THE RAIDERS
Meanwhile, upon Elephant Island, things had not been going well. For the
first two days after the departure of Cap’n Pem and his boat, the work
of killing and boiling had gone on as usual, although on a smaller scale
owing to the lack of men. Then, on the third day came the terrific storm
which had prevented the rescuing party from returning. Within a few
hours after the screeching, howling gale had first burst upon the
island, the flimsy shacks, erected for summer weather, had been
completely wrecked; the tremendous seas had swept far up the beach and
had carried away the try-works and had smashed and broached many of the
casks of oil, and Mike and his men had been compelled to perform
Herculean labors to save anything from the fury of the tempest.
By dint of incredible exertions they had managed to construct a rude
shelter from the wreckage and had saved the rest of the oil and most of
the supplies; but when the storm finally abated, the drenched, tired and
shivering men looked upon a scene of desolation. The beach was littered
with staved casks, boards, boxes and ruined supplies. Masses of
wave-driven kelp and flotsam were piled high where the try-works had
stood; the planks and canvas of the hut were scattered about and not a
sea elephant was in sight.
Mike shook his head as he surveyed the devastated camp. “B’gorra!” he
exclaimed. “Faith an’ ’tis the doin’s o’ the bo’sun burrd—bad cess to
him! An’ be the same token ’tis worrit Oi am over Misther Potter an’
thim others. Foive days now, an’ divvil a soign av thim. Beloike an’
they wuz caught in the big wind, ’tis dead they be.”
“Mister Potter, he put da grub an’ da water for week,” Manuel reminded
him.
“Shure ’tis thrue ye’re sp’akin’ Manny,” replied Mike in relieved tones,
“an Oim a blessed phool fer thinkin’ Misther Potter’s a lan’ lubber for
to be a-sthartin’ out in the tathe av a storrm. Faith though, but ’twill
be a sorrer sight for thim to say whin they come. An’ not a say iliphant
in sight. B’ Saint Pathrick Oi belave the storrm’s afther drowndin’ av
thim all.”
Then, ordering his men to pick up everything they could and to endeavor
to get some order out of chaos, the bo’sun with the cook and one man
turned to the demolished hut and endeavored to rebuild it so it would be
fit for occupancy when the boat returned. They were still busily engaged
at this two days later when a shout from one of the men interrupted
them, and gazing seaward they saw a sail above the horizon. For a time
they could not determine whether it was approaching or not, but it was a
square-rigged vessel beyond a doubt and when, after half an hour of
steadfast watching through the glasses, Mike knew that it was heading
towards the island, he shouted, “B’ gorra, lads, ’tis the _Hector_!
Shure she’s ahid o’ toime a wake an’ more. ’Tis good luck she must’a’
been afther havin’. Three cheers, me hearties! ’Tis homeward boun’ we’ll
be to-morrer!”
But scarcely had the three hearty cheers died down when Mike’s
countenance fell, for through the binoculars he could now see that it
was not the _Hector_ but a brigantine.
“Worra be!” he bemoaned. “’Tis disapp’intment, me lads! ’Tis a brig
b’gorra! Now phwat does he want here, at all, at all?”
Rapidly the oncoming vessel approached and presently all could see that
it was a small brigantine and by her build and rig they knew it was not
an American ship.
“Phwat in blazes arre the furriners a-buttin’ in here fer!” demanded
Mike and, addressing no one in particular, “Shure ’tis throuble enough
we’re afther havin’ av our own. An’ if it’s afther say iliphants they
be, ’tis none they’ll be foindin’, an’ if they wuz ’tis divvil a bit
Oi’d be afther lettin’ av thim sthop here. B’gob, ain’t they islan’s
enough an’ to sphare widtout a-callin’ on us wid no invetashun?”
Curious as to why the stranger should be making for the island, for she
flew no signals, the men had ceased their work and stood gathered near
the hut watching the brig.
“Mebbe he come for get da ’ile,” suggested Manuel. “Eef he see we here
firs’, mos’ like he go da other islan’.”
“Faith an’ he will, thot!” declared Mike. “’Tis two’s a crowd here. Well
b’jabbers we’ll soon be afther knowin’. He’s dhroppin’ av his anchor.”
Hardly had the brig swung to her anchor before a boat was lowered and
manned, and six men came rapidly shoreward.
As it neared the beach, Mike stepped forward, and followed by two or
three of his men, stumped down to the water’s edge.
“Shure an’ what moight it bay that ye’re wantin’ here?” he demanded as
the boat’s keel grated on the beach.
The steersman,—a huge, raw boned mulatto in ragged, dirty clothes and
with a great livid scar on one cheek, looked the bo’sun over
contemptuously and his mouth widened in a twisted smile, disclosing
broken, yellow fangs.
“Whadda matter wi’ you, Pat?” he replied insolently.
Mike grew purple and his gray whiskers bristled.
“Kape a civil tongue in yer head, ye dhirty nagur!” he fairly roared.
“B’the Saints, if yez is a-lookin’ fer throuble yez’ll be afther
foindin’ it widout lookin’ far, ye spade-faced, mud-colored, bilge-rat!”
“Haa!” sneered the other. “Da Irish no like da vees’tor, eh? He no mek
welcom’ da other fellas. Hmm! Eet look laik you have pretty good luck
already. Plenty kill an’ b’il down an’ plenty ’ile mek an’ in cask. Hmm!
You tink you owna dis islan’, Micky?”
Fairly bursting with rage at the man’s insolence and manner, Mike took a
stride forward with doubled fists, but one of the boat’s crew rose to
his feet, swung his huge oar and aimed a crashing blow at the bo’sun’s
head. Mike sprang aside in the nick of time and as he did so, the men in
the boat leaped ashore, significantly hitching their sheath-knives
forward as they did so, and Mike, realizing the futility of resisting
them unarmed, beat a hasty retreat. Shouting derisive insults at him,
the mulatto boat steerer turned and signaled to his ship, and a moment
later, another boat dropped to the water and came speeding shoreward.
With his men gathered about him, Mike spluttered and fumed, alternately
cursing the newcomers and berating his men for a lot of cowards for
allowing them to land.
“B’Saint Pathrick!” he roared. “Arre yez men or jelly-fish to sthand
there an’ see yer bo’sun sassed by a slinkin’ black haythen av a
half-breed Portugee? Shure an’ ain’t the foive av yez an’ mesilf a match
fer thim twilve sn’akin’ rats? An’ ye wid sphades an’ irons an’ guns
handy!”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” put in one of the men, “but you’re forgettin’
’tis a free islan’. It’s not belongin’ to us nor the bark, sir. And
there’s no reason I seen yet, to put ’em off.”
“Raisin is ut!” fumed Mike. “Raisin! Shure thin do yez be afther
thinkin’ ’tis honest worruk they’re afther comin’ here for? Look at
thim! Howly Saint Pathrick! The dhirty thaves arre afther st’alin’ av
the ’ile!”
Mike was right. The boats’ crews from the schooner were calmly rolling
the oil-filled casks to the shore, evidently with the intention of
loading them into their boats. And now that the hostile status of the
brig was evident, the _Hector’s_ men no longer hesitated. With set faces
and grim determination they seized the nearest weapons,—blubber-spades,
elephant clubs, irons, and with Mike shouting encouragement and
brandishing a heavy club the five whalemen charged towards the brig’s
boats. Outnumbering the whalemen three to one, the oil pirates stood
their ground, drawing their sheath-knives and seizing their heavy oars
in readiness to repel their attackers.
But neither sheath-knives nor oars are of much avail against
long-handled, razor-edged, blubber-spades or whale-irons and as one of
the Americans hurled an iron which buried itself in the thigh of one of
the raiders, and the gleaming spades cut down another, the remaining ten
men turned tail, dashed to their boats and with frantic strokes pulled
from shore barely in time to escape the maddened whalemen. Had they
delayed an instant longer, all would have been butchered without mercy,
for the whalemen, already soured, surly and ugly from the destruction
wrought by the storm, had gone murder-mad when they saw their hard-won,
precious oil being boldly stolen from under their noses.
Even as it was, the Portuguese had not escaped unscathed. The one struck
by the iron was screaming and struggling unable to move from the heavy
iron-pole, while his comrade lay moaning in a pool of blood and with a
great, gaping gash in his shoulder where the spade had struck him.
Shaking weapons and fists at the rapidly retreating boats, and hurling
sneers and insults after them, the victorious whalemen turned their
attention to the wounded raiders.
“Shure, ’tis no desarvin’ o’ pity yez be!” Mike informed them. “But ’tis
no haythens we arre. B’gorra, Oil bet yez’ll think twoice afore yez arre
afther buttin’ in an’ staylin’ o’ Yankee sailormins’ ’ile ag’in!”
It was no easy matter to extricate the barbed iron from the fellow’s
thigh and Mike was no gentle surgeon and the man’s agonized howls, as
the bo’sun cut away the flesh and drew out the iron must have made
shivers run down the spines of those on the brig. Carrying the two
wounded raiders to the shack, Mike and his men rendered rough first aid
and gave no heed to what was taking place on the brig until one of the
boat steerers gave a warning shout. Leaving the wounded men, all rushed
out to see three boats leaving the brig and heading towards the shore.
“Glory be!” cried Mike. “’Tis more av the same med’cine they do be
afther wantin’! An’ b’gorra, ’tis thot same they’ll be afther gettin’.
Come on, yez spalpeens. Shure it’ll take more than twenty av yez to bate
foive Yanks!”
Considering that two of his men were Portuguese, Mike’s use of the term
“Yankees” was rather amusing, but no one noticed it, and indeed, the New
Bedford Portuguese considered themselves as much Americans as did Mike
himself.
Again seizing their weapons, the whalemen prepared to greet the invaders
with a warm reception. But as they approached the water-side two of the
men in the forward boat dropped their oars, sprang to their feet and,
seizing rifles, fired point-blank at the advancing whalemen. It was
lucky for Mike and his men that the Portuguese were poor shots and that
their sudden motions rocked the boat; but as it was, the bullets sang
harmlessly over the defenders’ heads.
Neither Mike nor his men were foolhardy enough to attempt to resist
firearms with their weapons, and judging discretion the better part of
valor, they retreated towards the hut, while the raiders maintained an
intermittent fusillade of bullets. Suddenly there was a dull thud, a
sharp cry from Mike and the bo’sun crumpled up and fell to the ground.
Seizing him by the arms, his men were about to drag him to safety when
he jerked himself free and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Bad cess to thim!” he roared. “’Tis me foine lig they’re afther
sp’ilin’ entoirely! An’ thot costin’ av sivinty-foive bucks! B’gorra,
they’ll be afther payin’ fer it or me name’s not Mike O’Malley!”
Before they could gain the hut, the marksmen’s aim had become
dangerously accurate and the men were compelled to seek safety behind
the casks of oil that stood near. Here they squatted, ruefully watching
the brig’s crew as they hurriedly proceeded to load the oil barrels into
their boats.
“Faith, if we had thim guns in the shanty ’twould not be a stalin’ so
aisy they’d be afther doin’!” Mike declared. “B’gorra, Oi’m thinkin’ we
moight be afther sn’akin’ there an’ gettin’ av thim. Will anny av yez
foller me?”
All four men answered in the affirmative, and throwing themselves flat
on their stomachs, the five wormed their way towards the shanty, their
movements concealed from the raiders by the tiers of oil-filled casks.
In safety they gained the hut and entered, and hastily arming his men
with the boys’ shot guns and two muskets, and providing himself with the
only remaining firearm, a bomb lance, Mike broke open a case of shells
and distributed the ammunition to his men. Then, realizing that the
range was far too great for the shot guns and also that the flimsy
boards and canvas walls of the hut were but a poor protection from
flying bullets, the bo’sun instructed his men to crawl back to the
shelter of the oil-casks.
Hardly had they done so, when the raiders, having sent aboard to the
brig the last of the casks that had been rolled to the beach, started
forward, intent on securing those behind which the whalemen crouched.
Thinking, no doubt, that the Americans had no firearms, and counting on
their retreating without resistance, the Portuguese advanced without
firing, but holding their guns in readiness.
Fortunately for them, Mike was far too hot-headed and excited to hold
his fire until the raiders were within easy range, and before they had
proceeded fifty yards, flashes spurted from behind the casks and bullets
and buckshot plowed up the sand and sung through the air about the
Portuguese. Utterly surprised at the unexpected volley, the raiders
hesitated for an instant, and then fired wildly at the pile of casks.
Then, an answering shot spat from the barricade and as two of their
number threw up their hands and plunged forward, the raiders commenced
to retreat, and when a bomb from Mike’s gun burst in their midst, they
flung aside guns and fairly raced towards the boat.
Leaping in, they shoved off and bent to their oars, while about them
splashed and spattered the bullets of the victorious whalemen.
And then, from those on shore, a mighty shout went up and the beaten
raiders turned to see a trim, white whaleboat racing towards them from
beyond the point.
Madly they pulled to reach their brig ere they were overtaken by these
new enemies. Already the first boat had gained the vessel’s side, and
panic-stricken, the crew flung themselves over the ship’s rails,
dropping the painter of their boat and thinking only of safety. But the
second boat was too late. When still far from the brig, the _Hector’s_
boat was upon them, and, as the raiders glimpsed the grim, heroic figure
of old Pem standing with uplifted iron in the bow, deadly fear gripped
them and with agonized screams they strove wildly to escape. The next
instant the heavy iron hurtled through the air, and as it crashed among
them, the men, with one accord, leaped from their seats and plunged
headlong into the sea.
“Reckon that finished of ’em!” growled Cap’n Pem grimly. “Sarves ’em
right if I speared ’em like pupusses. Wonder what in tarnation’s the
rumpus is anyhow. Give way, lads!”
Long before the boat had reached the beach, the brig had slipped her
cable, her yard had been swung, and as the last of the swimmers pulled
himself into her chains, she was standing towards the open sea.