. Crossing the Pacific is

something, to be sure; but when you have doubled both Capes, and crossed

the Line six times—well, then you can lay claim to being a sailor, and

will not be easily alarmed.”

The widow glanced from one to the other and settled back in her chair

with pardonable pride, after giving this account of her achievements.

She was rewarded with a bow from Captain Maxwell, who then said:

“To change the subject, Mrs. Evans, you must have been very busy this

morning. Unless I am mistaken, we have been deprived of your society

since breakfast.”

“That is true, Captain. I have been putting the finishing touches on

that rug, which I consider quite an addition to the cabin furniture.

After that, I wrote for some time—and ah! that reminds me. I feel

certain that the fresh-water tank in the bathroom has again been filled

with salt water. While endeavoring to remove an ink-stain from my

fingers, I found that the soap made no impression. That careless boy

seems unable to remember which tank is for fresh water, and which for

salt.”

The captain frowned.

“This is the second time since leaving port that Dick has made the same

mistake. When I have worked out my sights, the matter shall be attended

to.”

“That Dick Lewis needs a rope’s end,” observed the mate, as soon as

Captain Maxwell had gone below, “and if the captain would let me, I’d

give it to him.”

“There is something peculiar about that boy,” said Miss Blake.

“Sometimes I think his mind is not quite right. You know what a mania he

seems to have for fire-works, Aunt. We were not a week out before he was

found to have matches and fire-crackers concealed in the forecastle.

Then one afternoon not long ago he was discovered in the lazarette,

although no one had sent him there.”

“That’s so, miss; and the captain thought Dick might have been fooling

with the signal-lights and rockets. I hardly think that, though. Most

likely he was after the eatables.”

“You can see, Laura, what sort of sailors the future generation of

captains will have to contend with. Do you suppose such things ever

happened on my husband’s ship? Fresh and salt water mixed together,

matches and fire-works in the fo’k’sl, rockets and signals in the

lazarette? Why, it is awful to think of!” And the widow shook her head,

as she reflected on this extraordinary state of affairs.

“That boy in the second mate’s watch is worth a dozen of this one of

mine,” Bohlman observed. “Freeman predicted he would be the day we

divided up the watches, and he was about right. Don’t tell him I think

so, though.”

The second mate had just come on deck, and Miss Blake said mischievously:

“I shall tell Mr. Freeman what you said unless you promise to rig up a

bo’s’un’s chair this afternoon, and hoist me up one of the masts.”

“I’ll do it, miss, if you say so,” replied Bohlman, “though you got

scared the other time before you were a quarter of the way up.”

“Laura, I will not allow such a thing again. What would you think if I

were to go aloft and haul over a buntline?”

“I should laugh, Aunt; I know I should,” and Miss Laura did laugh aloud,

while the mate turned away to avoid showing his merriment at the comical

idea of the widow overhauling buntlines.

“But really, Aunt, there is no danger in it, and Mrs. Brassey, in ‘Around

the World in the Yacht _Sunbeam_,’ speaks of being drawn clear up to the

mast-head in a bo’s’un’s chair. It is said, also, that Bernhardt climbed

the rigging of a steamer one day when on her way to Australia.”

“Genius is always eccentric, my dear, and may do anything with impunity.

But there—dinner is served. Let us go.”

One could not pass through the bark’s comfortable cabin without knowing

that women were on board. The very arrangement of the chairs showed it.

No matter how neat and tasteful a man may be—and Captain Maxwell was

both—he can seldom give to a room or dwelling that indescribable air of

home-like comfort and domesticity that a clever woman finds it so easy to

impart. There was something cheerful in the appearance of the widow’s

open work-box, with its pretty blue lining, and an anchor worked on the

inside cover,—for Mrs. Evans affected everything nautical,—while a large

rug or mat made of spun-yarn and sennit bore witness to her skill. The

vessel’s name was neatly worked in the center. Several water-color

paintings by Miss Laura ornamented the walls, and a globe of goldfish

swung from the ceiling. An upright piano occupied the space between two

doors. There was nothing especially elegant or luxurious, as the bark

had never been intended for a passenger vessel, but everything was very

pleasant and comfortable. The ladies had separate state-rooms, each of

which contained but one berth, and was considerably larger than the

average state-room on a passenger steamer.

After dinner, Captain Maxwell sent for Dick Lewis to come to the

quarter-deck. This boy belonged to the mate’s watch, which was now off

duty. He had not turned in, however, but could be seen with two others

of the crew, washing his clothes in the lee scuppers.

It had rained hard the night before, and many of the hands availed

themselves of the chance to catch the water for laundry purposes. Two

lines were stretched from a starboard backstay to one on the port side,

on which were hung shirts of various colors and patterns, patched

overalls, towels, socks that had never been mates, and various other

articles of apparel.

Dick came aft presently, and stood before the captain; a lanky,

unprepossessing youth of sixteen or seventeen. A carroty head of hair,

low forehead, white eyebrows and lashes, very pale complexion, and keen

blue eyes which constantly shifted about—these were the most noticeable

points of his appearance.

“Dick,” said Captain Maxwell, “for the second time within two weeks, you

have put salt water in the fresh water tank. This must not happen again.”

“I must have put the funnel in the wrong hole, sir,” said Dick, not

appearing much abashed.

“That is evident. Get a marline-spike from the second mate and then go

out on the end of the jib-boom. Stay there and pound the rust off the

chains until three bells strike. That may help you to remember. Go

forward.”

The captain told Mr. Freeman what Dick was to do, and then went below for

his nap. Out on the jib-boom, Dick performed his allotted task. What was

passing in the boy’s mind, it would be hard to tell from the expression

of his face. Resentment against Captain Maxwell? Scarcely. He seemed

rather to be studying over some project. Now his lips moved, as though

talking to himself. Then would follow a low chuckle, as of satisfaction

at solving some intricate problem. At such moments, his knitted brows

became smooth, and the chains were pounded with a vigor that seemed to

give a kind of pleasure to the worker. Once or twice his revery was

disturbed by a fancied footstep, and he furtively glanced around to see

if anyone was watching.

Three bells had struck some little time before a hail from the deck

attracted Dick’s attention.

“Jib-boom, there!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Time’s up, Dick. You must like to pound chains.” It was the second mate

who spoke.

Dick felt for the foot-ropes, and remembering Mr. Freeman’s injunction

not to let the marline-spike go overboard, he slung it round his neck,

and made his way to the deck.

“Where are your ears, Dick?”

“On my head, sir.”

“No impudence, you lubber! Next time I’ll let you work till we make

port. Hand over that marline-spike.”

“Yes, sir. Will you please tell me something, Mr. Freeman?”

“Maybe so, if I can. The mate says I don’t know anything.”

“I want to know, sir, how you send off those signal-lights, what I was

forbid to touch. Are they like Roman candles?”

Freeman took hold of the youth’s arm, and said sternly, “Dick Lewis,

don’t you ever think of those things. Why, d— it, you’re as crazy as a

loon about fire-works! If you’ve got any more stowed away in the fo’k’sl,

it’ll go hard with you. I’ve got nothing against you, Dick, but if I

hear any more talk like this, it’s my duty to report to the captain.

You’ll soon be in irons, at this rate.”

“I was only fooling, sir. Please don’t give me away.”

“’Vast talking, and go below. The watch is half over now.”

Dick disappeared into the forecastle, and Freeman meditated for some time

over the possible meaning of the boy’s peculiar talk.

“He’ll bear watching,” he mused. “I’d better tell Bohlman not to send

him into the lazarette, on any account. No, I won’t, either; the

Dutchman’s too d—d arrogant, and thinks he knows it all. I’d only be

told to mind my own business.”

Freeman had just reached this decision in regard to Dick, when a Greek

sailor called Asso approached, and asked for more bath-brick.

The officer went to see how his watch were getting on with their job of

cleaning the paint-work on the deck-houses, and found that buckets of

water, swabs, and bath-bricks, were being used to such purpose that the

white paint was rapidly assuming the appearance of new-fallen snow. Then

there was a section of wire cable to be spliced, and other work to be

seen to. Thus the afternoon passed, and Dick’s talk about the signals

was banished from the second mate’s mind by the various duties of the

hour.

CHAPTER II.

It was a fine evening. The full moon had risen out of the ocean in

matchless splendor, and was rapidly changing its blood-red hues for more

silvery tints, as it soared into the cloudless sky.

The captain and passengers were on the quarter-deck, while Mr. Freeman

hung over the rail with the comfortable assurance that the bark was

making a better run in the second dog-watch than she had in the first,

when the mate had been in charge.

“I told you, Miss Blake, I should get a good breeze in my watch, and you

see I’m as good as my word.”

“So I perceive; and now that you have it, see that it doesn’t fail us

before morning. Otherwise I shall think your fine breeze all the result

of luck. How pleasant it is to hear the water gurgling around the ship.”

[Picture: “The full moon had risen in matchless splendor”]

Eight bells struck, and the dog-watch was over. The wheel and lookout

were relieved, and Freeman went below, while Carl Bohlman came on duty to

stand the first watch, which lasted until midnight.

“What are you thinking of, Aunt? For ten minutes you have not spoken a

word.”

“The beauty of the night has cast a spell over me, Laura, and I was

thinking of a favorite poem of mine. I never realized the significance

of the first stanza more than on this evening, when we are out on the

great ocean with every object bathed in white light.

“‘The dews of summer night did fall,

The moon, sweet regent of the sky,

Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.’”

“Excellent, my dear madam,” said Captain Maxwell. “You have a fine

poetic instinct.”

“The oaks that grew around Amy Robsart’s luxurious prison are replaced

here by the bark’s masts and sails, captain, but the effect is not less

beautiful.”

“A fine conception, Mrs. Evans, but we must remember that it is not

summer in these latitudes, even though the dew is gathering, and you may

take cold sitting there. Will you take my arm?”

“With pleasure, captain.”

They had paced the deck for some minutes, and the widow was relating some

story that seemed greatly to amuse the captain, when the latter stopped

suddenly, dropped on one knee, and stared at one of the deadlights’ near

his feet.

“Good heavens! How you startled me, captain. Robinson Crusoe couldn’t

have been more astonished when he saw the footprint in the sand, than you

seem to be. What is it?”

“Worse than a footprint, Mrs. Evans. The moonlight prevented our noticing

it sooner. Stand here—where your shadow falls on this deadlight. {132}

Now what do you see?”

“A light reflected from below. Oh, Laura, the lazarette is on fire!”

Captain Maxwell was already disappearing through the hatchway, while the

mate and Miss Blake ran up at the widow’s exclamation. Even the silent

figure at the wheel started at the mention of the word fire.

It was but a moment before the master of the bark reappeared, bearing a

lighted lantern in one hand.

“The cause for alarm is removed, ladies,” he said quietly. “There is no

fire in the lazarette, though nothing short of a miracle prevented it.

This lantern was standing on the floor beneath the deadlight and caused

the reflection to appear. Mr. Bohlman, have you any idea how it came

there?”

He spoke with apparent calmness, which Miss Blake readily saw was more

feigned than real.

The mate hesitated a moment before answering: “Dick must have left it

there, sir.”

“_Dick must have left it there_! So that bright boy of yours has been in

the lazarette again without permission? If I don’t have him triced up to

the spanker-boom in irons early to-morrow morning, my name’s not John

Maxwell.”

“He was in the lazarette, sir, but not without permission. I sent him

there just before supper to bring up a coil of old rope that was to be

ravelled out. He wasn’t there ten minutes.”

Both ladies glanced at the mate in surprise at these words, and Captain

Maxwell looked at his chief officer in a way that was anything but

complimentary to the latter. The captain had a temper of his own, which

was under excellent control, but he found it necessary to cross the

quarter-deck twice before trusting himself to speak.

“After that occasion a week ago, when this boy was discovered in the

lazarette doing God knows what, I should have thought your own judgment

would have prevented your sending him there again. There are plenty of

men in your watch, and if none of them knew where this old rope was, you

should have gone yourself, rather than let that fool of a boy take a

light into such a place.”

Bohlman smarted under this speech, though he maintained a discreet

silence, knowing it would be useless to attempt to justify himself in the

captain’s present humor. Inwardly, however, he cursed Dick Lewis for

having forgotten the lantern, and thus bringing his superior’s censure

upon himself.

Orders were given for Dick to come aft, and the youth shortly appeared on

the quarter-deck for the second time that day in the role of culprit. He

quailed before the captain’s glance, and nervously shifted his old felt

hat from one hand to the other.

“Do you know why you have been sent for?”

Dick pointed to the accusing lantern, and said in a frightened tone:

“Yes, sir. I—I remember now I forgot to bring up the lantern when—when I

fetched the rope.”

This was a lie. He had turned the wick low and then left it in the

lazarette purposely, knowing well that no one would enter the place after

the day’s work was done. But for the accidental circumstance of its

having been placed too near one of the deadlights, the presence of the

lantern would never have been suspected.

“Do you know what I ought to do with you?”

The captain’s tones were so stern that Dick was hardly able to articulate

“No, sir.”

“I ought to take a rope’s end and beat you within an inch of your life.

That’s what any captain would have done twenty years ago, and what some

would do now. You left this light down there among bales of oakum,

sennit, old sails, rockets, signal-lights, and other inflammable stuff,

and if there had been enough sea running to heel the bark over a trifle

more, the lantern would have upset, setting the whole place on fire—and

we out in the South Atlantic, a good week’s sail from the nearest port!”

The captain’s passion mastered him, and he shook Dick until the boy’s

teeth chattered. Suddenly releasing him, he turned to Mrs. Evans and her

niece.

“I ought to apologize, ladies, for this outburst; but I lost one ship by

fire years ago, and this boy has tried me beyond endurance.”

“I do not blame you in the least, captain,” said the alarmed widow; “I

feel sure my husband would have inflicted a severe punishment for such an

offense. It is as bad as Guy Fawkes and the gunpowder plot.”

“You see, madam, we officers have to put up with a good deal from sailors

now-a-days,” said Captain Maxwell, sarcastically. “If I punished that

boy as he deserved, he would have me arrested the moment we reached port.

Then, aided by some unscrupulous lawyer and the testimony of various

members of the crew, I should be convicted of ‘cruel and unusual

punishment,’ and fined heavily, or imprisoned. The evidence of yourself

and niece might clear me in this case, but all the papers would print

articles about the barbarity of captains and mates in general, and the

lot of the poor, abused merchant-sailor,—forgetting to mention the fact

that a vessel, her cargo, and all hands, had narrowly escaped a terrible

disaster at the hands of one of these persecuted saints!

“Dick, you were warned a week ago that if you entered the lazarette again

without permission you would be put in irons. But it seems you had

permission,” with a glance at the mate,—“and so we shall have to let you

off easier. Go up on the fore royal yard and sit there until the watch

ends at midnight.”

Dick was unable to repress a sigh of relief as he turned away, but his

sharp ears heard Captain Maxwell say to the mate: “As soon as it is light

enough to-morrow morning to see objects in the lazarette without a

lantern, bring up that canister of powder and those four boxes of rockets

and signal-lights. They shall be kept in a locker in the cabin during

the rest of the voyage. Another thing—never again let that boy go

anywhere with a light.”

“Yes, sir.”

The cause of this trouble went forward, muttering to himself: “Powder!

the captain said powder! I might have found it to-night if they hadn’t

caught onto the lantern. How did they know it was there, I wonder?”

He climbed the fore rigging, unmindful of the taunts of the crew at his

second punishment that day, and the captain’s words kept ringing in his

ears.

“To-morrow morning they’ll all be put where I can’t get at ’em,” he

muttered, “and if only they hadn’t found the lantern, I could have got

away with some of them rockets to-night. And the powder! I can’t do

nothing without a lantern, though, and I ain’t even got a match.”

He perched himself upon the royal yard, with a lunatic’s cunning,

inventing various schemes for getting at those fire-works. That was his

mania. Although as sane as anyone on other subjects, he was an absolute

monomaniac in everything relating to such matters; and since the day when

he had overheard a remark relating to the signal-lights and rockets, his

fingers had itched to investigate them and see what they were like. Not

even the certainty of punishment could stand in his way.

Some people, when they ascend to the roof of a high building, have an

almost irresistable desire to leap from it. It is not that they wish to

do so, but some strange power seems urging them to it in spite of

themselves. Others have a similar feeling when in close proximity to a

swiftly-moving railroad train, and require all their will power to keep

from casting themselves before the locomotive. So it was with Dick

Lewis. He could no more keep his mind off the lazarette and its

contents, than steel can resist the influence of a magnet. He sat there

as the hours passed, looking ahead into vacancy; thinking and thinking;

and imagining just how the rockets must look, as they lay side by side in

their boxes down in the midnight darkness of the lazarette. How quiet

and silent they were! And yet the touch of a match—

He put up a hand before his eyes and turned his head to one side, as

though to ward off a blow.

* * * * *

“Aunt, we really must go below. It cannot be far from twelve o’clock,

and we have staid on deck nearly two hours past the usual time.”

“That is true, Laura; and yet I feel strangely wakeful. But, as you say,

it is very late, and high time that we turned in. So good night,

captain, and pleasant dreams. Good night, Mr. Bohlman.”

Mrs. Evans paused as she reached the companion-way.

“How beautiful the moonlight is,” she said, so low that no one heard;

“and from what an awful peril have we this night been delivered.”

She slowly followed her niece to the cabin.

Captain Maxwell did not linger long on deck after his passengers had

turned in. He, too, usually retired early, and arose at daylight. But

the incident of the lighted lantern disturbed him. To the master who has

once experienced fire at sea, the mere possibility of another visitation

conveys a dread that the worst hurricane cannot inspire. He paced the

deck for some time, and then, after a glance aloft, went below.

Midnight came; and the mate was relieved by Frank Freeman, who found his

superior in no very pleasant frame of mind.

“You’ve still got a fair wind,” Freeman observed; “she’s slipping through

it in good shape.”

“I suppose you expected to come on deck and find a dead calm, with me and

my watch ahead in the long-boat, towing the bark.”

Bohlman left the quarter-deck with this good-natured rejoinder, while the

second mate smothered a laugh as he lit his pipe.

Dick climbed down the fore rigging with alacrity, and entered the

forecastle with the rest of the port watch. His plans were matured.

There was a triumphant light in the boy’s eyes, and a furtive smile on

his ill-favored features as he crept into his bunk and feigned sleep.

* * * * *

A lantern swung from the dingy ceiling, casting a flickering light upon

the tiers of bunks, and upon various other objects in the forecastle.

There were oilers and rubber boots thrown about here and there, old books

without covers, and sea-chests of various patterns. The numerous

initials, names, and dates, cut into the walls indicated that the

_Western Belle_ had sailed the seas for many years. On one side some one

with a talent for drawing had recently executed a chalk picture of the

whale swallowing Jonah, which was a marvel of realism. Near this

artistic production was tacked a printed card setting forth what rules

the crew were expected to obey, what compensation they were to receive,

and other matters of like import.

Sea air and insomnia are deadly enemies, and before one bell struck, a

chorus of snores assured Dick that his companions were asleep. He

suffered a few minutes over the half hour to elapse, and then slipped

noiselessly from his bunk. Gliding to the open door, he looked

stealthily out. That side of the deck was thrown into shadow by the

forecastle, and no one was to be seen but two of the watch on duty slowly

walking up and down the main deck, as they conversed in low tones. The

others were doubtless on the opposite side of the forward-house.

Dick turned from the door, waited a moment to be sure that all were

asleep in the bunks around him, and then produced a towel. Next he took

down the lantern from its hook overhead, and wrapped the towel about it

so that the light was invisible. That done, he made for the

door,—stepped out on deck,—and crept forward in the shadow of the

building.

Upon reaching the corner, he stopped and listened The distant murmur of

voices was heard on the opposite side of the house, but the moonlit

stretch of deck ahead was untenanted. Apparently no one was about the

extreme forward part of the vessel except the lookout. The boy’s unshod

feet made no sound as he darted across the strip of moonlight that fell

between the forward-house and the forecastle deck. Now he was standing

by the open fore hatch.

In large sailing vessels that stand well out of water, it is customary to

leave the fore hatch off at all times unless some very severe gale is

threatened. The forecastle deck overhead prevents rain or salt water

from entering, and as it is often necessary to go down to the fore peak

half a dozen times a day, it would be a useless trouble to move the

hatch-cover each time. This was the case with the _Western Belle_.

Dick well knew he could not enter the lazarette at the customary place

without being seen by the man at the wheel and the officer on duty, and

had conceived the laborious, but perfectly feasible plan, of descending

through the fore hatch to the ’tween-decks, and then crawling aft over

the cargo the whole length of the vessel to accomplish his purpose.

Without losing time, he placed his foot upon the first step of the flight

of stairs that led down to the fore peak, and then rapidly descended. It

was black as Erebus when he reached the bottom, and before taking another

step he uncovered the lantern and stuffed the towel in his pocket.

Cautiously walking over old sails, ropes, barrels, casks, etc., the boy

was soon out of the fore peak proper, and at that part of the

’tween-decks where the cargo began to be stowed.

The foremast looming up ahead gave him quite a start, and a sort of dread

possessed him at thought of the long distance to be traversed in that

profound darkness. Dick had not realized until now the magnitude of the

task before him, but he only wavered a second, and pushed on.

It soon became impossible to walk, and he dropped on his hands and knees,

creeping along on all fours; at the same time holding the handle of the

lantern between his teeth. Its rays illumined but a short space in

front, though they served to make the gaunt deck-beams assume all sorts

of strange and fantastic shapes that he could not help noticing. Thus he

crawled along over bales of flax and tow, boxes of Kauri gum and sacks of

horns; picking his way carefully, and impatiently wondering how far he

had progressed. This was at length made plain, though in an unexpected

manner.

In attempting to accelerate his speed, the boy had grown a little

careless, when he suddenly felt his left hand go off into space, and

barely saved himself from plunging headlong downward. The shock was a

severe one, and he drew a deep breath of relief when he had backed away

from the yawning aperture.

“Fool!” he muttered; “I clean forgot the main hatch. I like to have fell

all the way down to the lower hold and broke my neck. Well, Dick, you’re

half way, anyhow.”

He crawled around the square opening and proceeded. In a few minutes the

way was blocked by a great object that the youth could not account for,

but which was really the iron tank containing drinking water. He avoided

it and continued to advance, having stopped a moment to stretch his

cramped limbs. Next he came to the after hatch, but was on the lookout

for it and pushed on steadily, though he began to ache all over from

crawling so long. Once a startled rat scurried across his stockinged

foot in its haste to escape, causing another momentary scare. Had it not

been for the increasing excitement under which he labored, the boy must

have been chilled, for a draft of cold air like that in a cellar swept

through the ’tween-decks from one end of the bark to the other.

The mizzen mast told Dick his journey was nearing its end, and he stopped

a few seconds to take breath. His heart beat so quick and fast that he

felt stifled, and his limbs trembled in a way that he could not account

for. But the thought of the fire-works nerved him, and cans of powder

danced before his disordered imagination.

There was not much further to go, so after shoving back the hair from his

damp forehead, he crept on until the peculiar formation of the vessel’s

timbers proved that he was in the stern.

He looked up. Directly overhead was a small opening.

“That must be _it_!” he whispered.

There were no stairs nor any ladder, but standing erect, his head was

just on a level with the aperture. First arranging the towel about the

top of the lantern so that the light should not be cast upward, he

reached up and set it down on the floor above. Then, panting with

excitement and bathed in cold perspiration, Dick placed both hands on the

edge of the hatch.

One agile spring, and he was in the lazarette.

CHAPTER III.

So quiet was the night, that Freeman’s measured footsteps, as he trod the

quarter-deck, sounded with strange distinctness to the guilty occupant of

the space beneath. No other sound disturbed the silence but the gentle

swish and gurgle of the water alongside, and an occasional creak from

some block or pulley.

The piles of swelling canvas; the mast-heads nodding against the stars;

the white paint-work of the poop; the delicate shadows cast upon the deck

by the ropes and shrouds; the motionless figure of the man at the

wheel;—all were beautified and softened by the white flood of moonlight.

Drops of dew glittered everywhere, and when Freeman laid his hand upon

the main brace, it was wet as though from rain.

He had been reading odd items in an old copy of the Sydney _Herald_, and

put it down just as two great rats that had come up from the hold

scampered across the deck. This was nothing unusual, and after stamping

with his foot to scare the bold creatures, he glanced at the binnacle.

“Keep her at N. N. E., Matt; you’ve let her go off a point. Watch the

card, man.”

“Keep her at N. N. E., sir,” the fellow repeated, shifting his quid to

starboard as Freeman walked away.

“I’ll see how the lookout does,” the officer thought, “though if every

night was like this, there’d be little need of any.”

He went forward along the port side. Happening to cast a glance through

the open forecastle door, he noticed that the light was out.

“That’s queer,” he soliloquized; “it burned brightly enough when I passed

by a couple of hours ago.”

He entered the door to see if the wick was out of order, or whether all

the oil had been consumed. Neither—the lantern was gone!

He had just made this discovery, and was leaving the building to ask his

men whether any of them had removed the light, when a curious jarring

sensation rooted him to the deck. The idea of a submarine earthquake

flashed through his brain, but within a second’s time there was a

deafening report,—a blinding flash,—a staggering of the bark,—and then

flying timbers and bales of merchandise were hurled skyward with awful

power. The whole after part of the vessel seemed going up in the air

piecemeal!

“Great God!” breathed Freeman, grasping the ladder on the forward house.

His self-possession soon returned. Already some of the crew had begun to

act like lunatics.

“Call all hands, and behave like men. The bark’s still afloat, and now

three of you come aft with me.”

His cool decision inspired confidence, and half a dozen of the crew

followed.

The canvas began to flap—the bark was badly off her course. Freeman

bounded on as he noticed this fact.

“That cowardly Matt’s deserted the wheel,” he thought—“or else the poor

devil’s been killed.”

But the officer stood motionless when he reached the place where the

quarter-deck had been—the spot where he had been standing not five

minutes since. The whole deck was gone, and in its place was a great

cavity that reached from one side of the vessel to the other, and seemed

to go down to the very keelson.

It was a time for action, and he crept along on the starboard side,

walking on a few jagged splinters, and holding to the main brace with his

hands. The wheel had been shattered and was useless, while Matt lay

against the rail where the force of the explosion had hurled him.

“Men, sheet everything home, and move d—d quick! The wheel’s smashed and

we can’t steer the bark. Let go all the halyards and sheets, and get her

stripped. Work for your lives!”

Had the wind been stronger, a serious accident would probably have

resulted before the unmanageable vessel could have been relieved of her

canvas, but although she careened badly, it was but a few minutes before

enough sails had been taken in to avert the threatened danger.

The unaccountable disaster that had befallen was sufficiently appalling

to those who were on deck at the time it occurred; but imagine the

feelings of the others—roused from a sound sleep at three in the morning

by a shock as of an earthquake. The mate’s watch were asleep in the

forecastle, a considerable distance from the lazarette, but to the

captain, passengers, mate and steward, who occupied the after house, the

sensation was indeed awful. What wonder that the screams of Mrs. Evans

and Miss Blake rent the air? Or that Captain Maxwell, experienced seaman

that he was, found himself utterly stunned and bewildered? But he was on

deck in no time, issuing orders with the confidence of one who has long

been accustomed to command.

Nothing so quickly restores our presence of mind in great crises as the

knowledge that others look to us for advice and help. When the terrified

Miss Blake rushed into her aunt’s cabin, it must be said to the widow’s

credit that she left off screaming, and endeavored to pacify her niece.

She tried to think what Captain Evans would have done in such an

emergency, although having no clear idea as to what manner of evil had

befallen the vessel; and after hastily assuming her dressing gown and

slippers she issued forth with a boldness that surprised even herself.

The sight that presented itself utterly confounded the good woman, and it

was only after passing her hand across her eyes several times, that she

could believe the evidence of her senses. The cabin partition towards

the stern was blown entirely out, together with the companion-way, and

skylight above. The roof of the cabin had been splintered in places and

lifted up, until Mrs. Evans could see a patch of sky here and there,

while the floor under her feet was so uneven she could hardly walk upon

it. She stood holding to the center table, blankly wondering what could

have happened, when the steward came from Captain Maxwell’s room.

“Oh, steward, in the name of heaven, what has happened? Are we sinking?

Have we been pooped? Is the bark stove to pieces on a rock?”

“It’s not that bad, Madam Evans. There’s no rock in this part of the

ocean, and if we’re sinking it’s very slowly. Are you hurt?”

“No; only badly frightened. I cannot realize yet what is the matter. Is

anyone killed?”

“We can’t tell yet, ma’am. But I must not stop here talking. The after

wall of the captain’s room is blown out and the head of his bed torn off.

The room was set afire, too, and in putting it out he burned his hands

badly. Will you hold this lamp while I get some linseed oil and

batting?”

Captain Maxwell’s injuries were more painful than dangerous, and

considerable relief was afforded as soon as Mrs. Evans’ deft fingers had

applied the dressing. He then returned to the deck. It still lacked

over two hours of dawn, and the moon was low in the west. Total darkness

would soon descend, and there was much to be done. Already the carpenter

was at work on a new wheel, and the moment it was in position the captain

resolved to steer for Rio de Janeiro, where repairs could be made.

The strong smell of powder, and the shattered timbers, left no doubt in

the captain’s mind that an explosion of some sort had caused the

catastrophe. Fortunately, its greatest force had been upward; otherwise

the vessel’s bottom might have been blown out, thus ending her career and

those of all on board in short order. The signals in the lazarette were

the only explosives on board the bark, but how they could have become

ignited was not easily seen, unless a fire had started. Everyone was on

deck but the ladies; there was no more sleep that night.

“Mr. Bohlman, you will muster all hands amidships, and you and Mr.

Freeman will then call the names of those in your respective watches.

Some one may have been killed. Whose wheel was it at the time of the

accident?”

“Matt’s, sir,” answered Freeman. “He was badly hurt by being blown

against the bulwarks. We’ve put him in his bunk, and two hands are

rubbing him.”

While the crew were assembling, the captain questioned his second mate

closely as to whether he had noticed any signs of fire about the after

part of the vessel, or seen any person enter the lazarette. Freeman was

certain, however, that he should have smelled smoke had there been any

fire, while as for anyone entering the place without being seen by

himself or the man at the wheel,—it was impossible. It will be

remembered that he had gone below just before Captain Maxwell discovered

the lighted lantern, and therefore knew nothing of that circumstance.

“About how long was it after you left the quarter-deck until the

explosion took place?”

“It wasn’t five minutes, sir. I was going forward to the fo’k’sl deck to

see that everything was all right, when, happening to look in the port

door of the fo’k’sl, I noticed the light was out. I stepped in to see

whether the lantern was empty or not, but found it gone. Then—”

“You found the lantern gone!” exclaimed the captain, an idea striking

him. “Did you notice whether Dick Lewis was gone, too?”

“Dick Lewis? No, sir; why should I? It was his watch below, and he was

probably in his bunk.”

“We shall see. Come with me to the main deck.”

All hands were assembled around the capstan in various degrees of

astonishment. Several of that motley crew had probably been shipwrecked

during various stages of their careers, but it may be doubted whether any

had ever witnessed an accident similar to that which had just taken

place.

“Dick Lewis, step forward!”

The captain’s stern command produced a sensation, and all hands wondered

what was coming next.

“Dick Lewis, step forward!”

The words were repeated, but no response came from among the crowd of men

standing about in the raw morning air.

“That settles it,” said the captain, decisively. “Let the fo’k’sl be

searched, and every other part of the bark. If that boy is not to be

found, he has paid the penalty of his rashness. He may be dead in the

hold, or he may have been blown through the quarter-deck and into the

ocean.”

Freeman remembered the conversation of the previous afternoon, when Dick

had betrayed his curiosity regarding the signals. Yes, the captain’s

theory must be correct, and he shuddered to think how long the boy might

have been at work in the lazarette while he walked the deck above. But

how had he entered the place? Matt was not so badly hurt but that he was

able to swear no one had passed through the hatch, and he, Freeman, had

left the quarter-deck but twice during the watch, and then only for a few

minutes. The true solution of the problem passed through the minds of

Captain Maxwell, his mate and second mate, at almost the same moment, but

the two former at first dismissed it as too improbable. Freeman,

however, insisted that Dick must have gotten into the lazarette, if at

all, by crawling all the way aft through the hold; and as Matt insisted

that no one had gone below by the usual way, this view of the matter was

the only possible one left.

“God only knows what ailed that boy,” Captain Maxwell said, as Dick’s

devilish ingenuity became apparent, “but he’s found out by this time how

those signals work, and what twenty-five pounds of powder can do.”

CROSSING THE LINE.

[Picture: Crossing the Line] After two weeks of tribulation, the

barkentine _Mohawk_ was through the Atlantic Doldrums. The hot, murky

atmosphere, and the low-hanging rain-clouds that seem always ready to

open and let fall a deluge, were left behind, and the fact that a breeze

had blown from the same point of the compass for three successive hours

was another certain indication that this tormenting region of calms,

rain-squalls and variable winds was a thing of the past.

When one bell struck, and the steward brought Captain Charles Pitkin his

morning cup of coffee, the skipper felt as light-hearted as a boy, and

knew, without looking at the compass, that the craft was speeding along

towards Buenos Ayres, instead of drifting aimlessly about in the calm

belt or beating to the southeast against a head wind.

“We ought to cross the Line to-day, at this rate,” he said to himself.

The steward heard the words, and made bold to say: “Will we, sir? I only

wish Father Neptune would come aboard and make subjects of those three

lubbers in the fo’k’sl. They are the worst greenhorns I ever did see.”

“You mean the two Swedes and the Austrian?”

“Yes, sir; especially that Christian Anderson, in the mate’s watch, that

claimed to be able to steer and then couldn’t box the compass to save his

life.”

The captain made no answer, and the steward withdrew.

“George! it’s not a bad idea,” mused Pitkin. “It would do those three

‘able seamen’ good to meet the Old Man of the Seas, I honestly believe.”

The more thought he gave the matter, the better he liked it; and by

breakfast time, when the captain, his sister, and the mate gathered about

the table, the former had arranged in his mind the principal details of

the ceremonies which he decided should take place that morning.

Miss Pitkin did not receive the narration of her brother’s plans with the

approval he had expected; in fact, she was in a decidedly unpleasant

frame of mind.

“Why, Rosy, you seem out of sorts this morning. I thought you’d be

pleased to hear that Neptune was coming aboard.”

“Neptune, indeed! The Flying Dutchman will be the next thing on the

programme, I suppose. And as for being out of sorts—Charles Pitkin, are

you aware that this is the first morning for two weeks that you have not

resembled a thundercloud?”

“Perhaps; but I’ve had reason to look black. Now the Doldrums are done

with, I’m as merry as a lark, and you ought to be, too.”

“You are mistaken. That beast of a cat has killed my poor canary.”

Miss Rose said this in a tone of mingled anger and grief, looking hard at

her coffee-cup meanwhile. She seldom indulged in the feminine weakness

of tears, or a few would doubtless have been shed now as a tribute to the

departed canary.

“Pshaw! that’s too bad, Rose,” said the captain, sympathetically. “Shall

we kill the cat? I detest the stealthy, cold-blooded creatures, and this

one does nothing but lie around in the sun all day instead of catching

rats.”

“No, Charles, we will not do that. I came near throwing her overboard

myself, but I suppose the creature was only following her instincts. I

must try and bear it.”

Miss Pitkin had celebrated some forty birthdays, but the years had

touched her lightly, and her charms, though mature, were not

inconsiderable. A plump, well-rounded figure, fresh complexion, black

eyes and hair, combined with regular features, made an attractive whole,

the one serious blemish of which was an habitual expression of firmness

and decision which was so strong as to be almost masculine. She had four

brothers, all younger than herself, and on the early death of their

father and mother, Rose assumed the cares of housekeeping and the

bringing up of the younger children. Thus she had come to be looked up

to by her brothers, and regarded rather in the light of a parent than as

a sister.

As they left the table she said: “I am going to overhaul the store-room.

It needs to be done, and will keep me from thinking of poor Goldie.”

“But you’ll return to the deck when Neptune comes aboard?”

“I’m in no humor for any such tomfoolery. Perhaps, between you all, you

may manage to get up a snowstorm, or have an earthquake when we cross the

Line.”

“But wait, Rosy, I want to ask a favor.”

The lady vanished, and was soon delving among lime-juice, guava jelly,

apples, potted meats, and sundry other stores.

There was something strangely incongruous in such a woman being addressed

by so childish and undignified a name as Rosy, but her brother had so

called her when scarcely able to toddle about, and now that he was

thirty, she was “Rosy” still.

Time was, when no craft of any description crossed the Equator without

having all the landsmen on board introduced to the royal Neptune; but the

good old custom has been gradually falling into disuse, and in this

prosaic age the ceremony of “Crossing the Line” is rarely observed.

Captain Pitkin decided that Fritz, the carpenter, should be metamorphosed

into King Neptune—principally because he was large and massive, and had a

long, thick beard. Fritz was an excellent carpenter, though his mental

development was far from being on a par with his physical. However, he

would look the part, and that was no small item.

His majesty always comes aboard with an attendant, and here it was that

Pitkin hit upon an original and brilliant idea. He had been humming an

old song whose first verse runs:

“’Twas Friday morn when we set sail,

And we were not far from the land

When the captain spied a lovely mermaid

With a comb and a glass in her hand.”

These words ran in his head some time, until he finally exclaimed: “Well,

I’ll ‘spy a mermaid,’ too, though she may not be very lovely. Yes, a

mermaid shall come aboard this bark to-day with Father Neptune.”

He congratulated himself upon this happy thought and set about carrying

it into execution. There was but one woman aboard—his sister—and her

assuming the role of mermaid was, of course, not to be thought of. Among

the crew was a bright, good-looking fellow, known as Mike—just the man to

make an acceptable mermaid. In stature he was somewhat below the medium

height, but well proportioned and with rather attractive features. He

was much tanned, of course, and his expression was decidedly bolder than

is thought pleasing in one of the fair sex; but these were minor

difficulties in comparison with the great question, How to obtain

suitable clothes? The captain solved this, as he thought, by deciding to

ask his sister for the loan of some of her old skirts and waists, but she

had buried herself in the store-room before he had time to prefer his

request. This was just as well, he concluded, for in her present humor

he would have met with a peremptory refusal.

So, having ascertained that Rose was engaged in hauling the steward over

the coals for misplacing a case of honey and leaving matches where the

rats could get at them, the captain entered his sister’s room. He felt

rather guilty, but suitable attire for the mermaid must be had, and he

tried to think that “Rosy wouldn’t mind,”—hoping, nevertheless, that the

ceremonies would be over before she came on deck.

“What a lot of clothes women have,” he soliloquized, examining the

various gowns and other apparel hanging on pegs. His sister’s best

garments were laid away in her trunks, and he spent considerable time in

trying to choose what seemed to be the least valuable skirt and waist

among the lot. He finally selected an old black alpaca for which Rose

cared little, and a red dressing jacket for which she cared a great

deal—it was the one she slipped on every morning when combing her hair.

Just as he was leaving a green veil caught his eye.

“That will make Mike look mysterious,” he thought. He took it, bundled

the things up in a newspaper, and Mr. Rivers, the mate, conveyed them

forward.

The morning was hot, but a fine breeze tempered the heat and prevented

discomfort. The seas chased each other along the vessel’s sides, and

occasionally sobbed and gurgled in the lee scuppers as the bark leaned

over to port. Just as the man at the wheel struck five bells, two

strange figures climbed over the bows and gained the forecastle deck.

They were the Old Man of the Seas and his companion.

The royal Neptune’s head was encircled by an elaborate wooden crown,

painted green, about which were twined several pieces of sea-weed. His

long beard was carefully combed out, and swept down upon his chest with a

truly patriarchal air. The principal garment was a long green toga

(formerly a piano-cover), which extended from the neck to the heels, and

was ornamented with sea-weed stitched on in various fantastic shapes.

The arms and feet of the royal personage were entirely bare, and in his

right hand he carried a substantial sceptre some five feet in length,

having three prongs at the upper end.

Neptune’s companion was a sight to behold. From the crown of her head to

her waist, floated a wealth of yellow hair, of which any mermaid might

well have been proud. This telling effect had been achieved by

unbraiding and combing out several strands of sennit. The

dressing-jacket and the alpaca skirt did not seem exactly “the thing” for

a sea-nymph, and yet they fitted as well as could have been expected,

except that the jacket was too tight across the shoulders. A straw hat

covered with sea-weed was perched upon the damsel’s head, and the green

veil concealed the fact that she had been freshly shaven. Her feet were

encased in a pair of knit slippers. Depending from a belt around her

waist were a small cracked hand-glass, a comb, and a flying-fish which

had fallen on the deck that morning.

“Mariners, behold Neptune, the Ruler of the Seas, and his daughter, the

beautiful Mermaid of St. Paul’s Rocks!”

Neptune made this announcement in a deep bass voice, and Captain Pitkin

and the mate bowed low before the two august personages.

“Your majesty has conferred an unspeakable honor in deigning to come

aboard,” answered Pitkin. “Will it please you to accompany us to the

main deck, where some slight preparation has been made for your

reception?”

The captain and mate led the way, followed by Neptune and his daughter.

The former held his head high in the air and looked neither to the right

nor to the left, while the Mermaid walked with a mincing gait and twined

her long hair about her fingers.

All hands were assembled in the waist, eager to see the siren and her

father, and as the quartette approached, the crew winked, nudged each

other, and cast meaning glances at the three “candidates,”—Oscar,

Christian and Josef, who formed a little group by themselves.

A low platform had been constructed about the capstan, and when Neptune

took his seat upon the brass surface of the latter, his appearance was

really imposing. A cloth-covered box had been provided for the Mermaid,

but she disdained it, and leaned gracefully against the throne.

“And what bold craft have we here, which thus invades our domain and

hopes to cross the Line with landsmen aboard, for the wrinkles in this

vessel’s copper prove that more than one lubber stands before us!”

Neptune delivered this speech in accents of wrath, and brought his

sceptre down with such force that those nearest fell back a few steps.

[Picture: “Let the landsmen come before us!” commanded Neptune]

“We are the barkentine _Mohawk_, sire, from Portland for Buenos Ayres,

and your majesty’s keen perception has not erred in assuming that there

are landsmen aboard. I cheerfully relinquish to you the freedom of the

vessel, and trust that all aliens here will shortly be transformed into

loyal subjects.”

The captain bowed and withdrew to the poop, where he had an excellent

view and could hear all that was said.

“Let the landsmen come before us,” commanded Neptune.

But the trio hesitated, evidently not relishing the aspect of affairs.

All three possessed a certain amount of common sense,—though mostly

latent,—and half-suspected that King Neptune and the carpenter were one

and the same. But the silent female figure puzzled them completely, for

the Mermaid, although unconventional in appearance, was so cleverly

arrayed that the illusion was quite perfect.

Josef timidly whispered a few words to Oscar, but before he could reply,

Neptune stamped his foot. Royalty cannot brook delay, and at this token

of displeasure, half a dozen of the crew seized Oscar, Josef and

Christian, and dragged them before the throne. The two former were

conducted to one side in obedience to Neptune’s gesture, while Christian

remained standing before the frowning monarch.

A slight hitch now occurred, caused by Neptune forgetting his lines. He

was unequal to the task of extemporizing, and the more he tried to

remember what “came next,” the more confused he became. His majesty

glared about, his face meanwhile becoming red with embarrassment, which

poor Christian attributed to rage. The Mermaid was equal to the

emergency, and came to her father’s rescue.

Mike was something of a ventriloquist, and when the order was issued

“Minion, box the compass!” Christian was not the only one who stared in

amazement, wondering whence the strange voice proceeded. He had never

been called by such a name before, and was in much doubt as to whether he

was the one addressed. The Mermaid whispered something in Neptune’s ear,

and the latter, tapping the culprit with his sceptre, commanded: “Answer,

varlet, and quickly!”

The compass was a Chinese puzzle to Christian, {175} but he dared not

remain silent, and began desperately: “North, northeast, east by

north-east, east by east,—”

Here the crew set up a roar of derision, and the mate remarked: “A fine

able seaman you are. The shipping-master that put you aboard this bark

ought to be sent around the world as mate of a ship with two dozen like

you for a crew!”

Neptune had by this time got his bearings, and asked:

“Does the sun cross the equator on the 21st of June, or the 21st day of

December?”

“June,” hazarded Christian.

“What route must a steamer take to go from New York to Honolulu in eight

days?”

“The middle route.”

“Why is the gulf-stream always full of sharks?”

“I never knew the reason, sir.”

“What year was the Panama Canal discovered?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What time does the moon rise at the South Pole?”

No answer.

“How many wrecks are there on the bottom between here and Pitcairn

Island?”

“There must be a good many, sir.”

Half a dozen equally absurd questions followed, most of which the wisdom

of Minerva could not have answered correctly.

“Enough; away with him to the shaving-chair!” finally cried Neptune.

“He’s the most unpromising subject we ever came across, and calls me

‘sir,’ instead of ‘your majesty!’”

An old steamer chair had been tilted back, and the victim—for such he now

considered himself—was marched to it, and requested to sit down. Behind

this chair stood a large wash-tub filled with water, but the tarpaulin

spread over it concealed this fact.

The Mermaid now produced a tar-pot, in which she swished a brush about

until the “lather” was of the right consistency. A piece of sacking

having been spread over the occupant of the chair, the operator

brandished her brush and prepared to begin.

“I don’t need to—to be shaved,” gasped Christian.

This was true, for he was one of those men—mostly Finns and

Scandinavians—who couldn’t have raised a beard had his life depended on

it. A few colorless hairs appeared on his cheeks and upper lip, which

the Mermaid proceeded to count aloud.

“Twenty-nine!” she announced, contemptuously. “Rather different, father

dear, from the visages of Columbus, Magellan, and Vasco de Gama, upon

whom I operated in centuries gone by.”

She now lathered the face of the squirming Christian, laying on the tar

with the peculiar slapping sound made by an experienced painter when

applying a coat of paint to a flat surface.

The patient had by this time resigned all hope, and betrayed little

interest when the brush was laid aside for the razor. This was a

marline-spike, and the Mermaid gave it an edge—if a round object can be

said to have an edge—by stropping it on a capstan bar which one of the

crew had placed in the capstan. She then held the cracked hand-glass

before Christian’s face, that he might see how he looked, and proceeded

to shave him. This was a decided relief, and the man wondered if it was

not the end of the performance.

Vain hope! Scarcely had the lather been scraped off, when two of the

crew advanced to the tub and removed the tarpaulin. They then tipped the

chair back suddenly, causing its occupant to slide into the tub, where he

was immersed all but the feet. He was quickly drawn out and hustled

forward on the port side, directly beneath the fore yard. A bowline had

been rigged up at the extremity of the yard-arm overhanging the water,

and the ends of the rope hung down to the deck. One end was made fast

around Christian just beneath the arms, and a dozen hands grasped the

other end amidst the most uproarious hilarity.

An old salt with bare feet, brass rings in his ears, and a red cotton

handkerchief wound about his head, now ascended to the roof of the

forward house and played a wild air upon a wheezy violin. He danced

about at the same time, and sang in a hurricane voice and with great

gusto, the first verse of a song whose subject was: “The Baptism of

Captain Kidd.” Everyone joined in the chorus, even Neptune and his

daughter, while the shrieking Christian was hoisted up to the yard-arm.

There he remained suspended between sea and sky while the old salt

rendered another verse, and then, as all hands took up the refrain, the

rope was slackened away. Three times was the Swede ducked in the heaving

swell, before being drawn up and lowered on deck again. He was then

released, and patted on the back by the Mermaid, who said patronizingly:

“My son, you are a lubber no more,—in name at least,—and can now consider

yourself a true subject of Neptune.”

The new subject was past speech, but he drew a deep breath of relief and

got upon the galley roof, where he sat down to dry, as well as to see

what befell Oscar and Josef. He had not been hurt in the least, but, as

some one has said, “A man might as well be killed as scared to death.”

The other two felt that their time had come. At first they had watched

the proceedings with great interest, which gradually changed to dismay,

and finally gave place to absolute terror. That Christian was to be

hanged or drowned, they did not in the least doubt; and just as he was

ducked for the third time, Oscar gave a yell and broke from his guards,

who were absorbed in watching the rites. He ran to the main rigging and

darted up it as though Satan were at his heels. The guards were about to

pursue, when they remembered Josef, and the latter’s break for liberty

was nipped in the bud.

Neptune, the Mermaid and attendants now came aft, and many volunteers

presented themselves to bring Oscar down from the top-mast head, whither

he had climbed with an alacrity entirely foreign to his nature. The

royal personages consulted together and announced that Josef would be

“finished” before Oscar was taken in hand. So everybody gathered about

the throne; even the cat, who sat gravely upon her haunches and licked

her chops as though desiring another canary.

A number of ridiculous questions were propounded to Josef, who had a very

imperfect knowledge of English, and made worse work than Christian in

answering them. He was hurried to the chair, and the tar-bucket again

brought into requisition.

Meanwhile Miss Pitkin had inspected the store-room thoroughly, and now

came up the companion-way with a comfortable sense of duty performed.

She scanned the horizon line for a sail, took a look at the compass, and

then started to find her brother. There he was on the poop, and she

ascended thither.

“Why, what is the matter, Charles? Why are all hands in the waist? Oh,

I remember,—Neptune.”

The captain was relieved at seeing his sister smile, and began to hope

that she was rallying from the grief and ill-temper into which the

canary’s death had thrown her. Suddenly, through the crowd of figures

pressing around the throne, she caught a glimpse of the Mermaid.

Surprise at sight of this extraordinary vision kept her silent a moment,

when she called out: “Mr. Rivers, what is that creature,—man or woman?”

The Mermaid’s wit got the better of her discretion, and she answered,

before the mate could reply, “Neither one, ma’am: I’m ’alf and ’alf, like

the ale and stout we mix together in Liverpool, or like one of those

morphodite {183} brigs, that’s part brig and part schooner.”

The crew respectfully fell back at sight of Miss Pitkin, and the nymph

was exposed to view. Rose instantly detected the deception, and in spite

of the cleverly disguised voice, her feminine facility for jumping at

conclusions told her that Mike was the speaker. Without knowing why, she

was as absolutely certain of this fact as of her own name. Then she

recognized the dressing jacket! The lady could hardly believe the

evidence of her senses; but it was not her habit to remain in doubt if it

could be avoided, and she hurried from the poop to verify her suspicions.

The captain was considerably disturbedby the expression of his sister’s

face, and called out: “Don’t do anything rash, Rosy; it’s only a mermaid.

“Hang that fool of a Mike,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t he have kept

quiet? I wish I’d never heard of mermaids or anything of the sort.”

Miss Pitkin sought her room and took a hurried inventory of her

possessions. Yes, what she deemed impossible had occurred; one of the

crew had actually dared to invade the sanctity of the cabin—her own room,

even—and deliberately steal her clothes! The theft, audacious as it

seemed, was yet of secondary importance compared to the outrageous breach

of discipline it involved. At this rate the crew would soon want to dine

with the captain, or sit in easy chairs upon the quarter-deck!

“And there sat my brother on the poop with his eyes open, and never even

noticed that that creature was wearing his sister’s clothes!” she

thought, surprise for the moment taking the place of indignation.

She gained the main deck, and advanced towards the capstan, where the

ceremonies had been resumed the moment she went below. Her black eyes

flashed ominously, and the crew, with a common impulse, fled in all

directions, though none could have told precisely what they were fleeing

from. The two mates thought it prudent to withdraw to their rooms, and

the guilty Mermaid set down the tar bucket and escaped, leaving Josef in

the chair with but one side of his face lathered. Neptune alone remained

to face the enemy, not being actuated by bravery so much as by

astonishment at the sudden rout of his attendants. While the Ruler of

the Seas sat upon the throne trying to decide what to do, Miss Pitkin

stepped up and surveyed him with scornful amusement. There was her green

veil in his left hand, whither it had been thrust by the Mermaid!

Unable longer to control her indignation, Rose seized the tar brush,

exclaiming, “Take that, you great overgrown dunce.” Suiting the action

to the word, she gave his majesty’s cheek a sound slap; which insult,

instead of rousing him, appeared to befog his faculties still more. She

plucked the sceptre from the monarch’s palsied hand, knocked the crown

from his head, and threw both overboard.

Neptune’s daughter had taken refuge in the carpenter shop, but the red

jacket caught Miss Pitkin’s eye as she passed the window. Pursued and

pursuer darted through the room and out of the opposite door, but as Rose

was used to skirts and the nymph was not, the latter was at a

disadvantage. Thrice was she nearly thrown down by the alpaca, until

gathering it up in one hand, she dashed to the rigging, and attempted to

ascend. Miss Pitkin was close behind, and made a pass at the Mermaid

with a harpoon she had picked up; the end catching in the damsel’s hair,

which all came off, together with her hat. The looking glass fell to the

deck and was shivered into fragments. There was the erstwhile siren part

way up the rigging, all her wit, confidence and gayety gone; while the

very members of the crew who had so lately admired her, now jeered and

derided from the other side of the deck.

“It will go hard with you when we reach port!” cried the irate lady, when

she had recovered her breath; “and if Captain Pitkin doesn’t have you in

irons before night, he’s not the man I take him for. You brazen thief,

to steal my clothes!”

“I never did steal a thing of anybody aft since I came aboard, ma’am. Do

you think I’d be going into the cabin where I’ve no business, and risk

being caught? I’m no fool. The captain told me all I had to do was to

be a mermaid (may the Virgin forgive me), and he’d furnish the togs.”

“Do you mean to say that Captain Pitkin gave you those clothes?”

“He sent them to the fo’k’sl, ma’am, this very morning.”

“Would my brother do such a thing?” Rose asked herself, as she again took

her way aft.

The captain was invisible. In fact, he had retired to his room, and was

endeavoring to banish the present by a perusal of the fascinating

adventures of D’Artagnan and his reckless companions. He was roused by a

knock at the door, but before he could say “Come in,” his sister entered.

The captain took in the situation at a glance, and knew he was in for it.

The years seemed to roll back, and as Rose marched him to the sofa he

imagined himself a boy of ten, and the subject of well-merited

chastisement. He made a full confession, asked to be forgiven, and swore

never again to hold any intercourse with Neptune or his relatives. He

could not help adding: “It was partly your fault, though, for if you

hadn’t flounced out of the room at breakfast, I should have had a chance

to ask for the use of the clothes. Are they completely ruined? Can’t

they be washed?”

“_Are they ruined_? Do you suppose I will ever touch them again after

that Mike has worn them? And have they not been in the forecastle?”

Rose whispered a single word in her brother’s ear. It was the name of a

creature all mention of which is strictly tabood in good society; or, if

referred to at all, it is usually between housewives exchanging

confidences, and then only with bated breath. “I cannot name ’t but I

shall offend,” and it suffices to say that it is a certain little animal

which invariably inhabits ships’ forecastles, though on all

well-regulated craft it never invades the cabin.

“Good heavens, Rose, I never thought of that,” replied the captain,

looking serious. “But never mind, it can’t be helped, and you shall have

what clothes you want in Buenos Ayres, if you can find anything to suit.”

Rose was fond of her brother—in her own way,—and his straight-forward

confession mollified her considerably. She did not yet allow this to

appear, however, but announced sternly:

“After the manner in which you have made away with my garments, Charles,

I very much doubt whether I shall make another voyage on the _Mohawk_.

It would serve you right if I left you to your own devices. You could

mend your clothes, lose your pipes, go without my desserts, and live on

hash and lobscouse for years to come, besides having the satisfaction of

knowing that the steward was secretly drinking bottles of ale and beer,

and making way with provisions.”

The captain made a gesture as if to banish some disagreeable remembrance.

“Don’t, Rosy,—I couldn’t endure to live the way I used to. It seemed all

right then, but since you’ve taken the cook, and steward and cabin in

hand, it’s like a different vessel.”

This admission pleased Rose, and she answered, “Well, we shall see,” in

tones which informed the captain that he was forgiven.

He put his arm about his sister’s waist and escorted her to the deck,

with a sensation of having recovered a treasure whose worth had not been

fully appreciated.

“It’s curious how one woman can upset everything, and raise Pandemonium

in no time,” he said, aside to Mr. Rivers, a few moments later.

Orders were given for the wash-tub to be restored to its proper place,

the platform about the capstan to be removed, and for everything to

resume its wonted appearance.

As for Christian, Oscar and Josef, they might very appropriately have

been likened to the three degrees of thankfulness. Christian, drying

himself on the galley roof, represented the positive degree, and was

merely thankful that Neptune had got through with him without taking his

life. Josef, with one cheek lathered, felt like a fish that has been

hooked, and then succeeds in escaping. He looked rather woebegone, but

was thankful indeed to have escaped with such comparative comfort. But

Oscar, who had now ventured part way down the main mast, had fairly

baffled Neptune and his daughter; and had there been any degree beyond

the superlative, it could not have been too strong to express the state

of his feelings. Henceforth he regarded Miss Pitkin as a deliverer, and

had she been a goddess, his veneration could scarcely have been greater.

The _Mohawk_ crossed the Line during the afternoon on the 30th meridian

of west longitude, and for all we know, Oscar and Josef are lubbers yet.

MISSING.

[Picture: Missing] The trades of the Indian Ocean usually blow with great

regularity except at the semi-annual change of the monsoons, and the bark

_Harvester_ was slipping easily along at a six-knot rate on her voyage

from Singapore to New York.

It was the second dog-watch; that time at sea when, the day’s work being

over, decks swept up, and supper eaten, all hands bring out their pipes

and gather in groups to discuss passing events, or to while away the

twilight hour in telling stories.

Job, the negro cook, sat in the galley door singing one of the plaintive

melodies of his race. An old banjo, played as only a darky can play that

instrument, furnished the accompaniment. The singer’s voice was rich and

mellow, and the simple notes floated out on the still evening air with a

soothing charm that went straight to the heart, and struck many a

forgotten chord in the breasts of the four rough seamen who comprised his

audience. Near the booby hatch were gathered the mate, the bo’s’un and

the steward; each relating in turn some reminiscence or bit of adventure

connected with his past life. Many of these provoked roars of laughter,

while the conclusion of a few was followed by a period of silence

rendered more eloquent by a shake of the head or a sigh. That was the

way these hardy men received the narration of some half-forgotten ocean

tragedy.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” the steward was saying, “I recollect hearing of those

two gales off Cape Flattery, now you speak of it. About ’87, wasn’t it?”

The mate thought a moment before he answered: “It was in the spring of

’87, in the first of those gales, that the ship _St. Lawrence_ went to

the bottom. If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget it; but if I

should happen to, here’s something that’ll make me remember.”

He pushed back the thick hair from his forehead and revealed an

ugly-looking scar of a peculiar reddish-brown color. “Now you know why I

wear my hair long even in the tropics,” he said. “I’ve not got much

beauty to boast of, maybe, but I’m a little sensitive about that cursed

mark all the same. I hate to think of it!”

The steward seemed astonished. “The _St. Lawrence_! You were on that

ship, Mr. Morgan?” he exclaimed, in accents that betrayed his

incredulity.

“I was mate of her on her last four voyages.”

“We were in Antwerp at the time, but I always understood that all hands

were lost with her.”

“All but the carpenter and me.”

He rose, emptied his pipe, and appeared anxious to drop the subject, but

the curiosity of the steward led him to ask how those two had managed to

escape. The bo’s’un seconded the request, so Morgan again seated

himself, and after a short silence related the affair in these words:

The _St. Lawrence_ was a neat little ship—you may have seen her,—and

Captain Fairley was one of the finest men I ever met,—quiet, and a man of

few words, but when he said a thing he meant it. I didn’t like his wife

so well, but his daughter, Miss Marion,—oh, she was a lovely girl. She’d

never lived on shore much, and had that shy, retiring disposition that

you often see in such cases, where the captain’s children always go with

him and have nobody of their own age to associate with. She never

hankered after shore life though, and seemed perfectly happy to be always

at sea.

Miss Marion had quite a liking for me, and many and many an evening would

she pace the deck in my watch, telling me the names of the different

stars and how far off some of them were, and all such things. That was

her favorite study—astronomy. Then she read a great deal and used to tell

me about her books. All the tidies for the cabin chairs were made by her

hands. You remember that silk handkerchief I showed you,—that one with

the _M_ embroidered on it? She worked that letter and gave me the

handkerchief on my birthday. It was the first birthday present I ever

got, and I guess it’ll be the last. Poor girl! she wasn’t quite seventeen

when the accident happened.

We came across from Hong Kong to San Francisco and found that the ship

had been chartered to load coal on Puget Sound. We arrived at Nanaimo

near the end of March. In those days there were no stevedores at most of

the coal ports on the Sound, and it was the captain’s or mate’s business

to superintend the work of the crew in loading the vessel. Captain

Fairley had to go to Tacoma on some business matter, and as ill-luck

would have it, I was taken sick the day after we got to Nanaimo, and the

doctor made me turn in. I wasn’t able to get out of that bunk for ten

days, with the result that the second mate had charge of loading the

ship.

I won’t say anything here against Ike Summers,—all of us have our

failings,—but what I do say is this: his being drunk while she was

loading caused one of the worst accidents on record, and the loss of one

of the finest ships I ever saw. Half of the crew were drunk of course,

and twenty-six hundred tons of coal were pitched in at random. I’ll

swear she wasn’t half trimmed, though I was just able to get about the

morning we sailed. Captain Fairley, his wife and Miss Marion got back

from Tacoma the afternoon before, and I told him that night it was my

opinion that the second mate had been drinking a good deal. He looked

serious, but Ike swore everything was all right,—he’d got pretty well

sobered up that afternoon,—and as the clearance papers had been taken

out, the captain concluded to sail next day. He wanted to get to San

Francisco as quickly as possible, for we’d been chartered to load from

there to New York. If it hadn’t been for that, I’ve always thought the

captain would have looked into the way the cargo had been stowed. He

must have suspected something was wrong, for he wanted Mrs. Fairley and

Miss Marion to go back by rail, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

So we were towed to sea one fine April morning, having for company a

crazy old bark named the _Lizzie Williams_. The _St. Lawrence_ was rated

A-1 at Lloyd’s, and that bark probably had no rating at all, but the old

hulk was a good deal more fit to go to sea that morning than we were, as

it soon turned out. Her cargo was stowed right, even if she did have to

be pumped out three times a day.

Ike Summers had the afternoon watch, and when I turned in after dinner

the tug had just cast us off, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. I

heard Captain Fairley tell his wife that we must be going to have a blow

on account of the falling glass, but he thought it wouldn’t amount to

much. Miss Marion was doing some fancy work, I remember, and Ike had

just ordered some of his men to spread an old cro’-jack out on deck to be

mended. It was a warm, pleasant day, and the sun shone on the sails of

the _Lizzie Williams_ as she slumped along like an old canal boat a few

miles to leeward. She was the last thing I saw before I went to my room

and turned in. I soon dropped off, being dead tired and not very strong

yet after my sickness.

How long my sleep lasted don’t matter,—it seemed about ten minutes, but

must have been several hours,—when I was roused by the steward shaking me

and yelling “Come on deck, Mr. Morgan, for God’s sake!” That brought me

to my senses in an instant, and only stopping to throw on my shoes, I ran

out.

What a change! A heavy squall was bearing down, and all hands were

working like demons to get the ship stripped. Some were aloft cutting

away the earings so as to let the sails go overboard, while others were

letting go halyards, sheets and tacks. A kind of fog or mist was settling

down, and the sails slatting against the masts and shrouds made a

horrible din, to say nothing of the hoarse orders that the captain and

Ike were bawling out.

I ran up the shrouds to help Summers cut away the mains’il.

“Good G—, Ike, you must have been mad to let that squall catch the ship

with all sail on. Where was the captain?” I cried.

“He was below. I just called him. It came faster than I reckoned on.”

“You’ve done it this time! If we ar’n’t dismasted it won’t be your

fault.”

We got the mains’il loose, and I had just slid down the backstay to the

deck when Miss Marion came running up with face as white as a sheet, but

perfectly cool.

“Tell me what I can do to help,” she implored.

“Close the lazarette hatchway,” I answered, “and see all the cabin

windows and skylights shut. Then stay below.”

Mrs. Fairley was a very nervous woman, and the suddenness of the affair

had upset her completely. There she stood at the break of the poop

clinging to a tops’il brace, and literally paralyzed with terror. Miss

Marion went to her mother’s assistance, and at the same moment the

captain ordered me to take my watch and haul up the fores’il. They were

the last words I ever heard him speak.

All this had happened within two or three minutes of my coming on deck,

and but few of the light sails had been cut away when I got some of my

watch at work on the fores’il. The first thing I knew, an extra heavy

gust struck the ship and heeled her over about twenty-five degrees. That

wasn’t much, but I tell you a lump came in my throat the next second when

I heard a dull roar in the hold beneath. All of us knew what that

muffled sound meant—the cargo had shifted!

[Picture: “The ship went clear over on her side”]

Of course the ship went clear over on her side then, and the squall broke

on us in earnest right after. Everybody grasped whatever he could lay

his hands on to keep from sliding down the deck. There was no sea

running to speak of, and the chances of saving the ship were fair

provided the squall soon passed over; but as the thought of Ike Summers

having caused all this came over me, I was in such a fury that if he’d

been near by then, I could have pitched him overboard, and not been

sorry.

I won’t speak of what we all felt as we clung there on different parts of

the ship,—it had all been so sudden, but before anything could be done to

right her, the main mast broke off underneath the deck, ripping her all

open amidships. The water poured in at an awful rate, and all hands knew

the ship was doomed.

“The boats! Cut the lashings before she founders!” I yelled.

Myself and two or three more sprang up on the forward house, where three

of the life-boats were made fast, and as we whipped out our knives I

happened to look aft and saw the captain and steward on the poop trying

to get the gig free before the ship went down. Miss Marion and her

mother were holding to the spanker boom, both bearing up nobly in this

awful crisis. I knew they would be safe in the gig along with the

captain, which was a great load off my mind.

“How shall we get water and stores for the boats?” someone cried.

How, indeed? It was impossible.

We had just got one boat free when the ship gave a plunge, and we felt

her going. Everyone was tugging at the boats; a few were yelling and

screaming; and then all hands were in the water. I had hardly come to

the surface when I felt a terrible blow on the head, and dimly realized

that a piece of wreckage had struck me. There was a gurgling sound in my

ears,—that was the last thing I recollect.

* * * * *

I was lying on my back with my eyes open looking up at the sky. The new

moon was shining, and a large bright star twinkled not far away. I

vaguely felt that one of my hands was in the water, and knew that my

limbs were being chafed by some person. A kind of dreamy stupor was on

me, and though these ideas passed slowly through my brain, they seemed to

make no impression, and I didn’t even wonder where I was, or how I came

there. Some one spoke to me.

“Mr. Morgan, try and brace up a bit. You know Simms, the carpenter—”

The voice sounded strange and unnatural.

“Yes, I know Simms, the carpenter,” I muttered; but the words meant no

more to me than does some senseless phrase to the parrot that

mechanically repeats it.

“Them’s the first words you’ve spoke, sir. Now let me pour a little

whiskey down your throat.”

The whiskey must have done me good, for I began to get my senses back

after a while and became conscious of a terrible throbbing in my head.

Putting my hand to my forehead where the pain was, my fingers came in

contact with blood. That brought me round more than anything else, and I

shut my eyes and tried hard to remember where I was.

“Mr. Morgan, it won’t do to give up like this. We can’t be over sixty

miles from the coast, and right in the track of the coal fleet at that.”

The voice sounded familiar now, and I knew it was the carpenter speaking.

“How did we come here, and where are the rest? Where is the ship?” I

asked, still a good deal bewildered.

There was a groan and a short pause before the answer came.

“No mortal man will ever set eyes on the _St. Lawrence_ again, Mr.

Morgan, nor on any of her crew but you and me.”

It took me some minutes to realize those awful words.

“But Captain Fairley and his family—they escaped?”

“All gone, sir; all but us two.”

“How were we saved?” I asked, as soon as my mind had grasped the fact

that out of two dozen lives, ours alone had been spared.

“Everything was sucked down in the vortex—boats and all. I held my

breath till I nearly burst before I came to the surface, and there you

was close beside me. You was just going down again, I judged, when I

grabbed you. A good ways off was Jim Parsons, but not another soul was

to be seen. Two capstan bars floated near by, but I struck out for this

big piece of the poop-deck that we’re on now, which was half a ship’s

length off. It must have been wrenched loose when she went down. I made

shift to get on it after a hard fight, for I daren’t leave go of you for

fear you’d sink. You was so limp I allowed you must be dead, and your

head was bloody besides. Then I looked for Jim, but the poor fellow was

nowhere to be seen.”

I owed my life to the carpenter, that was certain.

“Don’t thank me any more,” said the brave fellow. “You’d have done as

much for me.”

“How long have we been here?” I said. “Is this the first night after the

accident?”

“Yes, sir; this time yesterday the ship was at Nanaimo.”

It seemed incredible. A mere squall had wrecked that fine ship—a blow

not one twentieth part as strong as she had weathered hundreds of times

before—and all on account of a shifted cargo.

“Is there any water to drink?” I knew very well there couldn’t be, yet I

asked the question.

“No, Mr. Morgan. I happened to have this flask and an apple in my

pocket, which is all we’ve got. If we were in mid-ocean now, our logs

would soon be wrote up, but I make no doubt we’ll be picked up in a day

or so at the most. There’s no sea on, so our chance is good.”

We didn’t talk much for a long time, but just before daylight the

carpenter, who had been standing up, said: “Don’t be excited, sir, but

there’s a vessel bearing down.”

“Where away? Point her out!” I struggled up, though it made my head

swim.

None but a sailor would have recognized a vessel in that dark blotch away

in the north. My heart thumped pretty loud when I sighted it, and

realized that the craft was coming our way. We prayed for daylight,—or I

did, anyway,—and it was the first prayer I’d said for years.

Well, the sun came up, and there was a large Englishman not four miles

off. She couldn’t help seeing us, but we never stopped waving the

carpenter’s coat—I had none—till they signalled us. No need to tell how

we got picked up, or how glad we were to have a ship’s deck under our

feet again. She proved to be the _Scottish Glens_, bound from Tacoma to

Hamburg, and all hands were mightily interested in our story, several

having seen the _St. Lawrence_ sail the morning before.

There we were not a hundred miles from shore, but of course the captain

wouldn’t put back, so there was nothing for it but to start on an

eighteen-thousand-mile voyage. We worked our passage, and an awful one

it was as far as length goes.

While entering the harbor of Hamburg, one hundred and ninety days later,

a small boat came alongside with mail for the officers and crew. There

was a large assortment of letters and papers bearing postmarks from all

parts of the world; but the carpenter and I got nothing, nor did we

expect anything, for our relatives must have long since given us up. One

of the officers handed me a late copy of the Marine Register, and in the

department of Disasters I found this item, which sounded like my

obituary:

MISSING.

St. Lawrence (ship), Fairley, which sailed from Puget Sound April 7

for San Francisco, has never been heard of since, and is supposed to

have foundered with all hands. Posted at Lloyd’s as missing.

A DANGEROUS CARGO.

[Picture: A Dangerous Cargo] The south-east trades of the Pacific usually

carry the north bound vessel well across the Line. But they had been

failing gradually for some days; and now the long, low steel hull of the

British ship _Lochleven_ had almost ceased to move, although she was yet

a good two degrees south of the equator. It was very provoking; the more

so that she had made very fast time thus far, and Captain Stafford had

entertained hopes of making an unusually quick passage. But these hopes

were slowly vanishing.

The remarkable feature of a calm in the equatorial latitudes of the

Pacific is the interesting appearance of the water, which literally teems

with various forms of animal life. It is clear and limpid as crystal,

and, viewed from the _Lochleven’s_ deck, an endless procession of strange

creatures slowly floated by with the current. Two shapeless blotches of

film appeared, whose only sign of life was a great red eye at one end.

They seemed to have less than the consistency of jelly, and represented

one of the lowest forms of animal life. Next was a curious jointed

creature of a deep orange tint, coiled up like a snake. Then a fragile

nautilus was borne along, with the delicate pink shell projecting above

the surface like a sail,—“Portuguese man-of-war” seamen call it,—while a

bunch of long tentacles hung down beneath. Just over the stern were two

active little fish the size of a brook trout, whose bodies were blue,

with wide brown stripes. The pair swam side by side, occasionally

darting away capriciously, only to return in a moment. How harmless and

innocent they looked! And yet their presence was a certain indication

that a shark lurked beneath the ship. One or two of these pilot-fish

always accompany a shark to find his prey and lead him to it, for their

ugly protector is lazy and nearsighted, and would fare badly without

them. Close to the ship’s side a magnificent dolphin floated motionless

in the translucent water; the beauty of his steel-blue and pale lemon

tints being enhanced by the clear element until the splendid creature

seemed too glorious to be real. So quiet was the ocean, so still the

fish, that one might easily imagine it only the image of a dolphin

reflected in a vast mirror.

Several hundred miles to the eastward of where the _Lochleven_ lay

becalmed were the Galapagos Islands, where thousands of turtles assemble,

lay their eggs in the sand, and then float away with the current;

sleeping on the water most of the time. A dozen were now in view at

various distances from the ship, besides a big one that had just been

captured, and was crawling awkwardly about the deck. Its great

discolored shell, dead-looking eyes, and beak massive enough to sever a

man’s wrist, gave little indication of the rich steaks and agreeable soup

into which the cook promised to convert it on the morrow.

Howard, the captain’s seven year old son, considered the turtle a new

kind of steed, and bestrode its broad back in great glee. The

bare-footed youngster was brown as a berry, and carried a toy sailor

which had been christened Lord Nelson. The fact that his lordship was

minus an arm only increased the affection with which he had been regarded

for two years past, when he supplanted a golden haired doll, which Howard

soon after consigned to a watery grave.

Captain Stafford had been standing by the main hatch, watching the

turtle, and seeing to it that his reckless son did not get a finger

bitten off, when he became sensible of a faint, almost imperceptible

odor. It was so vague as to be almost intangible—probably not half a

dozen on board would have noticed it even had they stood where the

captain did then. At first he tried to think it might be only

imagination, and this view of the matter was strengthened when he walked

to another part of the deck not far off and detected no odor whatever.

He returned to his former position and sniffed the air as a hound does

when scenting danger. Again that slight smell of gas.

Captain Stafford knew what sort of a cargo was stowed under his feet, and

from that moment he thought no more of the turtle. Walking to the

carpenter-shop, he beckoned to its occupant. “Carpenter, get the main

hatch off at once.”

Cardiff coal is extraordinarily liable to spontaneous combustion, and not

a few of the many ships that carry it from Cardiff and Swansea all over

the world catch fire. Often the danger is discovered in time to be

checked, but one of the peculiarities of this cargo is, that it may burn

for days and even weeks in the center of the mass without giving the

least sign, only to break forth at last in uncontrollable fury. The

_Lochleven_ carried 4,000 tons of this commodity, consigned to San

Francisco.

The carpenter brought out his tools and began removing the hatch-cover,

while such of the crew as were aloft “tarring down” the rigging wondered

what this unusual proceeding meant. The moment the aperture was laid

open the nostrils of those who looked down were saluted by a smell like

that of a sulphur match that has been lighted and then immediately

extinguished. It was not overpowering, and the captain was the first man

to descend the ladder. The carpenter followed with an iron testing-rod,

and then the mate, with several of his watch. The latter were equipped

with spades. Placing his hand upon the coal, the captain found it

slightly warm on the surface, and the crew commenced digging according to

his directions. Then the carpenter inserted the testing-rod, which was

withdrawn presently, and showed that no fire existed thereabout, although

the coals were badly heated.

“Now, carpenter, take off the other hatches, and use the tester in the

other parts of the ship. And you, Mr. Maitland, get the rest of your

watch down from aloft. Let them bring below every spade on board, and

dig trenches wherever the coal is heated.”

The captain’s lungs were not strong and he was seized with a fit of

coughing, brought on by inhaling gas. This compelled him to go on deck

for a time, and he saw Mrs. Stafford approaching.

“What is wrong, Edward, and why are the hatches being opened? You look

troubled.”

“Nothing serious, I hope. The cargo is badly heated, but we find no fire

as yet.”

Mrs. Stafford glanced at her husband interrogatively, as if to divine

whether he concealed anything. She was a woman of commanding presence,

and though hardly thirty-five, her abundant hair was perfectly white.

“There is no smoke,” she said, looking down into the hold.

Even as she spoke the carpenter removed the third hatch, and instantly a

thin, yellowish vapor ascended into the air. “That’s a bad sign,” said

McKenzie, the third mate, aside to the carpenter, who was preparing to

descend. But he drew back, holding his nose, and before it was possible

to go down a wet sponge had to be bound over his mouth and nostrils.

Those who accompanied him took the same precaution.

It was nearly noon, and time to take sights. Still no wind, and the

rudder-chains creaked and rattled as though to remind everyone that a

calm prevailed.

While Captain Stafford waited for the sun to reach the zenith, the

carpenter approached, with a serious face.

“There looks to be a fire, sir, in hatch No. 3. The further down the men

dig the hotter the coal gets, and the smoke is so much thicker we can

hardly keep at work. All hands are digging trenches, but I’m afraid,

sir, that opening the hatches is making it worse.”

“Begin now and pump water into the trenches. We will see what effect

that has. I shall be there as soon as possible.”

He hardly dared to think what would become of the ship in case it should

prove impossible to subdue the fire. She was a fine new vessel, having

been built on the Clyde only two years before. Should a fair wind spring

up and the fire continue to burn inwardly, there might be some hope of

making Callao or Panama, and thus saving the ship; but here they were in

a dead calm, at a place where a steady wind of any sort was practically

out of the question.

All the afternoon water was pumped into the hold, being led over the coal

by means of the trenches, and when pumping ceased early in the evening it

appeared to have done much good. The coal in the main hatch was cooled

off, and the smoke had disappeared from the one next to it. But the

morning would prove whether the fire was to be subdued or not, and the

crew were ordered to bring up their mattresses and sleep on deck. Then

all the hatches were tightly battened down in order to exclude air from

the hold, and supper was served two hours later than usual. But no one

in the cabin except Howard was able to do justice to the turtle-steak,

the others hardly knowing what was before them. Anxiety and suspense

destroy appetite, and not until morning arrived would it be known whether

or not the fire had the ship at its mercy. If the coal was merely heated

and not actually burning, the water pumped on it would probably suffice

to avert combustion. The fact of the vapor having vanished was of little

importance—the exterior of a volcano may be treacherously fair and

peaceful at the very moment the interior is a mass of molten fire.

Howard turned in at the usual time. He vaguely understood that something

was wrong, and wondered why all were so grave. But the boy saw neither

fire nor smoke, and his childish mind had not yet grasped the peril which

threatened the ship. Clad in his white nightgown, he knelt at his

mother’s knee; and, burying his face in her lap, said the evening prayer

she had taught. He repeated the words more slowly than usual, and after

reaching “Amen” continued earnestly, “God, don’t let us be burned up, and

please let us catch another turtle to-morrow.” Then he ran into his

little room next to that of his parents, and bounded into bed in a way

that made the slats rattle.

Ten minutes later, when Mrs. Stafford stole in on tip-toe, the child was

sleeping peacefully; the bed-clothes were all kicked off, and the

cherished figure of Lord Nelson—without which he never went to sleep—had

just fallen from one little hand. There he lay in the sweet

forgetfulness of childhood, while his mother stood beside him thinking of

the many nights he had slept in that little bed; in storm and calm, in

heat and cold, in the Atlantic, in the Pacific, in the Indian Ocean. How

many more nights would he sleep there? She softly imprinted a kiss on

the tanned forehead, and left the room with moist eyes. Ascending to the

quarter-deck, she lay down in a hammock underneath the awning.

Captain Stafford and William Wells, the second mate, were standing by the

rail discussing the chances of saving the ship, and speaking of other

vessels that had caught fire under similar conditions. One, a large

British ship, called the _Kenilworth_, had been abandoned after being

burned entirely out inside. She was afterwards picked up, towed into San

Francisco, and sold at auction. An American firm was the purchaser; she

was rebuilt, and is sailing the seas to-day under the stars and stripes.

Another, less fortunate, was entirely consumed in the South Pacific, her

officers and crew escaping to the island of Juan Fernandez.

The two men thought Mrs. Stafford was asleep, but she heard every word,

and the relation of these disasters depressed her spirits exceedingly.

She struggled with this feeling, for she was not a woman to despair

easily, and at length succeeded in forgetting everything in a deep,

dreamless sleep.

Dawn put an end to suspense. Through two of the closed hatches a thin

cloud of smoke was filtering, proof conclusive that fire had been slowly

consuming the cargo for days and days past. Now it was eating its way to

the surface The hatches were opened, but dense clouds of hot, suffocating

yellow smoke belched forth, driving all back. It was overpowering, and

they were covered up again as fast as possible. It was useless to pump

more water into the hold, for the removal of the hatches, by creating a

draft, would simply fan the fire. Nothing but a miracle could now save

the ship.

Orders were given for the crew to bring all the stores and provisions up

from below,—all their bedding, sea-chests, and whatever else there was in

the fore peak. The smell of gas down there was intolerable, and besides,

it was necessary to keep every hatch closed in order to smother the fire

as much as possible. When everything had been brought up, the cover was

put on and secured, and the seams caulked with oakum.

One of the apprentices did not realize until it was too late, that the

crew must live entirely on deck from that time forth; evidently supposing

it would be possible to go below again after an interval. When he

discovered his mistake the boy asked to be allowed to fetch his

sea-chest, but the hatch was secured permanently, and his request had to

be refused. He was the only son of a widowed mother, who had fitted him

out finely on this, his first voyage, and tears filled his eyes when he

thought of all the things she had made for him with so much care.

The calm continued—there was no sign of the longed for wind. Several men

were kept aloft all day to scan the horizon for a sail, even the captain

ascending the rigging; but not a solitary object was in sight.

The endless procession of yesterday floated by with horrible monotony.

The red-eyed blotches of film, the jelly-fish, the orange-colored snakes,

the large turtles asleep on the water or paddling slowly about,—it was

precisely the same. The previous day the water and its strange

inhabitants had possessed a fascinating interest to many of those on the

ship; now this same scene of tranquil beauty had become an aggravation.

As Mrs. Stafford’s anxious eyes fell on these curious sluggish creatures

contentedly floating with the current, she wondered absently whether they

derived any pleasure from such a passive and aimless existence. The two

pilot-fish still swam by the counter; the invisible shark still lurked

beneath the ship; the dolphin alone, was gone.

It was the Sabbath,—usually a day of perfect rest on the _Lochleven_, for

Captain Stafford was a man of strong religious convictions. Every soul

on board, from Mrs. Stafford and Howard down to the apprentices, was

required to be present at the Sunday morning services. In pleasant

weather these exercises were conducted on the main deck, where all hands

were accustomed to assemble at six bells (11 o’clock), but to-day was an

exception, for the crew was hard at work.

Every deep-water ship, before she reaches port after a long voyage, is

thoroughly cleaned and painted from stern to stern. This is a job

requiring at least a couple of weeks. The _Lochleven_ had expected to

reach San Francisco within a month, and ship-cleaning was nearly

completed at the time the fire was discovered. The iron yards and lower

masts were freshly painted, the wooden top-masts and top-gallant masts

had been scraped, sand-papered and oiled, the rigging tarred down, the

life-boats and deck-houses cleaned and painted, and the decks holystoned

and oiled up to the top notch.

Now each man in the crew was working as only desperate men can, to heave

overboard every inflammable article about the ship. Buckets of tar and

paint; cans of benzine and linseed oil; spare spars and planks; empty

barrels; old sails; oakum and sennit;—all covered the placid surface of

the ocean.

Howard was very silent all the morning. He knew now something very

serious had happened, and his surprise was great at sight of so many

useful articles being made way with. More than once had he been punished

for thus disposing of belaying pins, brooms, swabs and marline-spikes.

He trotted around near the mate, who was an especial favorite of his, and

followed the example of the others by throwing into the sea such light

articles as were suited to his strength. But when six bells struck and

the work still continued, he ran to find his father. Never before could

he remember a Sabbath when services were not in progress at that hour.

“I thought this was Sunday, papa?”

“So it is, Howard.”

“Then why don’t we have church? Have you preached all the sermons you

know?”

“It is not that, my boy.”

“And shan’t we have duff for dessert, either?”

“I suppose we shall; we usually do on Sunday and Wednesday. The reason

services are not held to-day is because there is much work that cannot be

delayed. The Lord helps those who help themselves, and instead of

stopping to pray for deliverance we must first do everything in our power

to lessen the danger.”

The boy thought a moment, and then ran off to inform his mother. “Mama

won’t believe it; she’ll think I’m fooling her!” he called out to his

father.

During the afternoon the boats were watered and provisioned, and made

ready for launching, though Captain Stafford was determined not to

abandon the ship until the last extremity. It is appalling to think of

leaving a large vessel in mid-ocean for a few frail cockle-shells, and

the master of the _Lochleven_ entertained a desperate hope that some sort

of a breeze might soon spring up that would at least carry the doomed

ship nearer the Galapagos Islands,—the only land within a radius of a

thousand miles of the spot where the vessel lay. A few white wind clouds

could be seen on the south-western horizon, but they rose very slowly.

The fire was evidently gaining very rapidly, for when Mrs. Stafford went

below towards evening she noticed a strong sulphurous smell pervading the

cabin and sleeping rooms. The captain had not reckoned on this so soon,

and took the precaution to bring his sextant, chronometers, the ship’s

papers and some of the charts on deck, where all hands made arrangements

to pass the night; the crew being in the extreme forward part of the long

vessel, the officers amidships, and the captain’s family on the

quarter-deck. This in itself was no especial hardship, for the weather

was warm, though not excessively so.

Magnificent beyond all description was the sunset. The sky reflected

every possible tint—indigo, light blue, pink, magenta, light and dark

green, yellow, orange, gray and other hues—all blended and shaded so

harmoniously that it was impossible to tell where one began and another

left off. In the midst of the indigo blue hung the moon, a crescent of

burnished silver.

As midnight approached, great banks of purple clouds massed themselves in

the heavens, while forked and sheet lightning shot across the lurid sky.

A dozen hands were aloft furling the skysails and royals.

“Only a squall, Mary,” Captain Stafford said, in answer to his wife’s

question, “but there is wind behind it, though perhaps not much.”

In the early morning hours the first great drops pattered heavily on the

awning, and a puff of wind was perceptible soon after. Mr. Wells had the

deck, and the men joyfully sprang to the braces to trim the yards in

accordance with his orders. By the time this was accomplished the

tropical rain descended in perfect torrents,—blinding sheets,—and the

ship was well heeled over, running before a heavy squall with nearly

squared yards. The rain hissed into the foaming ocean, the lightning

flashed, and for four hours the _Lochleven_ seemed literally to fly, as

if trying to escape the demon of destruction within. The awning was new

and shed the torrents of water well, though the heaviness of the deluge

threatened to split it.

The squall passed over slowly, having helped the ship along nearly fifty

miles towards the islands. Then the rain ceased and the wind nearly so,

leaving only a two-knot zephyr. Even this was better than a calm, but

soon after sunrise it increased to a steady breeze which held all that

day.

The captain and Mrs. Stafford undertook to go below and bring up some of

their clothes and other possessions, but were rendered nearly insensible

before they had crossed the cabin. Up through the floor came volumes of

poisonous gas, rendering the atmosphere so stifling that both hastened

back and stumbled up the companion-way to the purer air. The books,

trinkets and souvenirs that Mrs. Stafford had picked up all over the

world,—many of which were rendered dear by their associations, rather

than by their intrinsic value,—all these things she prized so highly were

utterly lost. The captain had private charts belonging to himself that

could scarcely be replaced. It was impossible to get at them.

All the scuppers were plugged up and water pumped on the main deck until

it fairly swam, There was nothing else to be done but to scan the horizon

and hope that the crisis might not come until the wind had carried them

nearer the islands, which were yet a good three hundred miles to the

eastward.

Another squall from the southwest towards evening increased their speed,

though everyone was in constant fear lest the wind should fail entirely

when it passed over. Captain Stafford resolved to take to the boats the

moment it fell calm, for it was already perilous to remain on the ship.

They were literally living over a volcano, and nothing but the desire to

get as near land as possible induced him to stick to the vessel so long.

Occasional heavy puffs of smoke and sparks came from two of the hatches

towards morning, and all hands were on the qui vive, momentarily

expecting the order to get the boats over. The wind grew lighter, and as

it failed the poisonous vapors nearly choked those on board.

The man at the wheel struck eight bells—it was 4 A.M. Never again would

those spokes be clasped by human hands, or that bell be heard to ring.

From away forward floated the answering sound of the bell on the

foremast.

Then came the order “Abandon ship!”

The ocean was calm, and three of the boats were launched without

difficulty; Captain Stafford, Mr. Maitland and Mr. Wells each taking

charge of one. There was no time to take a last look, no time for

anything but to hurry away from the ship, before the accumulation of gas

in the hold should burst the decks open or blow the hatches off.

The _Lochleven’s_ sails were flapping softly in obedience to the gentle

swell. Her four tall masts with their great spread of canvas, and

imposing three hundred feet of dark hull, lent a deceptive appearance of

security and majestic strength. She had not been deserted any too soon,

for just as the stars were fading in the east before the swift tropical

dawn, the expected rending of her decks took place. Clouds of smoke and

sheets of flame leaped up, the canvas and rigging caught, and in an

incredibly short space of time, the great vessel was blazing fiercely.

[Picture: The Burning Ship]

The blowing up of the decks released the imprisoned flames, which roared

and crackled; writhing up the ropes and shrouds to the very mast heads,

as though eager for more material to devour.

Those in the boats watched the awful spectacle with fascinated eyes. The

heat became unbearable, burning brands fell into the ocean, and a little

breeze springing up, they took advantage of it to get under way. Fanned

by the rising wind, that four thousand tons of burning coal lighted up

the ocean for miles and miles around, while the boats seemed to be

floating on a sea of blood. To their awe-struck occupants, it seemed

that the great beacon must be visible from the Galapagos Islands,—the

haven which they were destined to reach three days later.

Suddenly a cry came from Howard. In the hurry and excitement of

departure, Lord Nelson had been left behind! He begged his father to put

back—implored his mother, with choking sobs, to let him save his

cherished companion. They tried to comfort him, but in vain. In

speechless grief the boy held out his arms towards the burning ship,

gradually melting into the horizon line; and if Howard Stafford lives to

be four score, he will never shed more bitter or scalding tears than fell

from his eyes at that moment.

[Picture: “Abe hurled the duff at the astounded minister”]

THE PARSON’S TEXT.

[Picture: The Parson’s Text] Her Majesty’s ship _Crocodile_ was anchored

in Plymouth Roads one fine Sunday morning, and a couple of seamen had

obtained shore leave for the afternoon.

Bill and Abraham (called Abe for short) were jolly good fellows of more

than average intelligence, and they determined to enjoy their day to the

utmost. To this end they had refused to join the mess at dinner, in

order that their appetites might be the keener for the viands at the

Royal George, to whose hospitable doors they directed their steps upon

landing. Both were rigged out in their best togs, and took their seats

at a table with the pleasant consciousness that their personal appearance

was just about at high water mark.

“Heave us one o’ them programmes, Sally,” said Bill. “A mighty trim lass

you are, if I does tell you so.”

“Me name is Lucy, your honor,” replied the buxom waitress with a smirk,

as she placed a bill-of-fare before the twain.

“Married?” asked Bill.

“No, sir. I’ve not yet met me fate,” answered Lucy, demurely.

“Crackey! You must be stage-struck.”

“’Vast there, Bill, and quit your foolin’,” interrupted Abe. “I’m

’ungry. Wot will we ’ave?”

He was considerably older than his companion, and had reached that stage

in life when not even the charms of a pretty waitress could make him lose

sight of the fact that it was past the time for dinner.

It seemed to Abe that their orders would never arrive, so he spent the

time in devouring a bottle of little round pickles which occupied the

center of the table. Bill kept trying to attract the attention of a

golden haired fairy who was opening numerous bottles of ale in another

part of the room, and only desisted when Abe remarked: “Seems to me these

’ere pickles are awful salty.”

“Them ain’t pickles, you bloke; them’s holives,” said Bill, grinning.

“Wot’s that but another name for—”

Abe’s answer was cut short by the long-expected appearance of Lucy, and

both men were soon doing full justice to the dinner, which included

beefsteak and onions, fried sole with anchovy sauce, and a pot of stout;

besides half a dozen minor dishes, all of which they relished as only men

can who have lived for some time on ship’s stores.

At last Bill said: “Well, Abe, ain’t you most done? I’m full to the

hatches.”

“Oh, sir, your honors ’asn’t ’ad the sweets yet,” expostulated Lucy.

“We’ve got some lovely tarts, and a duff, and—”

“Duff! Bring us a whole one, quick!” cried Abe.

“We’ve eat too much,” said Bill. “I never thought of the duff, or I

wouldn’t have eaten all this other truck. We’ll never be able to finish

a whole one.”

“Yes we will, too,” Abe maintained; so the dainty was placed before them,

and they fell to with a will. But both soon found that their eyes were

larger than their stomachs, and though Abe ate more than his companion,

even he had to stop before more than a third of the duff had been

dispatched.

“It’s too bad we ’ave to leave it,” he said regretfully.

An alarming idea suddenly struck Bill. “Suppose we ain’t got money

enough to pay for all these things we’ve ’ad,” he whispered fearfully.

They asked for their reckoning, and alas! Bill’s surmise proved correct.

“If we ’adn’t hordered a whole duff, we’d ’ad money left,” said Abe, “and

now wot’s to be done? We ain’t eat a quarter of it.”

Lucy thought of the shilling that Bill had recklessly slipped into her

hand unknown to Abe. After a moment’s consideration, she said

confidentially, “I’ll leave out the price of the duff, for it’s mostly

all left, and very few calls for a whole one. Nobody’ll be the wiser if

I brings ’em a piece of this.”

A load was removed from the minds of the sailors, both of whom thanked

the fair Lucy fervently, and if Bill had had any money left she would

have gotten it. Their table was in a corner near the entrance, and as

they rose to go a commotion in the rear of the room attracted Lucy’s

attention. Bill was already at the door and Abe about to follow, when

the tempting duff again caught his eye. He wavered a minute. “I’ll be

blowed if I leaves it,” he muttered, as he unbuttoned his loose blouse.

All hands seemed to be gathering in the back of the large room, and after

a stealthy glance to be sure that he was unobserved, Abe seized the

remainder of the duff and placed it in his bosom. Then he buttoned up

his blouse, drew his loose jacket together as much as possible, and

boldly walked out of the door with head well in the air.

Bill was a little uneasy at first upon hearing what his companion had

done, though he agreed that the duff would be delicious eating a few

hours later. Finally he was rather glad of Abe’s action, and only hoped

that Lucy would not get into a scrape on account of it.

They walked along for some time, until they came to a church. Many

people were entering, and the sound of the organ announced that services

were about to begin.

“Let’s go in, Abe,” said Bill. “We looks decent, I guess, and I ain’t

been in a bloomin’ meetin’-house since Mag. Halton’s weddin’, when I was

a youngster.”

“All right. We’ll cast anchor in this ’ere church for a while. We’ll be

safer, too, for I’m kind afeerd of the hofficers of the law nabbing us if

we stays on the street.”

They passed through the vestibule and into the church; when an usher took

them in tow, and the pair were given seats in the extreme forward part of

the edifice—in the second row of pews. Everything seemed strange to Abe

and Bill in that dim half-light, and their eyes had scarcely become

accustomed to the change from out doors when the grand music of the organ

again pealed forth, and the services began with a hymn from the surpliced

choir.

The novelty of the scene wore off after half an hour or so, and the

exercises began to seem a trifle tiresome.

“There ain’t nothin’ to’t but singin’ and then gettin’ down on your

knees, and then jumpin’ up and singin’ again,” whispered Abe. “Awful

poor singin’ I calls it, too. I’d like to give ’em a good chorus

now—somethin’ like ‘W’isky is the Life of Man’—just to show ’em wot real

singin’ is.”

“I can’t say as I admires the parson much, neither,” answered Bill. “He

looks almighty severe, he does. I’d hate to sign articles with a craft

he was skipper of; he’d hang two or three to the fore yard-arm every

morning, just for the fun of the thing.”

“I’m agreed on that, Bill. But look—the old boy’s goin’ up them steps.”

The minister entered the pulpit; the sermon was about to begin.

The members of the congregation settled back in their seats with looks of

expectant interest (or resignation) as the reverend gentleman gave a

preparatory cough. After adjusting his spectacles and calmly surveying

his flock, he announced: “Brethren, my discourse this afternoon will be

from the text, ‘Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?’”

The two sailors convulsively grasped the pew cushions as they exchanged

glances of consternation.

“Good G—, Bill!” whispered Abe, “the parson knows I stole that duff!”

Bill sat as though petrified, and the silence in the house of worship was

such that you could have heard a pin drop.

After giving the congregation a few seconds to digest his words, the

pastor brushed a troublesome fly from his nose, and repeated more slowly

and impressively, “Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?”

This was too much for Abe, who jumped to his feet exclaiming: “You know

I’ve got it, parson, so, d— you, take it!”

Suiting the action to the word, he hurled the duff at the astounded

minister, and followed by Bill, fled incontinently from the church.

ROUNDING CAPE HORN.

CHAPTER I.

[Picture: Rounding Cape Horn] The full-rigged American ship _Sagamore_

was now sixty-seven days out from New York bound for San Francisco, and

on this September evening in one of the closing years of the nineteenth

century, she was flying along in the South Atlantic under a stiff

top-gallant breeze, at a rate that no steamer in that part of the world

could eclipse, if, indeed, any could equal. With the wind a trifle abaft

the beam, yards well off the backstays, and showers of spray whirling

over the weather bulwarks to leeward, the stately ship swept on—an

animated picture of whose majesty and grace no one may conceive who has

not seen a large square-rigged vessel driving through the water at full

speed.

To the right, scarce fifty miles away, stretched the bleak and

inhospitable coast of Patagonia; to the left, equally distant, lay the

rugged and desolate Falkland Islands; behind, growing every instant more

remote, were civilization and government; while ahead lay an almost

boundless waste of storm-swept waters frowned upon by grim Cape Horn

itself—firm ruler of a region which for three centuries has tried the

patience of mariners, and tested the endurance of the stoutest ships that

man can build.

The usual preparation for rounding the Horn had been made. The old

patched-up sails had been taken down, and strong new ones bent in their

places—for a ship, unlike a person, wears her best suit of clothes in

foul weather;—lanyards and standing rigging had been renewed and

strengthened; preventer braces attached to the principal yards; and

life–lines stretched all over the main deck.

It was the second dog-watch from 6 to 8 P.M.—and a grand but

stormy-looking sunset had given place to the long twilight that prevails

in these high latitudes. A solitary star of great size blazed in the

zenith, while on the northern horizon, resembling an immense open fan,

there was a fine display of the Aurora Borealis, which appeared to rise

out of the sea and was becoming more beautiful as the twilight deepened.

Up on the poop-deck, clad in warm ulsters, the two passengers were taking

their evening constitutional, occasionally pausing to make some comment

on the myriads of Cape pigeons whirling about the ship, or to watch a

lordly albatross swoop down from above and dive beneath the waters—seldom

failing to seize the hapless fish that his unerring eye had spied from

afar. Both were young fellows of perhaps twenty-five, who in this long

voyage had sought rest; the one from college studies too closely pursued,

and the other from the countless worries and nervous tension of American

business life.

Will Hartley and Frank Wilbur had never met until the day before leaving

New York, and as both were of rather reserved dispositions, their

relations at first were those of acquaintances rather than friends. But

all that was now changed, for gradually they began to thoroughly like

each other; and by this time were nearly inseparable. Several months’

daily intercourse between two young men shut up in a ship together is a

severe test of companionship, but in the present case it had resulted

most happily.

Hartley broke a short silence by saying; “To think that ten weeks have

passed since I saw a newspaper! All sorts of events have happened on

shore that no one here dreams of.”

“What do we care?” answered Wilbur, with a laugh. “We are in a world of

our own, and as for me, I don’t bother about what is going on in the

United States. It seems as if I had always lived on this ship, and my

whole past life appears a vague dream. What I would like to know is,

whether the _Arabia_ and _Iroquois_ are ahead of us or not. It will be

too bad if they beat us to San Francisco.”

“No danger of that if we keep up this rate of speed. George! but we’re

traveling. Let’s take a look at the log.”

Captain Meade, a fine-looking man of fifty, joined the passengers,

remarking as he rubbed his hands in a satisfied fashion, “Well,

gentlemen, this is a good start around the Horn. We were 50° 45’ south

this noon, and if this wind would only draw into the north a trifle and

then hold, we might be across 50 in the Pacific a week from to-day. I

made it in six days once, but never expect to again.”

When a seaman speaks of rounding Cape Horn he does not mean simply

passing the Cape itself, as one might Cape Cod or Cape Flattery. Looking

at a map of South America, we find that the Horn is situated in 56° south

latitude; but from the moment a ship crosses the fiftieth parallel in the

South Atlantic until she has passed down around the stormy Cape and up in

the Pacific to the fiftieth parallel in that ocean,—a distance

approaching a thousand miles, she is said to be “rounding Cape Horn.”

Until she is across 50 in the Pacific, the vessel is never safe from

being blown clear back to the Cape by the furious western gales and

hurricanes that rage almost continuously in this region. Thus the

_Sagamore_ had already started to round the Horn, although she was yet

several hundred miles from the place itself.

The wind had increased to nearly a gale, and the ship was beginning to

take some good-sized seas on board. The big surges struck the vessel’s

sides with a shock that made her tremble as she sped on, and the mate

soon bawled out, “Clew up the mizzen to’-gallant s’il!” The work of

stripping the ship continued until nothing remained but a few

storm-sails. All hands had been called, and it was indeed a sight to see

the men aloft on the yards in the gathering darkness, as they tugged at

the flapping canvas, trying to lay it on the yard so as to pass the

gaskets round; while the wind howled through the rigging like mad, and

the _Sagamore_, as she plunged on, began to roll at a lively rate under

the influence of the big sea which was being kicked up.

“I’m glad I’m not a sailor,” said Wilbur, preparing to go below. Just

then a comber broke against the stern, and a good-sized lump of water

plumped down on his back, drenching him thoroughly. Hartley laughed; so

did the bo’s’un, who passed at that moment, and the passengers quickly

descended the companion-way to the cabin, whose warmth and security were

in sharp contrast to the bellowing gale and streaming decks without.

An exquisitely wrought lamp of Benares brass—it had once graced a

viceroy’s mansion in Calcutta—shed its soft light on the marble-topped

center table. The captain’s compass affixed to the ceiling silently

indicated the vessel’s course, and a number of fine geraniums which

ornamented the wheel-house windows in warm weather now occupied a rack

about the inside of the skylight. The ends of the room were occupied by

two cozy sofas, with lockers underneath; one containing old copies of

“Harper’s” and “Scribner’s,” while a liberal supply of ale, beer, and

similar comforts filled the other. Upon the walls, handsomely finished

in panels of natural woods, were a brace of revolvers and several

glittering swords and cutlasses belonging to the captain,—excellent

weapons to have on a ship far removed from all civil law for months at a

time. The floor was of Oregon pine, beautifully oiled and polished.

Contrary to custom, it was on this voyage covered by a carpet that the

steward had put down soon after leaving port, “so as the passengers

wouldn’t break their necks when she got to rolling off Cape Horn.”

Nearly all the way from New York to the Falklands the weather had been

glorious, and the ship stood up like a church in the few squalls that

were encountered; but now the young men began to think the steward had

known what he was about when that carpet was laid. Walking or even

sitting still had become an accomplishment, so Hartley brought out the

fifth volume of “Les Miserables,” while Wilbur produced one of the

numerous books he had provided. With chair-backs to the table, and feet

braced against the sofas, they defied the elements temporarily and read

on—to the accompaniment of groaning timbers, an occasional crash from the

steward’s pantry, and the muffled roaring of the gale without.

The storm gained strength as the night advanced. While the mizzen

topsail was being furled, bo’s’un Merrell went forward under the

forecastle deck to put additional lashings on several casks of provisions

stowed in the vicinity. He was assisted by two foremast hands, and the

trio had just secured a barrel of flour when the ship was struck by a

heavy sea, and gave a vicious roll that threw all three men against a

water-butt standing near. The sailors gained their feet uninjured, but

before the stunned bo’s’un could recover himself, a half-filled cask of

beef broke loose and was hurled through space as though shot from a

cannon. With a cry of warning, the two seamen stumbled out of the way,

but before Merrell could escape he was felled like an ox, and his lantern

smashed to fragments. The motion in that extreme forward part of the

ship was very great, and the cask soon took another dive in a different

direction; when the men, guided by the groans of the injured bo’s’un,

groped their way to where he lay and contrived to drag him behind the

hatch-coaming. He was able to sit up, and gasped out “Call the mate,

Jack; I’ve got a bad hurt.”

It was about two o’clock in the morning. Captain Meade had been on deck

most of the night, and went forward upon hearing of the accident. The

suffering man was borne into his little room near the galley, where he

underwent an examination which resulted in the discovery that the left

leg was broken midway between knee and ankle.

Few men have commanded deep-water ships for twenty years without having

had to deal with broken limbs occasionally, and the master of the

_Sagamore_ was no exception. Twice before had he successfully met a

similar emergency, and in the present case there was a valuable assistant

at hand in the person of Mr. Hartley, who had just completed a course of

study at a New York medical college, and was now en route to the Pacific

Coast to practice.

Having made his way aft across the dark and steeply-inclined deck, the

captain called the steward, and then apprised Hartley of what had

occurred. That young man had not slept for some hours, and upon learning

of the accident was most anxious to render all the assistance in his

power; for the bo’s’un was a good-natured fellow, liked by all.

While Hartley struggled into his clothes, Captain Meade procured splints

and bandages from the medicine-chest. When both were ready, they opened

the storm-door leading onto the main deck, and awaited a favorable

moment. The night was black, but the gloom was relieved somewhat by the

foam-covered water surging about the deck. Holding to the life-lines

with one hand, they dashed forward along the lee side, stopping once to

seize the line tightly and haul themselves up off the deck to avoid a

deluge that tumbled over the weather bulwarks, and poured down to

leeward.

The steward was already in attendance on the patient, and Hartley at once

set about uniting the broken bones and applying the splints. What

Captain Meade would have considered a painful and disagreeable necessity,

he regarded from a professional standpoint only, and went about his work

with a coolness and assurance that greatly relieved both captain and

patient. The abominable rolling was the worst obstacle to be overcome,

but the task was at last accomplished, and in a highly creditable manner.

Merrell was resting easier when Captain Meade and “the surgeon” proceeded

aft. The former stretched the chart of the Cape Horn region upon the

cabin table and examined it long and closely; for Staten Land—rocky,

uninhabited, and with no lighthouse to reveal its position—was rapidly

being neared, and great caution was necessary.

There was now an apparent lull in the gale, but it was not for long. At

daylight the _Sagamore_ entered a “tide-rip” whose waters, lashed into

fury by the gale, presented an awful spectacle. The ocean resembled a

gigantic mill-race; the tide flowing one way, while a swift current set

in the opposite direction, forming a whirlpool. Huge waves came from all

directions at once, pouring tons of water on the main deck and

forecastle. Progress was well-nigh impossible, but the captain kept

resolutely on, knowing that the ship’s only salvation lay in running

through the tide-rip before she should be hurled upon her side by some

sea more mountainous than the rest. This nearly happened once when a

towering wave half as high as the fore yard broke on board, staving in

the heavy door of the galley and flooding the interior, washing

everything movable from the decks; while the ship went over, and over,

and over, till her yard-arms almost touched the water, and her decks were

like the sloping roof of a house.

But the crisis was safely passed, and the maelstrom left behind. The

gale blew itself out during the forenoon, the sky cleared, the sun shone

brightly through the clear frosty atmosphere, and land was visible from

the deck.

Land!

If you have never been so situated that for many weeks your eyes have not

beheld a solitary foot of ground you can hardly appreciate the emotions

of all on board the _Sagamore_ as they looked on that bleak and

forbidding promontory rising out of the mist—Cape St. John. A few hours

later, the ship was opposite the treacherous straits of Lemaire, and very

near the shore. The entire length of Staten Land from Cape St. John on

the east to Cape St. Bartholomew on the west, was stretched out like a

grand panorama; forty miles of low mountains, jagged rocks, and broken

valleys, without a sign of animal or vegetable life, and with naught save

great patches of snow to relieve its black nakedness. The straits of

Lemaire separate this body of land from Tierra del Fuego, and on the

latter might now be seen Bell Mountain,—a distant but lofty peak, on

whose snow-capped summit the sun shone in wintry splendor.

Hundreds of large sailing vessels pass Cape St. John every year on their

long voyages from New York, the British Isles and Continental Europe to

our Pacific coast. It is a great rendezvous, and the _Sagamore_

presently found herself in the midst of an imposing fleet of merchantmen

of all nations. Here, at the southern extremity of the American

continent, were ten ships and three barks, carrying the world’s products

to San Francisco. Scores of eager faces lined the bulwarks, while on the

poop of the nearest craft stood a woman—the first representative of the

fair sex that anyone on the _Sagamore_ had seen for three months. As the

large vessels, with all their canvas set, slowly mounted the regular

swell, a murmur of admiration burst from the passengers, who longed for a

far-reaching camera to preserve the beautiful picture through years to

come. Those ships had completed the first half of their long journeys,

and now sailed in company for a few hours, soon to be scattered far and

wide upon the mighty Pacific, to meet again at the Golden Gate, thousands

of miles away. It was a sight to make the pulses thrill.