Raynor found that his duties, besides his kitchen work, included
waiting on the table in the cabin. He managed to acquit himself at
this without getting into serious trouble, although Terror Carson
gave him several gruff reproofs during the evening. When supper was
over the duty of washing the dishes fell to the two boys. Pompey
retired forward for a smoke and they had the galley to themselves.
The breeze, which had been steady all the afternoon, was beginning
to increase. The schooner began to leap and strain as the waves grew
bigger. Raynor found some difficulty in keeping his feet.
“Say, it’s coming on to blow,” observed Raynor.
“Yes, and that’s too bad,” rejoined Noddy. “I’d got it framed up fer
a getaway ter night.”
“To-night?” gasped Raynor.
“Yep, Pompey is to have the wheel to-night. He has that duty every
two weeks. At midnight he’ll be alone on deck and if we fix up like
ghosts it would be dead easy to scare him and get at the boat on the
stern davits and make our fare-you-well.”
The boldness of the plan almost overcame Raynor.
“Here’s de proposition,” went on Noddy. “If we don’t do it to-night
we won’t have a show ter take a crack at it fer annudder two
weeks--see. By dat time de men say we’ll be up among der ice where
der seals are, an’ it wouldn’t do us no good if we did escape, fer
deres mighty few craft up dere.”
“Well, I’m game,” said Raynor.
“Good for you,” and Noddy dropped his voice and began whispering the
details of his plan. By the time they had finished their work the
schooner was pitching and tossing wildly and they knew that the
storm was on the increase. “But dat don’t make no never mind,”
declared the Bowery boy. “I’ve heard de men say dat de whale boat
’ud live in seas dat would sink de schooner.”
They parted, Noddy to go forward to his bunk in a storeroom, where
sails, paint, etc., were stored, and Raynor to his cabin. Terror
Carson and his mate sat at the table. They took no notice of the
lad. In his cabin Raynor did not take his clothes off. He could not
have slept. The excitement of the projected escape would have
prohibited that. Midnight was the hour agreed upon, and he listened
to the ship’s bell sounding the slowly passing hours, and half
hours, with great impatience. At last the growl of voices in the
cabin ceased and then two doors banged and Raynor knew the captain
and mate had turned in. Just then the bell struck seven times. It
was eleven-thirty.
“This is a bad night to leave the ship,” mused Raynor, as he sat
waiting for the chiming of eight bells.
The schooner appeared to be under a press of canvas, for her hull
was heeled over at a steep angle. At times she appeared to rush
skyward and then hurtle down into a bottomless abyss. Raynor hoped
the whaleboat was as seaworthy as such a type of boat is reputed to
be. The thought of abandoning the enterprise, however, did not,
enter his head. As Noddy had pointed out, it might be their only
chance of escape, and Raynor longed for nothing more than to get
free of the _Polly Ann_. It was his paramount ambition and it would
have taken more than a stormy night to stop him.
As eight bells struck, Raynor rose and cautiously opened the door of
his cabin a crack.
The swinging lamp outside was turned low and the main cabin empty.
He stole cautiously out and then ascended the companionway to the
deck.
Luckily, the companionway entrance was below a break in the stern so
that the man at the wheel--Pompey--could not see him as, crouched
almost double, he crept forward to the small deck house where Noddy
had his berth. It was a wild night. Big seas, their white tops
luminous, raced by, towering above the schooner’s rail. The speedy
little vessel was heeled over almost on her beam ends at times, but
she appeared remarkably seaworthy.
Not a soul could be seen on deck except Pompey’s dark form at the
wheel, revealed by the faint glow-worm light of the binnacle lamp.
At last Raynor, with infinite caution, reached Noddy’s sleeping
place. He rapped three times, as they had agreed, and the door was
opened.
Raynor almost uttered a cry of alarm as the portal was pulled back
by Noddy. He saw what appeared to be a human face enveloped in pale
green fire, out of which shone two luminous eyes.
“Swell ghost, eh?” chuckled Noddy, pulling him inside. “I made de
stuff out’n match heads. Come on, here’s some fer you. Rub it on yer
face an’ den I’ll give you yer shroud.”
He held up a shapeless-looking garment of white sail cloth that he
had made, and at the same time cautiously turned up the flame of a
lantern that stood in a corner so that Raynor could see.
“I don’t believe we can get away to-night in a small boat,” declared
Raynor as he daubed on the phosphorescent solution under Noddy’s
directions.
“Why not?” asked the Bowery lad.
“It’s too rough. Feel how the schooner is pitching. It’ll make the
small boat dance about worse.”
“Well, we gotter take our chances on dat,” decided Noddy, “we’ll
take a look when we git outside.”
At last the ghosts were ready. Raynor’s heart beat rather faster
than was comfortable as they crept out upon the heaving, tossing
decks. If their plan failed, and Terror Carson discovered it, a
terrible fate might be in store for them. A strong wind whistled
about them and a dash of rain beat in their faces.
“Gee! It is pretty bad, fer a fact,” declared Noddy. “Well, let’s
get along to the stern.” They proceeded cautiously, doubled up under
the shadow of the bulwark till they reached the break in the stern.
Then, with an appalling yell, Noddy dashed up the steps leading on
to the raised poop where the helmsman stood. Raynor was close behind
him. Noddy’s shriek was echoed by a shout of alarm from Pompey.
“Gollyumptions! Ghostesses! De good lawd hab mussey on mah soul! Oh,
Massa, ghostesses don’ hurt me! Wow!”
A wild yell of fear came from the trembling Pompey as Noddy raised a
flaming hand and pointed straight at him. Pompey dropped the spokes
of the wheel and dashed forward, leaping the break of the poop in
one jump. At the same instant the schooner “broached to” as her helm
was deserted. The canvas flapped wildly and she rolled in the trough
of the seas. A giant wave broke over her bow with a sound like
thunder.
At the same instant, from below, came a stentorian shout like the
roar of an angry bull.
“On deck, there! What in the name of Davy Jones is the matter?”
“That’s Terror Carson!” cried Noddy. “Come on, let’s get forward. No
escape for us to-night.”
The two boys rushed toward the bow just in time to avoid Carson, who
came rushing on deck followed by his mate. They bolted into Noddy’s
sanctum in time to avoid the crew, who came tumbling up the
fore-hatchway, and hastily removed their shrouds and washed off the
phosphorus. Then they ran out and mingled with the crowd on deck as
if they had just been aroused by the confusion.
It was a wild scene on the deck of the _Polly Ann_. Carson himself
had seized the tiller and was holding the craft on her course, but
two sails had been ripped and a lot of water shipped over the bow.
The boys came out just in time to see some sailors dragging Pompey
aft from the galley, where he had taken refuge from what he thought
were supernatural visitors.
The black was beside himself with fear of Terror Carson and alarm at
what he had seen. He stammered out incoherent explanations about
being scared from the wheel by “ghostesses.” Carson roared savagely
at him. He declared he had a good mind to have him flogged. But
finally he commuted the sentence to two days in irons. The boys felt
conscience-stricken at having involved poor Pompey in such a
quandary, yet they could not have made explanations without making
matters worse.
Fortunately for them, the confusion and crowd on deck were so great
that nobody noticed from what direction they came when they
appeared, and it was taken for granted by all concerned that both
had rushed from their bunks when the general alarm that followed the
“broaching to” of the schooner took place.
And so ended their first attempt to escape from the seal poacher
_Polly Ann_. Both lads were bitterly disappointed at the way Fate
had turned her face against them, but both determined to try again
at the first opportunity. Meantime, the _Polly Ann_ forged
northward, and destiny was weaving strange threads which were fated
to form an important part in the fabrics of their lives.