Jeremy, stumbling on deck at eight bells, pulled his seaman's greatcoat
up about his ears, for the breeze came cold. He worked his way forward
along the high weather rail and took up his lookout station on the
starboard bow.
Overhead the midnight sky burned bright with stars that seemed to
flicker like candle-flames in the wind. A half-grown moon rode down the
west and threw a faint radiance across the heaving seas. It was blowing
harder now. The wind boomed loud in the taut stays and the rising waves
broke smashingly over the bow at times, forcing the foremast hands to
cling like monkeys to the rail and rigging.
Captain Job, with Tom to help him, stood grimly at the thrashing tiller
and drove the sloop southwestward at a terrific gait. The sails had been
single-reefed again during the mate's watch, but with the wind still
freshening the staunch little craft was carrying an enormous amount of
canvas. Job Howland was a sailor of the breed that was to reach its
climax a hundred years later in the captains of the great Yankee
clippers--men who broke sailing records and captured the world's trade
because they dared to walk their tall ships, full-canvassed, past the
heavy foreign merchantmen that rolled under triple reefs in half a gale
of wind.
One by one the hours of the watch went by. Jeremy, drenched and
shivering, but thrilling to the excitement of the chase, stuck to his
post at the rail beside the long bow gun. His eyes were fixed constantly
on the sea ahead and abeam, while his thoughts, racing on, followed the
pirate schooner close.
How was Bob to be gotten off alive, he wondered, for he had come to
believe that his chum was aboard the fleeing craft. If it came to a
running fight, their cannonade might sink her, in which case the boy
would be drowned along with his captors. And there were other things
that could happen. Jeremy groaned aloud as he thought of the fate that
Pharaoh Daggs had once so nearly meted out to him. He felt again the
bite of the hemp at his wrists, and saw that pitiless gleam in the
strange light eyes of the pirate. Would Daggs try to settle his long
score against the boys by some unheard-of brutality?
A sudden hail cut in upon his thoughts. "Sail ho!" the lookout on the
other side had cried.
"Where away?" came Job's deep shout.
"Three points on the port bow," answered the seaman, "an' not above a
league off!"
Jeremy, straining his eyes into the night, made out the dim patch of
sail ahead.
"How's she headed?" called the Captain again. "Is she still on her port
tack, or running before the wind?"
"Still beating up to the west!" the sailor replied.
"Good," cried Job. "They think they can outsail us. Keep her in sight
and sing out if you see her fall off the wind!"
Half an hour later the watch was changed and Jeremy scrambled into his
warm bunk for a few hours more sleep.
It was broad daylight when he and Tom reached the deck once more and
went eagerly forward to join the little knot of seamen in the bows. All
eyes were turned toward the horizon, ahead, where the sails of the
fleeing schooner loomed gray in the morning haze.
The wind which had shifted a little to the north was still blowing
stiffly, heeling both sloops over at a sharp angle. The _Tiger_ had
gained somewhat during the morning watch, but the pirates had now
evidently become desperate and put on all the sail their craft would
carry, so that the two vessels sped on, league after league, without
apparent change of position.
Job, who had now taken the tiller again, called to Jeremy after a while.
"Here, lad," he said, when the boy reached the poop, "lend me a hand
with this kicker."
Jeremy laid hold with a will, and found that it took almost all his
strength, along with that of the powerful Captain, to hold the schooner
on her course. At times, when a big beam sea caught her, she would yaw
fearfully, falling off several points, and could only be brought back to
windward by jamming the thrashing rudder hard over.
"We lose headway when she does that, don't we, Job?" panted the boy
after one such effort. "And I reckon we couldn't lash the beam fast to
keep her this way, could we? No, I see, it has to be free so as to move
all the time. Still----"
As he staggered to and fro at the end of the tiller, the boy thought
rapidly. Finally he recommenced: "Job--this may sound foolish to
you--but why couldn't we lash her on both sides, and yet give her
play--look--this way! Rig a little pulley here and one here----" He
indicated places on the deck, close to the rail on either quarter. "Then
reeve a line from the tiller-end through each one, and bring it back
with three or four turns around a windlass drum, a little way for'ard,
there. Then you could keep hold of the arms of the windlass, and only
let the tiller move as much as you needed to, either way----"
"By the Great Bull Whale," Job laughed, as he grasped the boy's plan, "I
wonder if that wouldn't work! Jeremy, boy, we'll find out, anyhow.
Braisted!" he called to the ship's carpenter, "up with some lumber and a
good stout line and a pair of spare blocks if you've got them. Lively,
now!"
In a jiffy the carpenter had tumbled the tackle out on the deck, and
under the direction of Job, began to rig it according to Jeremy's
scheme. It was a matter of a few moments only, once he caught the idea.
When at length the final stout knot had been tied, Job, still keeping
his mighty clutch on the tiller beam, motioned to Jeremy to take hold of
the windlass. The boy jumped forward eagerly and seized two of the rude
spokes that radiated horizontally from the hub. The position was an
awkward one, but with a slight pull he found that he could swing the
windlass rapidly in either direction.
"Avast there--avast!" came Job's bass bellow, and looking over his
shoulder, Jeremy saw the big skipper flung from side to side in spite of
himself as the windlass was turned. The seamen who had gathered to watch
were roaring with laughter, and Job himself was chuckling as he let go
the tiller and hurried to Jeremy's side. Taking a grip on the spokes, he
spun them back and forth once or twice, to feel how the vessel answered
her helm under this new contraption, and in a moment had it working
handsomely. He was using the first ship's steering-wheel.
The sloop, which had yawed and lost some headway during this interlude,
now struck her stride again, and drove along with her nose held steady,
a full half-point closer to the wind than had been possible before. Job
perceived this and loosed one hand long enough to strike Jeremy a mighty
blow on the back.
"She works, boy!" he cried. "And at this gait we'll catch them before
noon!"
Indeed, the crew had already noticed the difference in their sailing,
and were lining the bows, waving their caps in the air and yelling with
excitement as they watched the distance between the two craft slowly
shorten.
An hour passed, and the gunners were sent below to make ready their
pieces, for the lead of the pirate sloop had been cut to a bare mile.
Job had turned the wheel over to Hawkes, and now, with three picked men
to help him, was ramming home a heavy charge of powder in the long
"nine." On top of it he drove down the round-shot, then bent above the
swivel-breach, swinging it back and forth as he brought the cannon's
muzzle to bear on the topsails of the pirate schooner, whose black hull
was now plainly visible. He sniffed the wind and measured the distance
with his eye. When his calculations were complete he turned and held up
his hand in signal to the helmsman. As the swivel allowed movement only
from side to side, he must depend on the cant of the deck for his
elevation. Holding the long gunner's match lighted in his hand, he
waited for the exact second when the schooner's bow was lifted on a wave
and swinging in the right direction, then touched the powder train.
There was a hiss and flare, and at the end of a second or two a terrific
roar as the charge was fired. The smoke was blown clear almost
instantly, and every one leaned forward, watching the sea ahead with
tense eagerness. At length a column of white spray lifted, a scant
hundred yards astern of the other sloop. The crew cheered, for it was a
splendid shot at that distance and in a seaway. The sky was thickening
to windward, and it grew harder momentarily to see objects at a
distance. Job was already at work, superintending the swabbing-out of
the gun and reloading with his own hands. There was a long moment while
he waited for a favorable chance, then "Long Poll" shook the deck once
more with the crash of her discharge. This time the shot fell just ahead
and to windward of the enemy--so close that the spray blew back into the
rigging.
Job had bracketed his target, but the mist-clouds that were sweeping
past rendered his task a difficult one. Grimly but with swift certainty
of movement he went about his preparations for a third attempt.
Suddenly there was a shout from Jeremy, who had climbed into the
forestays for a better view. "Look there!" he cried. "They're lowering a
boat. There's something white in it, like a flag of truce!"
In the lee of the pirate vessel a small boat could be seen tossing
crazily in the heavy seas. Job, who had called for his spyglass, looked
long and earnestly at the tiny craft.
"There's but one man in it," he announced at length, "and he's showing a
bit of something white, as Jeremy says. Here, lad, you've the best eyes
on the sloop, see if you can make out more."
The boy focussed the glass on the little boat, which was now drifting
rapidly to the southeast, already nearly opposite their bows. The figure
in it stood up, waving frantic arms to one side and the other.
"It's Bob!" Jeremy almost screamed. "That's a signal we used to have
when we were hunting. It means 'Come here!'"
He had hardly finished speaking when--"Port your helm!" roared Job. "All
hands stand by to slack the fore and main sheets!"
[Illustration: Job had bracketed his target.]
The _Tiger_ fell off the wind with a lurch and spun away to leeward,
bowing into the running seas.
Five minutes later they hauled Bob, drenched and dripping, to the deck.