Two men walked side by side down the steps of the Criminal Court
Building. They were dressed in "store clothes"; and, while they were
alike in type, yet they were unlike: one could not be mistaken for the
other. But they had the same facial angle; they were of about the same
age, thirty-five; each was tall, square-shouldered, and erect, and each
had the same curious gait that betokens long experience in the saddle.
The man to the right had gray eyes; the one to the left black. The one
to the right was jubilant of face; the other downcast and chagrined. As
they reached the sidewalk a man hurried out of the crowd and confronted
them. His face was perspiring, and he breathed hard.
"I've got you, Bill!" he said, laying his hand on the shoulder of the
downcast man to the left. "You're my prisoner!"
"Not much, he isn't!" answered the man to the right. "He's mine. Here's
proof." He half turned, disclosing the butt of a large pistol under his
coat.
"Oh, I've got that kind of proof, too," rejoined the newcomer, stepping
back and eying them with anger and disgust in his face. It was a face
that must have been unused to such emotional expressions; it was smooth
shaved, pink, and healthy, with keen blue eyes, the face of a man not
yet grown up, or of a boy matured before his time. He was of about the
same age, size, and build as the other two, and with the same
horseman's gait.
"Who are you," he asked, "and what have you got that man for?"
"I'm Jack Quincy, Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona; and I've
got this man, Bill Rogers, for stage robbery. Who are you?"
"I'm Walter Benson, of the Northwest Mounted Police, and I want this
man for murder. I've just come from Washington with extradition papers,
and I don't see how you can hold him."
"Possession is nine points of the law in this country, Mr. Benson, and,
while I only went to Albany for extradition papers, they're good. Left
'em inside with the Judge."
"I'll contest this case. I've come down from Manitoba for this man. My
chief put the New York police onto him, and he's our meat. Why, man, we
want him for murder, a capital offense!"
"But I've got him for robbing the Wickenburg stage, a capital offense,
too."
While this confab was going on the prisoner had been keenly and
furtively looking about, and had caught the eye of a nearby policeman,
then had significantly reached his hand behind him and patted his hip
pocket while nodding almost imperceptibly toward the disputants. The
officer summoned another policeman by the same sign language, and at
this juncture they approached.
"What you two chewin' the rag about?" demanded one, passing his hands
rapidly up and down and around the rear clothing of Quincy, while the
other as quickly "frisked" Benson. "Got a gun, I see! Got a license?"
"Here's another gun man," said the second policeman, his hand on
Benson's collar. "Got a license?"
"Yes, where's yer license?" repeated the first officer, reaching for
Quincy's collar.
And now a surprising thing happened. First, Bill Rogers, wanted for
stage robbery and murder, took to his heels and sped down the street.
Then Benson wriggled under the policeman's grasp, and by some
lightning-like trick of jiu jitsu, sent him sprawling on his back, his
limbs waving in the air like the legs of a turtle similarly upset. Then
Benson started after Rogers. Quincy tried no jiu jitsu: instead he
whipped out his gun, a long, heavy Colt's forty-five, and jammed it
into the policeman's face before the hand had reached his collar.
Involuntarily the officer started back, away from that murderous blue
tube, and before he could recover from his surprise Quincy had started
after Benson. Then the policeman followed Quincy, and his fallen
compatriot, picking himself up, followed after; but neither for long;
they were fat, and these men of the West could run as well as ride.
Down Centre Street went the chase, pursued and pursuers bowling over
pedestrians who got in the way, dodging in front of and around trolley
cars as Rogers led the way diagonally across the street. He turned into
the first cross street and reached Park Row, Benson about a hundred
feet behind, and Quincy as far in the rear of Benson. Across Park Row
went Rogers, and down the eastern walk to Catharine Street, into which
he turned, Benson after him, and Quincy keeping Benson in sight. Rogers
seemed to know where he was going. He raced down Catharine Street into
Cherry, and when halfway to the next corner burst into a small saloon,
whose proprietor, a large, beetle-browed man, stood behind the bar.
"Sailors' boarding-house, isn't it?" panted Rogers. "Hide me and ship
me! I've been to sea. North America's too hot for me."
"Yes," responded the proprietor, with quick comprehension. "Into that
back room and up the stairs. Hide anywhere. I'll stall the police."
But before Rogers could reach the back room Benson burst in, his blue
eyes flashing with excitement, and in his hand a revolver as large and
heavy as Quincy's.
"Hold on, Bill!" he snapped. "Hands up! I've got a bead on you!"
Rogers halted and turned, his hands over his head and his features
drooping in despair. Benson, still covering him, advanced and laid hold
of his collar. Then in burst Quincy, also with drawn revolver.
"Got him, have you? Good enough! I'll take him."
"Oh, no, you won't," answered Benson. "He's mine. Possession's nine
points of the law, you say." With his hand still on Rogers's collar he
covered Quincy with his weapon.
Quincy had not raised his; and he stood still, leaning forward, his
pistol pointed to the floor, while he glared at Benson.
"Now, then, stop this!" said the proprietor, sternly, as he leveled a
bright, nickel-plated revolver at Benson. "Lower that gun--quick! Lower
it--"
Benson saw out of the corner of his eye, and slowly lowered the pistol.
"You, too," he said to Quincy, as he looked at him. "Don't you raise
that shootin' iron! I'm boss here. Put 'em both on the bar, handles
first, both of you!"
There was deadly earnestness in the big man's voice, and they obeyed
him. Handles first the weapons were placed on the bar. Then Quincy
said:
"You're makin' trouble for yourself. This man is my prisoner, and
you're interfering with an officer."
"You a p'liceman?" asked the big man, as he placed the weapons under
the bar.
"I'm Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona."
"And I'm a member of the Northwest Mounted Police," said Benson.
"You're a long way from home, and you've got no friends here. This man
has. He says he's a sailor, and I'm a friend o' sailors. Been one
myself, and I make my livin' off 'em. And when a sailor runs into my
place askin' to hide from anyone, police or not, I'm on his side every
time."
"He's no sailor," said Quincy. "He's Bill Rogers, an outlaw I came East
for."
"How about it?" asked the proprietor, turning to Rogers. "You a
sailor?"
"Have been. Can be again," answered Rogers calmly.
"Box the compass."
"North, nor'-an'-by-east, nor'-nor'east, nor'east-an'-by--"
"That's good. Which side does the main topgallant halyards lead down?"
"Port side. Fore and mizzen to starboard."
"This man's a sailor, all right. And he's not goin' out o' my place
under any man's gun, 'less he's a policeman with a warrant."
"Well, we'll get the policeman with a warrant," said Quincy, "unless
this will do." He drew forth a receipt made out by the clerk of the
court for extradition papers.
Benson stiffened up. "Here's something better," he said: "Extradition
papers issued by the authorities at Washington. It's a warrant, if
anything is." He drew forth his evidence of official integrity.
The big man examined both. "Beyond me, just now," he commented.
"However, I'm not goin' to see a sailor railroaded out o' my place till
I'm sure it's all right. Come into the back room. We'll all have a
drink and talk it over. Casey!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and
when a voice from upstairs answered he added: "Come down here an' tend
bar."
Casey, a smaller edition of the proprietor, appeared, and the three men
were led to the back room, where they seated themselves at a round
table, while the proprietor himself took their orders. The drinks were
soon served, the big man bringing one for himself, and joining them.
"Now, then," he said, lifting his glass, "we'll drink to a good-natured
settlement o' this job. What's this man done out West?"
They all drank.
"Robbed the Wickenburg stage of the first cleanup of Jim Mahar's placer
mine. About ten thousand dollars he got away with."
"Jim Mahar!" said Benson. "Why, that's the name of the man he murdered
in Manitoba."
"How about it, mate?" said the big man, turning to Rogers.
"Same man," he said quietly. "I shot him; but I never robbed him."
"You didn't?" answered Quincy, derisively. "You were recognized!"
"The mine was mine, and the dust I took I had washed out with my own
hands. He got that mine away from me on a technicality, Quincy, and you
know it."
"Oh, I know there was some dispute; but that's not my business. I'm
here to take you back, and I've got to do it."
"What's the use," said Benson, "if you haven't got a clear case against
him? Now, I have. He shot Mahar on sight, in the presence of a dozen
witnesses."
"You mean," said Rogers, "that I was quickest. He pulled first; but I
beat him to it, that's all."
"Well," said the big proprietor, "we'll have to think on this a little.
So, let's do a little thinking."
They responded to the extent of doing no more talking. Yet it could
hardly be said that they were thinking. A fog closed down on their
faculties, the room and its fittings grew misty, and in a few moments
Benson's head sagged to the table, Quincy lay back in his chair, and
Rogers slid to the floor.
"Casey," called the big man, and Casey appeared. "You needn't go to
South Brooklyn for the three men we need for the crew to-morrow
mornin'. Here's three. One's a sure sailorman, anxious to ship, and the
other two'll do. Get Tom to help you upstairs with 'em and get 'em
ready. You know the trick. Change their clothes, give 'em a bagful
each, and dip their hands in that tar bucket, then wipe most of it off
with grease. Get some from the kitchen."
And so were shanghaied a Deputy Sheriff of Arizona, a member of the
Northwest Mounted Police, and a desperate outlaw and fugitive from
justice.
They wakened about ten next morning with throbbing headaches, and clad
in greasy canvas rags, each stretched out in a forecastle bunk with a
bag of other greasy rags for a pillow. Rogers was the first to roll
out, and after a blear-eyed inspection of the forecastle, which
included the other two, he ejaculated, "Well, I'll be blanked!" Then he
shook each into sitting posture, listened to their groaning protests,
and sat down on a chest, shaking with silent laughter, while the other
two resumed the horizontal.
But he did not laugh long. Certain sounds from on deck indicated that
he would soon be wanted, and certain indications of wintry weather in
the shape of snow flurrying into the forecastle reminded him of his
raiment. He hauled out the clothes bag from his bunk and opened it. To
his surprise he found, neatly folded, his suit of store clothes; but as
this would not do for shipboard wear he sought farther, and found a
warm monkey jacket and guernsey, the property, no doubt, of some sailor
who had died in the boarding-house or run away from his board bill. He
also found a note addressed to Bill Rogers, which he read, and again
ejaculated, "I'll be blanked!" adding to it, however, the comment, "A
square boarding master." Then he punched and felt of the bag's
contents, and smiled.
Donning the guernsey and jacket, he went on deck just in time to meet a
big, bearded man who was hurrying to the forecastle door.
"So, you've sobered up, have you?" he said. "Got the whisky out o'
you?"
"Wasn't whisky, Sir," answered Rogers, recognizing an officer. "I was
doped and shanghaied, even though willing to ship. I'm an able seaman,
Sir."
"You don't look it."
"Fifteen years at sea, Sir, though the last ten ashore. I'm a bit
tender; but I know my work."
"How about the other two? Are they sailors?"
"I don't think they are, Sir," answered Rogers, with a slight grin.
"They were with me when I was doped; but I don't know much about them."
"Go aft and take the wheel. There's a farmer there that can't steer.
Let's see what you can do. I'll tend to your friends."
Rogers went to the wheel, received the spokes and the course from the
rather distressed incumbent, and, even though the ship was riding along
before a stiff quartering breeze and following sea, steered a course
good enough to win silence from the skipper--another big, bearded
man--when he next looked into the binnacle. Silence, on such occasions,
is a compliment.
The cold, fresh breeze soon cleared Rogers's head of its aches and
throbs, and he took stock of the ship and her people. She seemed to be
about twelve hundred tons' register, with no skysails, stunsails, or
other kites to make work for her crew, an easy ship, as far as wind and
weather were concerned. Rogers counted her crew--sixteen men scattered
about the decks and rigging, lashing casks, stowing lines and fenders,
and securing chafing gear aloft. The big man that had spoken to him was
undoubtedly the first mate, as was evidenced by his louder voice. The
second mate, a short, broad, square-jawed man with a smooth face, spoke
little to the men, but struck them often. Rogers saw three floored
before six bells. As for the crew, they were of all nations and types,
and by these signs he knew that she was an American ship; but nothing
yet of her name or destination. Astern was a blue spot on the horizon
which he recognized as the Highlands of Navesink, and scattered about
at various distances were out- and in-bound craft, sail and steam. But
none was within hailing range.
Just before noon he saw two men thrown out of the forecastle by the
huge first mate, and in spite of their canvas rags he recognized his
two enemies. Involuntarily Rogers smiled; but the smile left his face
when he saw that they were showing fight, and that in the fight they
were being sadly bested by the mate, aided by his confrere, the second
officer. Yet they fought as they could, and as the whirl of battle
drifted aft Rogers could hear their voices.
"I want to see the Captain!" they each declared explosively, whenever a
moment's respite enabled them to speak, and in time the reiterated
demand bore results. The Captain himself appeared, watched the conflict
for a moment, then roared out:
"Mr. Billings, that'll do! Send those men up here, and let's see what
they want."
The two mates stood back, and the disfigured Sheriff of Maricopa and
the almost unrecognizable mounted policeman climbed the poop steps and
faced the Captain in the weather alley. They were game--still full of
fight, and in no way abashed by the autocrat of the ship.
"You the Captain o' this boat?" demanded Quincy, his eyes flaming green
from the rage in his soul. "If you are, put me ashore, or I'll make you
sweat!"
"Steady as you go," answered the Captain, quietly. "I'm too big a man
to sweat. It's dangerous to make me sweat. What's on your mind?"
"Put us ashore!" yelled Benson, insanely. "Those fellows that hammered
us just now said we shipped in this boat. We did not. We were drugged
and abducted."
"Whew!" whistled the big skipper, turning his back on them for the
moment. Then he turned back and said, "What d'you want?"
"To go ashore and take our prisoner with us. We'll settle between
ourselves as to which one gets him."
"Your prisoner? Where is he?"
"That fellow standing there--steering, I suppose," answered Quincy.
The skipper turned toward Rogers. "You a prisoner?" he asked, with the
good humor coming of size and self-confidence.
"I'm wanted, Sir," said Rogers, grimly, "in Arizona and in Manitoba.
These men are what they say, officers of the law."
"What crime have you committed?"
"None, Sir," answered Rogers; "though I'm indicted in one place for
stage robbery and in the other place for murder."
"Well, well!" commented the big man. "You seem to be a dangerous
character. What are you doing aboard my ship?"
"These fellows chased me, and I went to a boarding master to get a
ship. They followed and were shanghaied with me--though I do not see
why he drugged me, Sir; I was willing to ship."
"But did you," demanded the skipper, his voice growing tense and
forceful, "rob a stage and kill a man, somewhere in the West?"
"I robbed a stage of what I owned--my own gold-dust. I killed the man
who thought I robbed him; but he pulled his gun first, and I shot in
self-defense."
"And I've come all the way from Arizona," interrupted Quincy, "to bring
this man back for trial. And--I want him!"
"And I've come from Manitoba," added Benson, "where he's wanted for
murder."
The skipper turned to Rogers and said calmly, "By your own admission
you are a fugitive from justice; hence, entitled to no sympathy from
me." Then he turned to the two others and said, "You men put up a
plausible story of being shanghaied. If you told it at the dock where I
could get two men to replace you, I might put you ashore. As it is,
fifty miles outside of Sandy Hook, I can do nothing of the kind. This
ship's time is valuable, worth about a hundred dollars a day, and I
can't stop to signal and put you aboard an inbound craft. You're signed
on my articles--John Quincy and Walter Benson; though I don't know
which is which. But the fact is that here you stay, and you work, and
earn your grub and what pay I choose to put you on."
"But we did not agree," yelled Quincy. "You have no warrant in law for
this procedure."
"I have my articles. I did not ship you, as I was not in the shipping
office; but I bargained with a crimp for sixteen men, and he gave me
fourteen and you two."
"Well," said Quincy, quietly, "you seem to be in power here, and
responsible to no one that we can reach. But I'll tell you that the
State of Arizona will swarm about your ears, and that you'll sweat, big
as you are!"
"And I'll tell you," spoke up Benson, "that the Secretary of State at
Washington will hear from the Governor General at Ottawa!"
"Get out o' this!" exploded the Captain. "Get off the poop, you
four-legged farmers! Sweat, will I? All right; but you'll sweat, the
both of you, before you see your friends again! Here, Mr. Billings," he
roared to the first mate amidships, "and Mr. Snelling! Come up here,
and turn these men to!"
The two mates answered and appeared.
"Turn them to," said the Captain, speaking slowly and softly. "Take the
starch out of 'em, and make 'em sweat."
The scene that ensued was too painful even for Rogers to witness or
describe, except in its salient points. Billings and Snelling pounced
upon the two insurgents, struck, buffeted, kicked, and vilified them
with foul-mouthed abuse, until they had borne them off the poop,
forward along the main deck, and to the vicinity of the forecastle,
where the two victims, subdued and quiescent, were willing to dart for
cover, when the two mates gave over and went aft.
Rogers at the wheel had watched the scene, at first with a smile; but
the smile grew less as he saw the battered men hurled right and left
under the blows of the mates, and when at last the punishment was ended
his face was serious and resentful. Some criminals do not lose the
qualities of forgiveness and mercy. His mood was increased when the big
skipper faced him and said:
"A fugitive from justice, are you? Well, I'll see that the Consul at
Melbourne gets you. I want no jailbirds in my ship."
Which gave Rogers occasion to think.
Rogers was relieved at one bell (half-past twelve), and went forward to
his dinner. As he descended the poop steps he met the big first mate,
coming out of the forward companion picking his teeth.
"So," he said to Rogers, "you're a bad man from the West, I hear. Held
up a stage and then killed the man you robbed!"
"You've got things wrong, Sir," answered Rogers respectfully.
"None o' your lip!" thundered the officer. "You may be a bad man from
the West; but I'm a bad man from the East, and I'm here to take the
badness out o' bad men!"
Then, before Rogers could dodge, he launched forth his fist and struck
him. The blow knocked him off his feet, and he rose with nose bleeding
and eyes closing.
"Just to show you," commented the mate, "that I'm a badder man than
you."
Rogers did not answer; in fact, no answer was necessary or wise. He
walked forward, and, partly from his half-blindness, partly from his
disorganized state of mind, passed to windward of Snelling, the second
mate, who was coming aft to dinner. Snelling said nothing in the way of
prelude, but crashed his fist on Rogers's already mutilated face, and
sent him again to the deck. As Rogers struggled to his feet he said:
"You pass to looward o' me when we meet, or I'll make you jump
overboard!"
And again Rogers saw the wisdom of silence and went on to the
forecastle.
The watches had not yet been chosen; but half the crew had eaten, and
he joined the other half, finding in his clothes bag a new sheath knife
and belt, a tin pan, pannikin, and spoon, which articles are always
furnished to a shipped man by the boarding masters, no matter how he
has been shipped. To his surprise, as he attacked the dinner, he found
Quincy and Benson, each with a similar outfit of tinware, toying with
the food, and paying no attention to the polyglot discourse of the
other men regarding the ship, the mates, and the food. But they glared
menacingly at Rogers as he entered.
"This your work, Rogers?" demanded Quincy. "Were you in cahoots with
that saloonkeeper?"
"Shut up!" answered Rogers, stabbing at a piece of salt beef with his
knife.
"We won't shut up!" said Benson, spooning up pea soup with his brand
new tin spoon. "This increases your sentence to the extent of a shorter
shrift."
"Go to the devil, the pair of you! I was doped and shanghaied myself,
and I've run foul o' the mates, same as you did--and for less reason,
too."
"Well, they'll sweat for this, and you, too, Rogers!" said Quincy.
"Shut up! You're up against something now that gunplay doesn't figure
in. You're aboard a Yankee hell ship, and you've got to make the best
of it."
"I wouldn't if I had my gun," said Quincy, moodily.
"Yes," added Benson, "with a gun I could have my own way."
Rogers straightened back, looked them steadily in their faces, and
said, "If you had your guns, what would you do?"
"Make this ship put back and land us," answered Quincy.
"Benson," said Rogers, "what would you do with a gun?"
"Shoot 'em full of holes until they turned this boat back."
"Are you game?" said Rogers. "Understand that you'll be alone. I
wouldn't help you; for, having been a sailor, I know what mutiny means
in the courts. I'd rather go back with either of you to stand trial
than to engage in open mutiny."
"Hang your mutiny!" said Quincy. "We're not sailors; we never agreed to
make this voyage. I'm an officer of the law."
"Feel the same way, Benson?" asked Rogers.
"The same. Give me a gun, and I'll make that Captain and his two
assistants walk a chalkline."
The rest of the men, engaged with their dinner, had paid no attention
to this discourse, and Rogers rose up, reached into his bag, and
produced the note he had found there on wakening. "Listen," he said:
"'BILL ROGERS:--You seem to be a square fellow and up against it. I
had to dope you because you would not have signed if you knew the
other two would have gone along. But I needed just three men; so I
doped you all. You'll find their guns and belts in your bag. Of
course, you will know what to do if you get in trouble. Good luck.'
"Now," said Rogers, "those guns are not now in my bag, and you can't
find them without my say-so; but, if I put you onto them, will you call
it off? Will you let up, and go back reporting that I had escaped? If
you get ashore by any means, will you take me with you and turn me
loose?"
They each looked steadily at Rogers for a moment or two; then Quincy
spoke.
"If you can furnish me my gun, Bill, it's all off. I'll resign my job,
if necessary; but I won't hunt you any more."
"Benson?" asked Rogers.
"The Canadian Mounted Police and the whole Colonial Government can go
hang. Give me a gun, Rogers, and I'll trouble you no more!"
Rogers was about to speak, when the big first mate appeared at the
forecastle door, and said in the forceful manner of deep-water mates:
"Turn to. Where's that bloody-minded stage robber? Hey! Here you are!
Get aft to the wheel again. You can steer, if you are a murderer."
"All right, Sir," answered Rogers, deferentially, and then, in a
whisper to the two, he said, "In my bag, halfway down. Two guns and two
belts."
Then Bill Rogers, desperado, outlaw, and fugitive from justice, went to
the wheel, and as he steered he smiled again, grimly and painfully, for
his nose hurt.
Billings had followed him aft, up on the poop, and to the vicinity of
the after companion, where he stood, waiting for the Captain. Snelling,
having finished his dinner, had gone forward to oversee the men, all of
whom were now on deck and scattering to their various tasks. That is,
all but two. Quincy and Benson, each one girdled with a beltful of
cartridges, each carrying a heavy revolver, each scowling wickedly,
were marching up to Snelling.
"Hands up!" said Quincy, sternly. "Up with 'em and go back to the other
end of the boat!"
Involuntarily, it seemed, the second mate obeyed. Up went his hands
over his head. Then, remembering that he was second mate, he answered,
"What's this? Mutiny! Put them guns down!"
Quincy's gun spat out a red tongue, and Snelling's cap left his head.
"Next time I'll aim lower," said Quincy. "Right about face! March!"
Snelling was impressed. With his hands aloft he wheeled and preceded
them to the poop steps, up which he climbed.
But Billings had noticed, and acted. With a shout down the companion to
the Captain, he whipped out a pocket revolver and hurried forward in
the alley to meet the procession. But he did not use that revolver.
Benson took quick aim and fired, and coincident with the report the
nickel-plated weapon left his hand, whirling high in air before falling
overboard. Billings whinnied in pain, and, rubbing his benumbed hand,
backed aft before the advancing Snelling.
Then, up the companion on a run, came the Captain, a fat cigar in his
mouth and a look of wonder and astonishment on his face. Benson and
Quincy were now in the alley, and again a pistol spoke--Quincy's, this
time--and the fat cigar left the Captain's mouth in two pieces.
"Hands up, all three of you," yelled Quincy, "or we'll shoot to kill!
Found out, haven't you, that we can shoot--some? That's our trade. Up
with your hands!"
Both Captain and mate raised their hands, but the former protested.
"This is mutiny, you scoundrels! D'you know the penalty? Ten years!"
"It won't be ten minutes," answered Quincy. "Call it what you like,
mutiny, burglary, or pistol practice. But I'll tell you what it sure
will be, if you don't come to time. It'll be a pig killing, and
justifiable manslaughter in the courts. I know something about law, and
I've got you for abduction. A man abducted has a right to defend
himself, and I'll kill you if you don't head this boat for land and put
us ashore."
"Yes," added Benson, "and we'll take our prisoner with us, too!"
"Sure," said Quincy. "Bill Rogers goes, too. Come, now, what do you
say?"
"I say, by Gawd," roared the Captain, red in the face with rage and the
strain on his muscles, "that I won't! If this ship goes back, you'll
take her back yourself, with me and my mates under duress. It's ruinous
to agree to such a proposition. I'd lose this ship and never get
another."
"Very well," said Quincy, quietly. "Then we'll put you fellows under
arrest. And if you resist we'll shoot you to pieces. Rogers," he turned
to the smiling helmsman, "can you steer this boat back to the United
States?"
"I can't find New York," answered Rogers; "but the United States is due
west."
"Can you steer due west?"
"Yes; but the yards must be braced. The wind is hauling to the north,
and we could make a fair wind of it."
"Can you attend to this--bracing of the yards?"
"Yes. I've been second mate."
"Right, Benson, go through them all and take away their guns, if they
have any!" Then he raised his voice and called forward to the men, who
had stopped work and were watching curiously the strange scene on the
poop. "One of you fellows get a piece of small rope cord. Bring it up
here and tie these fellows' hands behind their backs."
While Benson searched the pockets of the trio--finding no weapons,
however--a man had secured a ball of spun yarn from the booby hatch and
ran up the poop steps with it. Then, under the influence of those long,
blue tubes, the Captain and the two mates lay down on their faces,
while the sailor securely bound their wrists behind them.
"Now, then," said Quincy, "you're in command, Rogers. We'll police this
boat, and make these men obey all your orders."
"Take the wheel here!" said Rogers to the sailor. "Stand by to wear
ship!" Then he mounted the cabin, and emitted a sailorly yell to the
crew. "All hands down from aloft! Weather main and lee crowjack
braces!"
* * * * *
In the dawn of the following morning some early rising fishermen of the
Jersey coast saw a black ship with all canvas set resting quietly on
the sands about two hundred yards from the beach, a white boat, empty
of everything but oars, hauled out above high-water mark, and on
boarding the ship they found and released three chilled, hungry, and
angry men from the lazaret. But not a sign of her crew did they see.