THE CAPTIVE SEAMEN IN THE FORECASTLE
JACK COCKRELL was seasick. This was enough to spoil any adventure.
Curled up under a boat, the spray pelted him and the wild motion of the
ship sloshed him back and forth. He took no interest even in piracy. Joe
Hawkridge, tough as whip-cord and seasoned to all kinds of weather, came
clawing his way aft while the water streamed from his thin shirt and
ragged breeches. The pirates of the prize crew had sought shelter
wherever they could find it. The waist of the ship was flooded with
breaking seas. A few of the larboard watch were huddled forward, close
to the lofty forecastle where they were stationed as sentries over the
imprisoned sailors of the _Plymouth Adventure_.
The commotion of the wind shrieking in the rigging and the horrid crash
of the toppling combers were enough to convince a landlubber that the
vessel was doomed to founder. But Joe Hawkridge clapped young Jack an
affectionate clout on the ear and bawled at him:
"For his work he's never loth,
An' a-pleasurin' he'll go,
Tho' certain sure to be popt off;
_Yo, ho, with the rum below!_"
Jack managed to fetch a sickly smile of greeting, but had nothing to
say. Joe snuggled down beside him and explained:
"I wouldn't dare sing that song if Blackbeard's bullies could hear me.
'Tis known as Stede Bonnet's ditty, for a fight or a frolic."
"By Harry, they can roll it out. My blood tingled when they chorused it
through Charles Town," said Jack, with signs of animation and a sparkle
in his eye. "Tell me truly, Joe. What about this pirate sailing-master,
Ned Rackham? He seems a different sort from your other drunken wretches.
He is more like one of Captain Bonnet's choosing."
"Gulled you, has he?" cried Joe. "I was afeard of that. And he's getting
on the blind side of your skipper. This Cap'n Jonathan Wellsby is brave
enough and a rare seaman, but he ne'er dealt with a smooth rogue like
Ned Rackham. He stays sober to plot for his own advantage. He will serve
Blackbeard only till he can trip him by the heels. Now listen well,
Jack, seasick though ye be. You will have to warn your skipper, Captain
Wellsby."
"Warn him of what? My poor head is so addled that I can fathom no plots.
How can Ned Rackham do us mischief while this infernal gale blows? He
toils with might and main for the safety of the ship."
"Yes, you dunce, and let a lull come," scornfully exclaimed the boyish
pirate. "What then? A fine ship this, and well gunned. She would make a
smackin' cruiser for Ned Rackham, eh? He hoists the Jolly Roger on his
own account and laughs at Blackbeard."
"Take our ship for his own?" faltered Jack, his wits confused. "I never
thought of that. Why, that means getting rid of us, of the passengers
and crew."
Joe passed a hand across his throat with a grimace that said more than
words.
"He has the ship's company disarmed and helpless, Jack. And pirates
a-plenty to work her till he recruits a stronger force. All hands of 'em
have a surfeit of Blackbeard's bloody whims an' didoes."
"And Captain Wellsby will be caught off his guard?" said Jack, shivering
at the aspect of this new terror.
"Can he do aught to prevent, unless he is bold enough to forestall it?"
answered the shrewd young sea waif. "Better die fighting than be slain
like squealin' rats."
"Recapture the ship ere Ned Rackham casts the dice," said Jack. "But it
means playing the hazard in the midst of this storm. How can it be done?
A forlorn venture. It can but fail."
"You are as good as dead if you don't," was Joe's sensible verdict.
Jack Cockrell forgot his wretched qualms of mind and body. The trumpet
call of duty invigorated him. He was no longer a useless lump. The color
returned to his cheek as he crawled from under the boat and shakily
hauled himself to his feet. Joe Hawkridge nodded approval and exhorted:
"A stiff upper lip, my gallant young gentleman. Steady she goes, an' not
too hasty. Ned Rackham is as sharp as a whetted sword. Ware ye, boy,
lest he pick up the scent. Fetch me word, here, beneath this
jolly-boat."
Jack stole away, staggering along the high poop deck until he could
cling to the life-line stretched along the roof of the great cabin.
There he slumped down and feigned helplessness, banged against the
bulwark as a dripping heap of misery or kicked aside by the pirates of
the watch as they were relieved at the steering tackles. From
half-closed eyes he watched Ned Rackham, a vigilant, dominant figure in
a tarred jacket and quilted breeches and long sea-boots. Now and again
he cupped his hands and yelled in the ear of Captain Wellsby whose beard
was gray with brine.
Jack saw that it was hopeless to get a private word with the skipper on
deck. The clamor of the storm was too deafening. The one chance was to
intercept him in the cabin when he went below for food and drink. Jack
dragged himself to the after hatchway which was shoved open a trifle to
admit air, and squeezed himself through. Before he tumbled down the
steep staircase he turned to glance at Captain Wellsby. Unseen by Ned
Rackham, the boy raised his hand in a furtive, beckoning gesture.
The pirates had taken the main room of the after-house for their own
use, driving the passengers and ship's officers into the small cabins or
staterooms. The air was foul below, reeking of the bilges, and the main
room was incredibly filthy. The pirates ate from dirty dishes, they had
scattered food about, and they kicked off their boots to sleep on the
floor like pigs in a sty.
Several of them were seated at the long table, bottle and mug in hand,
and the gloomy place was poorly lighted by a swinging whale-oil lamp.
Jack Cockrell crept unnoticed into a corner and was giddy and almost
helpless with nausea. It seemed ages before Captain Wellsby's legs
appeared in the hatchway and he came down into the cabin, bringing a
shower of spray with him. His kindly face was haggard and sad and he
tottered from sheer weariness. Passing through to his own room, a scurvy
pirate hurled refuse food at him, with a silly laugh, and others
insulted him with the foulest epithets.
He paid them no heed and they returned to their own amusements. Jack
Cockrell aroused himself to stumble after the skipper who halted to
grasp the lad by the shoulder and shove him headlong into the little
room. The door was quickly bolted behind them. A lurch of the vessel
flung Jack into the bunk but he managed to sit up, holding his head in
his hands, while he feebly implored:
"Did you note me wave my hand, sir, when I came below?"
"Yes, and I followed as soon as I could," answered the master of the
_Plymouth Adventure_. "There was the hint of secrecy in your signal,
Jack. What's in the wind?"
"I am the only passenger to win the confidence of one of Blackbeard's
crew," explained the lad. "This Joe Hawkridge is true to us, I'll swear
it. He is a pressed man, hating his masters. He bids me tell you that
Ned Rackham will seize the ship for his own as soon as ever the wind
goes down."
"Um-m, is he as bold as that?" grunted the skipper, rubbing his nose
with an air of rueful surprise. "No honor among thieves, Jack. I thought
him loyal to Blackbeard. I have considered attempting something of my
own when the weather permits but this news quickens me. This young imp
o' Satan that ye call Joe,--he will side with us in a pinch?"
"Aye, sir. And he knows this Ned Rackham well. There has been talk among
the pirates of rising against Blackbeard to follow the fortunes of
Sailing-Master Rackham. Here is the ship, as Joe says."
"It has a plausible sound," said Captain Wellsby. "My intention was to
wait, but I shall have to strike first."
"Can we fight in this storm, sir, even if we manage to release our
sailors?" asked Jack, very dismally.
"Not what we can, but what we must do," growled the stubborn British
mariner. "The shame of striking my colors rankles like a wound. God
helping me, we shall wipe out that stain if we drown in a sinking ship.
I talk to you as a man, Master Cockrell, for such you have proven
yourself. And who else is there to serve me in this adventure?"
"To set our sailors free, you mean, sir?" eagerly exclaimed Jack. "I
took thought of that. There is nobody but me, neither your mates nor the
passengers, who can pass among the pirates without suspicion. The knaves
have humored me, hearing the tale of the pirate I knocked on the head
and my braggart remark to Blackbeard. They have seen me about the decks
with Joe Hawkridge as my boon comrade. 'Tis their fancy that I am likely
to enlist."
"Well said, Jack," was the skipper's compliment. "Yes, you might make
your way for'ard without interference,--but the fo'castle hatches are
stoutly guarded. Again, should my brave fellows find exit, they are
weaponless, unready. Moreover, they have been crammed in that dark hole,
drenched by the sea, cruelly bruised by the tossing of the ship, and
weakened for lack of food and air."
"Granted, sir," sighed Jack. "But if some message could be smuggled in
to forewarn them of the enterprise,--would that brace 'em to the
assault?"
"Will ye try it, Jack?" asked the skipper, with a note of appeal in his
hearty voice. "I know not where else to turn. You take your life in your
hands but----"
The shipmaster broke off with a grim smile. It was absurd to prate of
life or death in such a strait as this. The boy reflected before he
said:
"If--if I fail, sir, Joe Hawkridge will try to pass a message in to the
men. You can depend on 't."
"A last resort, Jack. You vouch for him but I trust you far sooner. He
has kept sorry company."
"When is the best hour, Captain Wellsby?"
"Just before nightfall when the watches will be changing. I dare not
delay it longer than that. In darkness, my lads will be unable to find
the foe and strike hard and quick. Nor can they rush to lay hold of the
only weapons in their reach,--the pikes in the racks beside the masts.
Not a pistol or cutlass amongst 'em, and they must fight with these
wicked dogs of pirates who think naught of killing men."
"Let your lusty sailors once get clear, sir," stoutly declared Jack
Cockrell, "and they will play a merry game with those long pikes. Then I
am to slip the message written by your hand on a bit of paper?"
"That's it! I will command them to pound against the scuttle, three
raps, for a signal of response, and you must listen for it. Then it is
for them to stand ready, on the chance that you can slip the bar of the
hatch or the bolts on the door."
"But if they have to come out singly, sir, and the sentries are
ready-witted, why, your men may be cut down or pistoled in their
tracks."
"I am so aware," said Captain Wellsby, his honest features glum, "but we
cannot change the odds."
He found an ink-horn and quill and laboriously wrote a few lines on a
leaf torn from the back of a sea-stained log-book. Jack tucked it
carefully away and thus they parted company, perhaps to meet no more in
life. Through the waning afternoon, Jack stowed himself on deck and held
long converse with Joe Hawkridge when they met between the keel-chocks
of the jolly-boat. Because he shared not the skipper's feeling of
distrust, Jack sought the active aid of his chum of a pirate lad. It was
agreed that they should endeavor to reach the forecastle together when
the ship's bell tolled the hour of beginning the first night watch.
Joe hoped he might decoy or divert the sentries. If not, he had another
scheme or two. A gunner's mate of the prize crew had sent him to
overhaul the lashings of the battery of nine-pounders which were ranged
along the waist. With several other hands Joe had made all secure,
because the guns were apt to get adrift in such weather as this and
plunge to and fro across the deck like maddened beasts. Now Joe
Hawkridge had lingered, on pretext of making sure that one forward gun
could be fired, if needs be, as a distress signal should the ship open
her seams or strike upon a shoal.
He had satisfied himself that the tompion, or wooden plug which sealed
the muzzle was tight, and that no water had leaked through the wrapping
of tarred canvas which protected the touch-hole. Before replacing them,
he had made two or three trips to the deck-house amidships in which was
the carpenter's room. Each time he tucked inside his shirt as many
forged iron spikes, bolts, and what not as he could safely carry.
Unobserved, he shoved this junk down the throat of the nine-pounder and
wadded it fast with handfuls of oakum. He worked coolly, without haste,
as agile as a monkey when the ship careened and the sea spurted through
the cracks of the gun-ports. Well pleased with his task, he said to
himself, with that grin which no peril could obliterate:
"God alone knows how I can strike fire to a match and keep it alight,
but the sky shows signs of easier weather."
The fury of the storm had, indeed, diminished. It might be a respite
before the wind hauled into another quarter and renewed its ferocious
violence, but the air was no longer thick with the whirling smother of
foam and spray and the straining topmasts had ceased to bend like whips.
The ship was gallantly easing herself of the waves which broke aboard
and the rearing billows astern were not threatening to stamp her under.
It lacked almost an hour of nightfall when Jack Cockrell crept along the
poop and halted to lean against the timbered railing by the mizzen
shrouds. All he could think of was that Ned Rackham might seize upon
this sudden abatement of the gale to hasten his own wicked conspiracy
and so ruin the plan to restore the _Plymouth Adventure_ to her own
lawful company. This menace had occurred to Captain Jonathan Wellsby who
stood tense and rigid at the sailing-master's elbow, watching him from
the tail of his eye.
Relief o'erspread the skipper's worn features when he espied Jack
Cockrell who stood as if waiting for orders. A nod, a meaning glance,
and they understood each other. Striving to appear unconcerned, Jack
moved toward the forward part of the ship. He was aquiver with
excitement, and his breath was quick and small, but the sense of fear
had left him. Captain Wellsby had called him a man and, by God's sweet
grace, he would so acquit himself.
The pirates were swarming out of the cabin to taste the clean air and
limber their cramped muscles. The ship still wallowed as she ran before
the wind and it was breakneck work to clamber about. From the topsail
yards fluttered mere ribbons of canvas where the reefed sails had
bellied. Ned Rackham shouted for the watch to lay aloft and cut the
remnants clear and bend new cloths to keep her from broaching to.
Jack Cockrell's heart leaped for joy. At least a dozen of the most
active pirates would have to obey this order. This would remove them
from the deck for a precious interval of time. He slouched aimlessly
nearer the forecastle, stretching his neck to gaze up at the pirates as
they footed the ratlines and squirmed over the clumsy tops. Joe
Hawkridge joined him, as if by chance, and they wandered to the lee side
of the forecastle. There they were screened from the sight of the
sentries.
The wooden shutters of the little windows had been spiked fast on the
outside and Jack was at his wits' end to find by what means he might
slip the fateful message to the captive seamen. He dared not climb upon
the roof and seek for a crack in a hatchway. This would make him too
conspicuous.
Cautiously he stole around the massive structure and was all but washed
overboard when he gained the windward side where the water broke in
hissing cataracts. So great had been its force during the height of the
storm, that one of the shutters had been splintered and almost crushed
in. Clutching the bit of paper which was tightly rolled and wrapped in a
square of oiled linen, Jack pushed it through a ragged crevice in the
shutter.
It was gravely doubtful whether the men would discover the message in
the gloom of their prison. It might fall to the floor and be trampled
unperceived. And yet Jack Cockrell could not make himself believe that
deliverance would be thwarted. He said a prayer and waited with his ear
against the wall of the forecastle. There he leaned through an agonized
eternity as the slow moments passed. It was like the ordeal of a
condemned man who hopes that a blessed reprieve may save him, in the
last hour, from the black cap and the noose.
Up aloft the pirate seamen were slashing the torn canvas with their
dirks and casting loose the gaskets. Presently they began to come down
to the deck, one by one. Some whispered word must have passed amongst
them, because they drifted aft as by a common impulse although it was
not yet the hour to change the watch. Their gunner's mate, a gigantic
mulatto with a broken nose, went to the poop when Ned Rackham crooked
his finger and these two stood aside, beyond earshot of Captain Wellsby,
while they conferred with heads together.
"They will strike first," Jack whispered to himself.
The misty daylight had not darkened. The decks were not yet dusky with
the shadows which Jack had hoped might enable him to approach the
forecastle door in his brave endeavor to unbar it. The plans were all
awry. Tears filled his eyes. And then there came to his ear a muffled
knock against the other side of the forecastle planking.
Once, twice, thrice! The signal was unmistakable. A little interval and
it was repeated.
Softly the trembling lad tiptoed to the corner of the forecastle house
and peered around it to look for the sentries. Two of them had moved a
few yards away to join a group which gazed aft as if expecting a
summons from Ned Rackham on the poop. The third sentry leaned against
the forecastle door, a cutlass at his belt. He was a long, bony man with
a face as yellow as parchment from the Spanish fever and it was plain to
read that there was no great strength in him.
Faithful Joe Hawkridge sat astride the breech of the nine-pounder at
which he had been so busily engaged earlier in the afternoon. He
appeared to be an idler who merely looked on but he was watching every
motion, and that hard, canny face of his had, for once, forgot to grin.
Releasing a three-foot handspike from its lashing beside the
gun-carriage, he awaited the next roll of the deck and deftly kicked
this handy weapon. It slid toward the forecastle and Jack Cockrell
stopped it with his foot.
There was no time for hesitation. Snatching up the iron-shod handspike,
Jack rushed straight at the forecastle door. Just then the ship lurched
far down and he was shot headlong, like falling off the roof of a house.
He had the momentum of a battering-ram. The sentry yelled and drew his
cutlass with a swiftness amazing in a sick man. His footing was unsteady
or Jack would have spitted himself on the point of the blade. As he went
crashing full-tilt into the man the impact was terrific. They went to
the deck together and the handspike spun out of Jack's grasp. There was
no need to swing it on this luckless pirate for his bald head smote a
plank with a thump which must have cracked it like an egg.
Not even pausing to dart after the cutlass which had clattered from the
lifeless fingers, Jack spun on his heel and wrenched at the heavy bar
across the forecastle door and felt it slide from the fastenings. He
tugged it clear and swung himself up to the roof to draw the bolts which
secured the hatch. Rusted in their sockets, they resisted him but he
spied a pulley-block within reach and used it as a hammer.
All this was a matter of seconds only. The pirates grouped amidships had
been waiting for Ned Rackham's word from aft and they were muddled by
this sudden shift of action. The other sentries stared in foolish
astonishment. The brief delay was enough to let Jack Cockrell free the
hatch. While he toiled furiously, several pistols and a musket were
snapped at him but the flint sparked on damp powder in the pans and only
one ball whistled by his head.
Out of the forecastle hatchway and through the door, the enraged sailors
of the _Plymouth Adventure_ came rocketing like an explosion. They
stumbled over each other, emerging head or feet first, blinking like
owls in the daylight but with vision good enough to serve their purpose.
Their goal was the nearest stand of boarding-pikes at the foot of the
mainmast.
But as they came surging on deck, they were not empty-handed. In the
forecastle was a bricked oven for warmth in winter and for cooking
kettles of soup. This they had torn to pieces and every man sallied
forth with a square, flat brick in each hand and more inside his shirt.
Those who were first to gain the deck pelted the nearest pirates with
these ugly missiles. The air was full of hurtling bricks and the
earliest casualty was a stout buccaneer who stopped one with his
stomach.
Driven back in yelling confusion, the pirates found their firearms
almost useless, so drenched had the whole ship been by the battering
seas, but they were accustomed to fighting it out with the cold steel
and they were by no means a panicky mob. The fusillade of bricks held
them long enough for the merchant sailors to escape from the forecastle
and this was an advantage more precious than Captain Wellsby had hoped
for.
What the pirates required was a leader to rally them for attack. Quicker
than it takes to tell it, Ned Rackham had raced along the poop and
leaped to the waist at peril of breaking his neck. Agile, quick-witted,
he bounded into the thick of it, cutlass in hand, while he shouted:
"At 'em, lads! And give the dogs no quarter!"
With hoarse outcry, his gallows-birds mustered compactly while those who
had been in the cabin came scampering to join them. Curiously enough,
Captain Jonathan Wellsby had been forgotten. He was left alone to handle
the ship while the pirate helmsmen stood by the great tiller. To forsake
it meant to let the vessel run wild and perhaps turn turtle in the
swollen seas. And so the doughty skipper was, for the time, a looker-on.
And now with Ned Rackham in the van, it seemed that the British sailors
were in a parlous plight and that their sortie must fail. Craftily the
pirates manoeuvered to drive them back into the forecastle and there
to butcher them like sheep.