THE PRIVATEER “ARGENTE”
What a night!
The wind rose to a hurricane! It had a thousand voices! It hummed, sang,
whistled and hurrahed, as it danced in the rigging. It moaned, wailed,
howled and shrieked, as it knocked the ship about. The steamer rocked,
tossed and tumbled in the stormy sea; now rising high upon a heaving
wave, now dropping into the gulch of the sea.
Passengers could not sleep that night. It was as much as they could do
to hold on and keep their places in bed. Those on the upper berths were
in danger of serious falls.
Rosemary, who shared Wynnette’s stateroom, and slept in the upper berth,
let herself down by a series of difficult but successful gymnastics, and
lay upon the sofa, trembling. Presently she crept to the door, opened it
a little way, and peeped into the cabin. The place was quiet, the doors
of the other staterooms all closed, and no one present but the local
night watchman, sitting composedly by the single light.
She closed the door, crept back to the sofa and lay down again.
Presently she said:
“Wynnette! how can you sleep through this?”
“Sleep!” cried Wynnette. “Who’s asleep? Not I! Who could sleep through
such a demoniac opera as this? Rosemary! the Germans swear ‘Ten thousand
devils!’—in their own language—and I think the whole ten thousand German
devils must be holding an open-air concert, after the manner of their
musical countrymen, and that right around our ship! Only, they are all
roaring drunk, and every one singing and playing and piping and blowing
out of tune! I never heard such a hullabaloo in my life!”
“Oh, Wynnette, do you think there is any danger?”
“No, I don’t. If there was, the passengers would all be out of their
berths and dressed, to be ready for the lifeboats. And there would be a
great running and racing, and pulling and hauling, and cursing and
swearing on deck; and the officers would all be—blaming the men’s eyes,
and livers, and lights, to—encourage them, you know. And making a
hullabaloo to be heard above the hurricane. And much more horrible than
the hurricane, too. No; there can be no danger yet.”
“But would all that profanity go on in a beautiful ocean steamer?”
inquired Rosemary.
“A good deal of it would on occasion. You may bet your best boots on
that.”
“Oh, I wish it was morning!” sighed Rosemary.
“So do I. But ‘if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ you know.”
Morning came at length, however, and as the sun arose the wind went
down, but not entirely, for it still blew and often started up in gusts.
None of our party appeared at the breakfast table, or even afterward on
deck, except the old skipper and Rosemary.
The day passed wearily.
At intervals Capt. Grandiere visited the earl in his stateroom, and
Rosemary her friends in their own. Both visitors found the sick ones
cross and sulky, and so indisposed to be friendly and social that they
were speedily left to themselves.
People are no more responsible for their behavior when they are seasick
than if they were lunatics.
At night all hands turned in early. And the wind rose and blew a
hurricane all night.
And as the day had passed, so the week passed.
Sunday came. As the weather continued to be tempestuous, the passengers
remained seasick.
No one came up on deck except the old skipper and his grandniece. The
old man was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and carried a Bible, a prayer
book and a hymn book in his hand. He drew his little companion away to a
comparatively sheltered part of the deck, and they sat down to read the
service for the day—the old man reading the minister’s part from the
book and the young girl making the responses from memory. Then he read
the lessons for the day; and finally they sang a hymn.
At dinner time they went to the saloon, but found it almost deserted.
The ensuing week proved quite as tempestuous as the one just passed.
They were, in fact, suffering from a series of equinoctial storms.
When the ship reached the Banks of Newfoundland they experienced some
variety of weather in the shape of blinding snow and stinging sleet,
added to howling winds and leaping waves.
None but the officers and crew of the steamer and our old skipper
ventured on deck.
Even Rosemary stayed below. It is hard enough to keep one’s feet on a
rolling deck when it is dry, or on an icy surface when it is still; but
to stand or walk on the sleety boards of a rocking ship is well-nigh
impossible to any one but a seasoned old salt.
So Rosemary, as well as her companions, kept the cabin or the saloon.
To as many as were able to appear on the common ground of the
last-mentioned place the old man made himself very useful and agreeable
in helping them to pass away the long days, and especially the long
evenings. He told stories, sang songs, and recited poetry—miles of
poetry, which he said he had committed to memory in the lone watches of
his half century of sea life.
All this time the steamer was not “flying,” not even “running,” but, as
it were, only tumbling against wind and weather toward the port of New
York.
But it happened on one fine morning, when the winds and the waves fell
and the sun shone brightly and warmly, and seasick passengers got well
and came out on deck like hibernating animals in the spring—they spied a
pilot boat—Number 15—coming toward them.
There was a general jubilee! They were not yet in sight of land, but
they could not be far from port, for the pilot boat was coming!
Half an hour later the pilot boat was alongside and the pilot on deck,
with a batch of the latest New York and Washington papers, and with
news—such news!
A crowd gathered around him at once.
His papers were taken right and left, and all the men turned eagerly to
the first columns of the first page of his own particular sheet to read:
“Latest Dispatches from the Seat of War.”
Before every man’s face fluttered the open newspapers like spread sails,
while they devoured the news!
But the pilot’s oral news, which was so very fresh that it had not had
time to get into the morning papers, was more interesting to our
immediate party than all the rest.
Mr. Force, who was deep in news from the peninsula, caught the words:
“Lieut. Com. Force.”
And he looked up.
The pilot was hastily and excitedly recounting some adventure to a group
of men gathered around him to listen. Among these was the old skipper
Grandiere, who seemed eagerly interested.
The pilot spoke hurriedly, for he had presently to take command of the
ship to carry her into port.
Mr. Force dropped his paper and joined the group.
“What is it?” he inquired of Gideon Grandiere.
But the old man was too intent upon the words of the pilot to hear any
others.
“What is it?” inquired Mr. Force again.
Then the pilot stopped to answer him.
“The blockade runner _Argente_, Capt. Silver, sir! Taken off the coast
of South Carolina, by the United States ship _Eagle_, Capt. Warfield.
Silver and his first officer, and all his crew who were not killed in
the fight, taken prisoners and put in irons. The _Eagle_ put a part of
its own crew on board the _Argente_, under command of Lieut. Force, who
brought the prize safely into port this morning, with Silver and his
first officer in irons.”
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Capt. Grandiere. “But do you call her a
blockade runner only? She’s an infernal pirate! She took my _Kitty_! And
Silver shall hang for it!”
“And the _Argente_ is now in New York harbor?” inquired Mr. Force.
“No, sir. She was telegraphed from the navy department to sail at once
for Washington. And she sailed an hour ago.”