IN WHICH ISRAEL IS SAILOR UNDER TWO FLAGS, AND IN THREE SHIPS, AND ALL
IN ONE NIGHT.
As running down channel at evening, Israel walked the crowded main-deck
of the seventy-four, continually brushed by a thousand hurrying
wayfarers, as if he were in some great street in London, jammed with
artisans, just returning from their day’s labor, novel and painful
emotions were his. He found himself dropped into the naval mob without
one friend; nay, among enemies, since his country’s enemies were his
own, and against the kith and kin of these very beings around him, he
himself had once lifted a fatal hand. The martial bustle of a great
man-of-war, on her first day out of port, was indescribably jarring to
his present mood. Those sounds of the human multitude disturbing the
solemn natural solitudes of the sea, mysteriously afflicted him. He
murmured against that untowardness which, after condemning him to long
sorrows on the land, now pursued him with added griefs on the deep. Why
should a patriot, leaping for the chance again to attack the oppressor,
as at Bunker Hill, now be kidnapped to fight that oppressor’s battles
on the endless drifts of the Bunker Hills of the billows? But like many
other repiners, Israel was perhaps a little premature with upbraidings
like these.
Plying on between Scilly and Cape Clear, the Unprincipled—which vessel
somewhat outsailed her consorts—fell in, just before dusk, with a large
revenue cutter close to, and showing signals of distress. At the
moment, no other sail was in sight.
Cursing the necessity of pausing with a strong fair wind at a juncture
like this, the officer-of-the-deck shortened sail, and hove to; hailing
the cutter, to know what was the matter. As he hailed the small craft
from the lofty poop of the bristling seventy-four, this lieutenant
seemed standing on the top of Gibraltar, talking to some lowland
peasant in a hut. The reply was, that in a sudden flaw of wind, which
came nigh capsizing them, not an hour since, the cutter had lost all
four foremost men by the violent jibing of a boom. She wanted help to
get back to port.
“You shall have one man,” said the officer-of-the-deck, morosely.
“Let him be a good one then, for heaven’s sake,” said he in the cutter;
“I ought to have at least two.”
During this talk, Israel’s curiosity had prompted him to dart up the
ladder from the main-deck, and stand right in the gangway above,
looking out on the strange craft. Meantime the order had been given to
drop a boat. Thinking this a favorable chance, he stationed himself so
that he should be the foremost to spring into the boat; though crowds
of English sailors, eager as himself for the same opportunity to escape
from foreign service, clung to the chains of the as yet imperfectly
disciplined man-of-war. As the two men who had been lowered in the boat
hooked her, when afloat, along to the gangway, Israel dropped like a
comet into the stern-sheets, stumbled forward, and seized an oar. In a
moment more, all the oarsmen were in their places, and with a few
strokes the boat lay alongside the cutter.
“Take which of them you please,” said the lieutenant in command,
addressing the officer in the revenue-cutter, and motioning with his
hand to his boat’s crew, as if they were a parcel of carcasses of
mutton, of which the first pick was offered to some customer. “Quick
and choose. Sit down, men”—to the sailors. “Oh, you are in a great
hurry to get rid of the king’s service, ain’t you? Brave chaps
indeed!—Have you chosen your man?”
All this while the ten faces of the anxious oarsmen looked with mute
longings and appealings towards the officer of the cutter; every face
turned at the same angle, as if managed by one machine. And so they
were. One motive.
“I take the freckled chap with the yellow hair—him,” pointing to
Israel.
Nine of the upturned faces fell in sullen despair, and ere Israel could
spring to his feet, he felt a violent thrust in his rear from the toes
of one of the disappointed behind him.
“Jump, dobbin!” cried the officer of the boat.
But Israel was already on board. Another moment, and the boat and
cutter parted. Ere long, night fell, and the man-of-war and her
consorts were out of sight.
The revenue vessel resumed her course towards the nighest port, worked
by but four men: the captain, Israel, and two officers. The cabin-boy
was kept at the helm. As the only foremast man, Israel was put to it
pretty hard. Where there is but one man to three masters, woe betide
that lonely slave. Besides, it was of itself severe work enough to
manage the vessel thus short of hands. But to make matters still worse,
the captain and his officers were ugly-tempered fellows. The one
kicked, and the others cuffed Israel. Whereupon, not sugared with his
recent experiences, and maddened by his present hap, Israel seeing
himself alone at sea, with only three men, instead of a thousand, to
contend against, plucked up a heart, knocked the captain into the lee
scuppers, and in his fury was about tumbling the first-officer, a small
wash of a fellow, plump overboard, when the captain, jumping to his
feet, seized him by his long yellow hair, vowing he would slaughter
him. Meanwhile the cutter flew foaming through the channel, as if in
demoniac glee at this uproar on her imperilled deck. While the
consternation was at its height, a dark body suddenly loomed at a
moderate distance into view, shooting right athwart the stern of the
cutter. The next moment a shot struck the water within a boat’s length.
“Heave to, and send a boat on board!” roared a voice almost as loud as
the cannon.
“That’s a war-ship,” cried the captain of the revenue vessel, in alarm;
“but she ain’t a countryman.”
Meantime the officers and Israel stopped the cutter’s way.
“Send a boat on board, or I’ll sink you,” again came roaring from the
stranger, followed by another shot, striking the water still nearer the
cutter.
“For God’s sake, don’t cannonade us. I haven’t got the crew to man a
boat,” replied the captain of the cutter. “Who are you?”
“Wait till I send a boat to you for that,” replied the stranger.
“She’s an enemy of some sort, that’s plain,” said the Englishman now to
his officers; “we ain’t at open war with France; she’s some
bloodthirsty pirate or other. What d’ye say, men?” turning to his
officers; “let’s outsail her, or be shot to chips. We can beat her at
sailing, I know.”
With that, nothing doubting that his counsel would be heartily
responded to, he ran to the braces to get the cutter before the wind,
followed by one officer, while the other, for a useless bravado,
hoisted the colors at the stern.
But Israel stood indifferent, or rather all in a fever of conflicting
emotions. He thought he recognized the voice from the strange vessel.
“Come, what do ye standing there, fool? Spring to the ropes here!”
cried the furious captain.
But Israel did not stir.
Meantime the confusion on board the stranger, owing to the hurried
lowering of her boat, with the cloudiness of the sky darkening the
misty sea, united to conceal the bold manoeuvre of the cutter. She had
almost gained full headway ere an oblique shot, directed by mere
chance, struck her stern, tearing the upcurved head of the tiller in
the hands of the cabin-boy, and killing him with the splinters. Running
to the stump, the captain huzzaed, and steered the reeling ship on.
Forced now to hoist back the boat ere giving chase, the stranger was
dropped rapidly astern.
All this while storms of maledictions were hurled on Israel. But their
exertions at the ropes prevented his shipmates for the time from using
personal violence. While observing their efforts, Israel could not but
say to himself, “These fellows are as brave as they are brutal.”
Soon the stranger was seen dimly wallowing along astern, crowding all
sail in chase, while now and then her bow-gun, showing its red tongue,
bellowed after them like a mad bull. Two more shots struck the cutter,
but without materially damaging her sails, or the ropes immediately
upholding them. Several of her less important stays were sundered,
however, whose loose tarry ends lashed the air like scorpions. It
seemed not improbable that, owing to her superior sailing, the keen
cutter would yet get clear.
At this juncture Israel, running towards the captain, who still held
the splintered stump of the tiller, stood full before him, saying, “I
am an enemy, a Yankee, look to yourself.”
“Help here, lads, help,” roared the captain, “a traitor, a traitor!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when his voice was silenced for
ever. With one prodigious heave of his whole physical force, Israel
smote him over the taffrail into the sea, as if the man had fallen
backwards over a teetering chair. By this time the two officers were
hurrying aft. Ere meeting them midway, Israel, quick as lightning, cast
off the two principal halyards, thus letting the large sails all in a
tumble of canvass to the deck. Next moment one of the officers was at
the helm, to prevent the cutter from capsizing by being without a
steersman in such an emergency. The other officer and Israel
interlocked. The battle was in the midst of the chaos of blowing
canvass. Caught in a rent of the sail, the officer slipped and fell
near the sharp iron edge of the hatchway. As he fell he caught Israel
by the most terrible part in which mortality can be grappled. Insane
with pain, Israel dashed his adversary’s skull against the sharp iron.
The officer’s hold relaxed, but himself stiffened. Israel made for the
helmsman, who as yet knew not the issue of the late tussle. He caught
him round the loins, bedding his fingers like grisly claws into his
flesh, and hugging him to his heart. The man’s ghost, caught like a
broken cork in a gurgling bottle’s neck, gasped with the embrace.
Loosening him suddenly, Israel hurled him from him against the
bulwarks. That instant another report was heard, followed by the savage
hail—“You down sail at last, do ye? I’m a good mind to sink ye for your
scurvy trick. Pull down that dirty rag there, astern!”
With a loud huzza, Israel hauled down the flag with one hand, while
with the other he helped the now slowly gliding craft from falling off
before the wind.
In a few moments a boat was alongside. As its commander stepped to the
deck he stumbled against the body of the first officer, which, owing to
the sudden slant of the cutter in coming to the wind, had rolled
against the side near the gangway. As he came aft he heard the moan of
the other officer, where he lay under the mizzen shrouds.
“What is all this?” demanded the stranger of Israel.
“It means that I am a Yankee impressed into the king’s service, and for
their pains I have taken the cutter.”
Giving vent to his surprise, the officer looked narrowly at the body by
the shrouds, and said, “This man is as good as dead, but we will take
him to Captain Paul as a witness in your behalf.”
“Captain Paul?—Paul Jones?” cried Israel.
“The same.”
“I thought so. I thought that was his voice hailing. It was Captain
Paul’s voice that somehow put me up to this deed.”
“Captain Paul is the devil for putting men up to be tigers. But where
are the rest of the crew?”
“Overboard.”
“What?” cried the officer; “come on board the Ranger. Captain Paul will
use you for a broadside.”
Taking the moaning man along with them, and leaving the cutter
untenanted by any living soul, the boat now left her for the enemy’s
ship. But ere they reached it the man had expired.
Standing foremost on the deck, crowded with three hundred men, as
Israel climbed the side, he saw, by the light of battle-lanterns, a
small, smart, brigandish-looking man, wearing a Scotch bonnet, with a
gold band to it.
“You rascal,” said this person, “why did your paltry smack give me this
chase? Where’s the rest of your gang?”
“Captain Paul,” said Israel, “I believe I remember you. I believe I
offered you my bed in Paris some months ago. How is Poor Richard?”
“God! Is this the courier? The Yankee courier? But how now? in an
English revenue cutter?”
“Impressed, sir; that’s the way.”
“But where’s the rest of them?” demanded Paul, turning to the officer.
Thereupon the officer very briefly told Paul what Israel told him.
“Are we to sink the cutter, sir?” said the gunner, now advancing
towards Captain Paul. “If it is to be done, now is the time. She is
close under us, astern; a few guns pointed downwards will settle her
like a shotted corpse.”
“No. Let her drift into Penzance, an anonymous earnest of what the
whitesquall in Paul Jones intends for the future.”
Then giving directions as to the course of the ship, with an order for
himself to be called at the first glimpse of a sail, Paul took Israel
down with him into his cabin.
“Tell me your story now, my yellow lion. How was it all? Don’t stand,
sit right down there on the transom. I’m a democratic sort of sea-king.
Plump on the woolsack, I say, and spin the yarn. But hold; you want
some grog first.”
As Paul handed the flagon, Israel’s eye fell upon his hand.
“You don’t wear any rings now, Captain, I see. Left them in Paris for
safety.”
“Aye, with a certain marchioness there,” replied Paul, with a dandyish
look of sentimental conceit, which sat strangely enough on his
otherwise grim and Fejee air.
“I should think rings would be somewhat inconvenient at sea,” resumed
Israel. “On my first voyage to the West Indies, I wore a girl’s ring on
my middle finger here, and it wasn’t long before, what with hauling wet
ropes, and what not, it got a kind of grown down into the flesh, and
pained me very bad, let me tell you, it hugged the finger so.”
“And did the girl grow as close to your heart, lad?”
“Ah, Captain, girls grow themselves off quicker than we grow them on.”
“Some experience with the countesses as well as myself, eh? But the
story; wave your yellow mane, my lion—the story.”
So Israel went on and told the story in all particulars.
At its conclusion Captain Paul eyed him very earnestly. His wild,
lonely heart, incapable of sympathizing with cuddled natures made
humdrum by long exemption from pain, was yet drawn towards a being, who
in desperation of friendlessness, something like his own, had so
fiercely waged battle against tyrannical odds.
“Did you go to sea young, lad?”
“Yes, pretty young.”
“I went at twelve, from Whitehaven. Only so high,” raising his hand
some four feet from the deck. “I was so small, and looked so queer in
my little blue jacket, that they called me the monkey. They’ll call me
something else before long. Did you ever sail out of Whitehaven?”
“No, Captain.”
“If you had, you’d have heard sad stories about me. To this hour they
say there that I—bloodthirsty, coward dog that I am—flogged a sailor,
one Mungo Maxwell, to death. It’s a lie, by Heaven! I flogged him, for
he was a mutinous scamp. But he died naturally, some time afterwards,
and on board another ship. But why talk? They didn’t believe the
affidavits of others taken before London courts, triumphantly
acquitting me; how then will they credit _my_ interested words? If
slander, however much a lie, once gets hold of a man, it will stick
closer than fair fame, as black pitch sticks closer than white cream.
But let ’em slander. I will give the slanderers matter for curses. When
last I left Whitehaven, I swore never again to set foot on her pier,
except, like Caesar, at Sandwich, as a foreign invader. Spring under
me, good ship; on you I bound to my vengeance!”
Men with poignant feelings, buried under an air of care-free self
command, are never proof to the sudden incitements of passion. Though
in the main they may control themselves, yet if they but once permit
the smallest vent, then they may bid adieu to all self-restraint, at
least for that time. Thus with Paul on the present occasion. His
sympathy with Israel had prompted this momentary ebullition. When it
was gone by, he seemed not a little to regret it. But he passed it over
lightly, saying, “You see, my fine fellow, what sort of a bloody
cannibal I am. Will you be a sailor of mine? A sailor of the Captain
who flogged poor Mungo Maxwell to death?”
“I will be very happy, Captain Paul, to be sailor under the man who
will yet, I dare say, help flog the British nation to death.”
“You hate ’em, do ye?”
“Like snakes. For months they’ve hunted me as a dog,” half howled and
half wailed Israel, at the memory of all he had suffered.
“Give me your hand, my lion; wave your wild flax again. By Heaven, you
hate so well, I love ye. You shall be my confidential man; stand sentry
at my cabin door; sleep in the cabin; steer my boat; keep by my side
whenever I land. What do you say?”
“I say I’m glad to hear you.”
“You are a good, brave soul. You are the first among the millions of
mankind that I ever naturally took to. Come, you are tired. There, go
into that state-room for to-night—it’s mine. You offered me your bed in
Paris.”
“But you begged off, Captain, and so must I. Where do you sleep?”
“Lad, I don’t sleep half a night out of three. My clothes have not been
off now for five days.”
“Ah, Captain, you sleep so little and scheme so much, you will die
young.”
“I know it: I want to: I mean to. Who would live a doddered old stump?
What do you think of my Scotch bonnet?”
“It looks well on you, Captain.”
“Do you think so? A Scotch bonnet, though, ought to look well on a
Scotchman. I’m such by birth. Is the gold band too much?”
“I like the gold band, Captain. It looks something as I should think a
crown might on a king.”
“Aye?”
“You would make a better-looking king than George III.”
“Did you ever see that old granny? Waddles about in farthingales, and
carries a peacock fan, don’t he? Did you ever see him?”
“Was as close to him as I am to you now, Captain. In Kew Gardens it
was, where I worked gravelling the walks. I was all alone with him,
talking for some ten minutes.”
“By Jove, what a chance! Had I but been there! What an opportunity for
kidnapping a British king, and carrying him off in a fast sailing smack
to Boston, a hostage for American freedom. But what did you? Didn’t you
try to do something to him?”
“I had a wicked thought or two, Captain, but I got the better of it.
Besides, the king behaved handsomely towards me; yes, like a true man.
God bless him for it. But it was before that, that I got the better of
the wicked thought.”
“Ah, meant to stick him, I suppose. Glad you didn’t. It would have been
very shabby. Never kill a king, but make him captive. He looks better
as a led horse, than a dead carcass. I propose now, this trip, falling
on the grounds of the Earl of Selkirk, a privy counsellor and
particular private friend of George III. But I won’t hurt a hair of his
head. When I get him on board here, he shall lodge in my best
state-room, which I mean to hang with damask for him. I shall drink
wine with him, and be very friendly; take him to America, and introduce
his lordship into the best circles there; only I shall have him
accompanied on his calls by a sentry or two disguised as valets. For
the Earl’s to be on sale, mind; so much ransom; that is, the nobleman,
Lord Selkirk, shall have a bodily price pinned on his coat-tail, like
any slave up at auction in Charleston. But, my lad with the yellow
mane, you very strangely draw out my secrets. And yet you don’t talk.
Your honesty is a magnet which attracts my sincerity. But I rely on
your fidelity.”
“I shall be a vice to your plans, Captain Paul. I will receive, but I
won’t let go, unless you alone loose the screw.”
“Well said. To bed now; you ought to. I go on deck. Good night,
ace-of-hearts.”
“That is fitter for yourself, Captain Paul, lonely leader of the suit.”
“Lonely? Aye, but number one cannot but be lonely, my trump.”
“Again I give it back. Ace-of-trumps may it prove to you, Captain Paul;
may it be impossible for you ever to be taken. But for me—poor deuce, a
trey, that comes in your wake—any king or knave may take me, as before
now the knaves have.”
“Tut, tut, lad; never be more cheery for another than for yourself. But
a fagged body fags the soul. To hammock, to hammock! while I go on deck
to clap on more sail to your cradle.”
And they separated for that night.