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BEADLE'S HALF DIME Library
Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y., Post Office.
Copyrighted 1897, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. February 9, 1897.
No. 1020. $2.50 a Year. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS.
Price, 5 cents. Vol. XL.
No. 92 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.
BARNEY BLAKE, THE BOY PRIVATEER;
Or, The Cruise of the Queer Fish. BY HERRICK JOHNSTONE
[Illustration: WITH A LUSTY CHEER THEY BID GOOD-BY TO THE SHIP.]
Barney Blake, the Boy Privateer;
OR,
THE CRUISE of the QUEER FISH.
BY HERRICK JOHNSTONE.
CHAPTER I.
THE SHIP AND HER CREW.
It was upon a bright morning of the month of May, 1813, as I, a sailor
just paid off from my last ship, was wandering along the wharves of
Boston, that I was hailed by an old messmate, named Tony Trybrace.
"Ship ahoy!" cried Tony.
"The Barney Blake," I responded. "Out of employment, with compass gone,
and nothing to steer by."
"What!" cried Tony, giving me his flipper. "Do you want a ship? A
strange wish to go unsatisfied in these times."
"Yes," I hesitatingly rejoined, "but, you see, I've never been in the
navy--always sailed in a merchantman--and--"
"Nonsense!" cried Tony. "That kind of blarney won't do for these times.
I shipped the other day on as cracky a craft as ever kicked the spray
behind her. Come and join us."
"What! on a man-o'-war?"
"Better than that. On a bold privateer! Look out there to windward,"
said Tony, directing my attention with his pointing hand, "and tell me
what you think of her. That's her, the brigantine, with her r'yals half
furled."
The vessel indicated to me by my friend did not go back on his off-hand
description of her.
"She's a splendid ship!" I exclaimed. "What name does she go by?"
"The Queer Fish," was the reply. "She has six
guns--eighteen-pounders--three on each side--with the prettiest
thirty-pound brass swivel at her starn, this side of Davy Jones. She
starts to-morrow for a year's cruise. Will you go?"
"Yes."
"Spoken like a Yankee tar. Come."
A boat of the privateer was in waiting, and in a few moments we were in
it.
Scarcely had we pulled half way before a funny looking old fellow,
squint-eyed, red-whiskered, and enormously wide-mouthed, whom they
called Old Nick--a Norwegian by birth, was detected by the second mate
attempting to take a pull at a green bottle, which he slyly whisked from
the inside breast pocket of his pea-jacket. He was rowing at the time,
and it required much sleight of hand to disengage one of his hands for
the purpose in view. Nevertheless, he succeeded, took a long pull at the
bottle, thinking no one saw him, corked it up again, and was about to
return it to his pocket, when, at a wink from the second mate, Tony
Trybrace, accidentally on purpose, skipped the plunge of his oar and
brought it up against the old fellow with such a jostle that overboard
flew the bottle, where it bobbed about.
Every one who saw the trick burst into fits of laughter. For a moment
Old Nick seemed undetermined what course to pursue. Then nature
vindicated her sway. He dropped his oar, rose in his seat, and plunged
overboard after the green bottle and its precious contents!
He made straight for the bottle, recovered it, took a long pull at it
while he trod water, returned it to his bosom, and made a back track to
the yawl.
"You'll git up early in de morgen to rob ein Deitcher of his schnapps,"
he growled, as he clambered over the gunwale.
So, with many a laugh and jeer at the old fellow's expense, we pulled
the balance of the way without further incident, and were soon upon the
deck of the Queer Fish Privateer.
I was pleased with her more than ever upon a closer acquaintance.
Everything was trim and tidy. Her decks were almost spotless, and
nothing could exceed the beauty of her long bright swivel. She was
polished up like a looking-glass, and I longed to hear her speak, with
an iron pill in her throat.
Tony Trybrace had told nothing but the truth, when he had said that the
people of the privateer were the jolliest afloat. They were a comical
set from Captain Joker down to Peter Pun, the cabin-boy. Tony was the
boatswain, and, as soon as we were aboard, he escorted me down to the
cabin, to see the captain and sign the ship's papers.
I shall never forget the impression created upon me by my first
introduction to the captain. I thought him the funniest-looking little
man I had ever seen. He was a dried-up, weazen-faced, bald-headed little
fellow, of fifty or thereabouts, with a red, gin-loving nose, twinkling
gray eyes, so small that they were usually almost out of sight, and the
expression of his mouth was so intensely humorous, that his lips always
seemed to be fighting back a burst of laughter. To add to this, he was
every inch a seaman, with the freshness of the ocean breathing from
every pore of his wiry frame, and every seam of his weather-beaten face
giving evidence of stormy service in sun and clime.
By a great effort, Captain Joker put on a severe expression of
countenance as I entered, eyed me with those quick professional eyes of
his, and emptied, at a draught, the tumbler of old Santa Cruz which
stood at his side on the cabin-table.
Upon Tony's saying that I wished to ship on the Queer Fish, the captain,
by a still greater effort, put on a still severer expression, and began
to catechize me, while a wink from Tony told me which way the land lay.
"Where do you hail from?" demanded the captain pompously.
"From Salem, sir."
CAPTAIN. (_With a sly twinkle in his eyes, in spite of himself._) What
are the chief staples of Salem?
I. Shoemakers, old maids and sharks' teeth.
CAPTAIN. What is your name?
I. Barney Blake, sir.
CAPTAIN. Who was your mother?
I. Never had any.
CAPTAIN. (_With his eyes twinkling more than ever._) Who are you the son
of?
I. I'm the son of a sea-cook, was weaned on salt water, reared on
sea-biscuit, and am thirsty for prize-money.
"You'll do!" cried the captain, shaking with merriment like a bowl of
bonnyclabber, and striking the table with his fat fist. "Boatswain,
enter him on the books as Barney Blake, son of a sea-cook; give him a
cutlass and two pistols, and make him stand around. Avast, you
vagabonds, and look sharp, or I'll be down on you with a cat and
spread-eagle!"
The laughter of the captain, as we left him, was anything but in
accordance with this monstrous threat.
"Good for you!" whispered Tony, encouragingly, as we ascended the
companion-ladder.
He then brought me forward and introduced me to the entire forecastle.
His words, upon this occasion, were somewhat characteristic, and here
they are:
"Look yer', messmates, this 'ere cove is a perticklar chum o' mine. I've
know'd him fer ten year--ran away from school with him, fell in love
with the same gal, and cruised with him on the Constitution for three
year. All I got ter say is, treat him well, or some o' yer'll git a eye
so black yer own mother won't know yer, unless she's a black woman with
a sore head: for he's as lively on his pins as a four-year-old
cater-mountain, plucky as a Mexican gamecock, and the sweep of his fist
is like the flounder of a ground-shark's fluke. Messmates, this 'ere is
Barney Blake, Son of a Sea-Cook."
Although I could not consistently indorse this opinion of my abilities,
the gusto with which it was received by my future messmates rendered it
poor policy to deny it, so I went forward, and a general handshake was
the result.
How shall I describe the crew of the Queer Fish? They numbered one
hundred and twenty-five men, all told, and were as motley a set as were
ever grouped together under hatches.
The majority were American-born, but there were four Hollanders, two
Englishmen, six Frenchmen, two Malays, one Norwegian (Old Nick) and half
a score of Irishmen. Each one was a character, but to describe each
separately, and do him justice, would alone require a thousand pages; so
I must be content with sketching the few who most prominently figured in
the scenes I am about to narrate.
I have already mentioned Tony Trybrace and Old Nick, as well as the
second mate, whose name was Pat Pickle, at least, so-called--a capital
fellow as ever spoke through a trumpet, and brave as steel. Next in
importance to these worthies was, perhaps, Dicky Drake, the butt of the
whole crew. He was a green chap from somewhere down in Pennsylvania--had
never been to sea before, except as a cod-fisher--and was the subject of
a great number of practical jokes some of which will be duly recorded.
Probably the next worthy to be considered was our cook, a gigantic negro
from the Virginia swamps, who went by the name of Snollygoster. I verily
believe he was seven feet high, if an inch, and was possessed of the
most prodigious strength.
I never saw the celebrated Milo of old. He must have been considerable
in his way; but all I have got to say is that I would pit Snollygoster
against him any day in the week and have no fear of my money. I have
seen him raise a barrel of Santa Cruz and drink from the bunghole as
easy as a common mortal would lift a box of cheese, and he was said to
have felled an ox by a single blow of his fist. He was as good-humored a
fellow as ever lived, and stood any amount of practical joking. The
queerest inconsistency in his character was his peaceable disposition.
Although no one could accuse him of downright cowardice, he was as timid
as a hare and would go a long way out of his way to avoid a fight. But,
if this was shown in his intercourse with men, it did not appear, it
seems, in any other description of danger. He was the merriest man on
board the ship in a tempest, and one of the Malays who had shipped with
him in the Indian Ocean, swore that he had no more fear of sharks than
of so many flying fish.
There was another queer fellow by the name of Roderick Prinn, who hailed
from Southampton. There was nothing very funny about him, either. He had
a sad, puritanical aspect, never drank, smoked or even chewed, and had
very little to say. The most singular thing was his extraordinary
attachment to another of the crew. This was a boy, and a very pretty
little fellow to boot, named Willie Warner. They had both shipped at
Philadelphia, and there was a thread of mystery between them, which was
quite incomprehensible. They would associate together almost entirely,
and would frequently converse together in the low tones of a language
which no one else could understand. Nevertheless, they did their work
well, and, although they were considerably reserved with the rest of the
crew, they were generally so kindly and agreeable in what they _had_ to
say, that no one could find fault.
Then there was an old salt, just such another as Old Nick, who was full
of an innumerable quantity of stories. I don't know what his real name
was, but we called him Bluefish, and he liked the name. The amount of
_yarn_ that was wound round somewhere inside that old fellow's jaw was
somewhat marvelous. He was a regular old spool, and had only to open his
mouth to let out the longest and wildest lies on record, this or the
other side of the Equator. Many a night, I can tell you, did we sit,
gaping, round that old man of the sea, when the gale was blowing through
the rigging a boreal tune, and all was snug below, to listen to his
wild, weird, and, sometimes, humorous tales. Perhaps the reader will
have one or two of them before we get through--who knows?
Well, I must let up on these descriptions, or our story will go
a-begging.
I must say a few words about our first mate, and then I shall be all
ready for the story, with royals spread, rigging taut, and everything
trim to scud before the wind.
There wasn't anything funny about our first mate. He was, on the whole,
an ugly, ill-natured dog, and thoroughly hated by every one on the ship,
except the captain, who generally stuck to him through thick and thin.
He was a Scotchman--one of your low-browed, lantern-jawed, gaunt-boned,
mean-livered Scotchmen--a regular Sawney all over, from the top of his
red head to the sole of his bunioned feet. He had a voice like a cracked
bugle and a heart as hard as the hardest flint on Ben Inverness, with
never anything pleasant to say or do. We detested him, and only waited
our chance to play a joke upon him.
That will suffice for the men. As for the ship, she was as stanch and
pretty a craft as ever plowed the blue waters, was built at Portland,
masted at Bangor, and rigged at Boston, with an armament the best that
money could procure. She was also a very swift sailer, and we calculated
to play hob with John Bull's East Indiamen and whalers before we got
through with the cruise.