In the windjammer, the tropical doldrums are usually the scene of more
or less fun. The scupper holes are plugged and a tremendous downpour
soon fills the main-deck a foot deep with clean fresh water. The decks
of deep-loaded ships are often so much under water that seaweed grows
upon them, and they are consequently apt to be clean after the growth is
removed. The main-deck’s hatches make a shallow amidships, and all
across the broad width the water rolls with the heave of the ship. In
the waterways it is often two feet deep.
In this huge tub the sailor takes his semi-annual bath. He does not
bathe alone, neither does he overlook any of his belongings. Everything
washable, from blankets to breeches, is laid out upon the white deck
planks and rubbed with soap. After a foamy lather is formed upon the
large pieces, he will slide upon them like the small boy does upon ice,
his feet gathering up a bow-wave of lather and dirt. Then the wash is
dragged into deeper water for a rinsing.
At such times “skylarking,” as it is called, is indulged in freely. The
men chase each other about the deck, splashing water and whipping each
other upon the naked skin with wet clothes. Sometimes a sailor would be
initiated into untying a most complicated knot which some wag would tie
in his trouser legs, while a shipmate engaged him in conversation. It is
said that, if cleanliness is next to godliness, the sailor’s soul is
doomed, but this must surely be a fallacy, as no man can be very filthy
who does not have to bathe but once or twice a year.
In the trade-winds’ belts, where the wind is steady and sail is seldom
handled from one day’s end to another, many original kinds of amusements
are indulged in upon ships whose masters stand for frolics. Checkers and
squeaking fiddles, which are a part of all forecastle accessories, are
laid aside, and boxing taken up. There are never any gloves, and the
test of skill invariably ends in a mix-up in which rules are superfluous
and absurd. Dancing is common, and there are few sailors who cannot do a
fair trick with the feet, if some one will produce a mouth-organ and
play and “pat” for them.
We allowed the usual routine of this sort, and it did the men good, for
they were a dirty set at best, much dirtier than American or English
seamen. After a good shave all around they presented a passable
appearance. Day after day the hot calm continued, and always at sunrise
the sails of the English ship were upon the horizon. As we would head
the same course to the Cape, this was not remarkable, but somehow the
presence of the vessel worried me unaccountably.
Three days later, while it was still calm, we drifted close to her again
and Crojack’s comments upon her master’s navigation brought forth a
torrent of invective from both Garnett and Webster that would be
impossible to equal.
It was now plainly evident the vessel we were in company with was one
of the English prison transports used for carrying convicts from England
to the outlying colonies. The passengers aboard this one were to be
transported for terms of years varying from five to that of an ordinary
lifetime. They were, therefore, dangerous men, and had to be handled
carefully. The armed guard of soldiers sent along to keep control were
apparently numerous enough to handle them, but I knew well enough that a
vessel of that kind should not have a fool for a commander.
“Why is it, Mr. Gore,” Miss Waters said to me as I came aft, “that
sailors are so brutal and rough?”
“Are they?” I asked.
“What do you think of the officers of that ship? Are they such as you
would term gentlemen by any stretch of the imagination? I’ve read
sea-tales, and all of them picture the American captains and mates as
brutes. Don’t you think it is so?” And she smiled wickedly.
“I think the man who writes or says all the American or English
officers are brutes is a bit prejudiced,” I answered. “Whatever
roughness they have in their natures, though, must certainly have gotten
there while they were sailors before the mast. Take that Garnett, for
instance. All the deviltry he knows--and he has learned something--he
picked up while a sailor before the mast. I’m sorry, however, that you
don’t care for sailors.” And I turned away. When I looked aft again, I
saw Miss Waters had gone below and I deplored my temper and stupidity.
Here I was trying, without doubt, to be civil and attentive to a young
woman, and what a mess I made of it. I was a poor lover, though a strong
one, and I reasoned that a weaker and less sensitive nature could give
me long odds at the game. My solace was my pipe, and while I smoked I
felt my spirits return, for the voyage would be a long one. We were only
half-way and much might happen yet.
All day the vessels were within hailing distance, and at noontime we saw
the guard of six soldiers--there were a dozen or more on board--taking
a gang of convicts out on the main-deck to give them air and exercise.
As darkness came on, a squall of rain, accompanied by a light air,
drifted the _Arrow_ a mile or more to the eastward. Then it fell calm
again and the night was hot and sultry.
I was very nervous that evening. Something oppressed me, and I chafed at
the seeming indifference Miss Waters had shown that day for the passion
I had been unable to conceal.
On turning in I found it was impossible to sleep, and I lay awake in my
bunk thinking thoughts concerning Brown that I afterward tried to
forget.
O’Toole’s step sounded loudly on the deck overhead, and the creaking of
a brace sheave, when the slight swell made the ship roll, sounded loud
and distinct.
It was four bells in the midwatch when I heard an exclamation from the
second mate. At first I thought he was talking to the men in his watch,
who usually lay, or rather sat, in a group abaft the deck-house during
the calm weather. With one on the t’gallant fo’castle as lookout and
another at the wheel, there were ten men left with nothing to do but
keep awake.
I was wide-awake when I heard the second mate’s voice again. This time
he appeared to hail some one at a distance. Thinking this strange, I
listened intently.
Suddenly I heard a low, regular sound. There was no mistaking the noise;
it was the regular, rocking sound made by oars in rowlocks, and the
swing of the oars was quick.
A man hailed us at no great distance, but I couldn’t make out what he
said. Then the oar-strokes grew louder, and I raised myself on my elbow.
All of a sudden O’Toole roared, “All hands! Mr. Gore! Help!” and a
rifle-shot rang out sharp and clear, followed by a terrific uproar
alongside the ship.
I made a dive to the foot of my bunk and grasped a revolver that lay
there on a small shelf. The next instant I burst through the door of
the forward cabin on to the main-deck.
In the darkness I heard O’Toole’s oaths near the port side amidships. I
had no idea what had happened, but through the gloom I made out a crowd
of men struggling about an object which I rightly guessed to be the
second mate’s red head. Men’s faces appeared by the score coming over
the bulwarks, and I realized that we were being boarded.
Then I plunged into the crowd, bawling for the watch to lay aft and
help.
The second mate was surrounded by a throng of strange men, and was
laying about him with an iron belaying-pin, warding off thrusts from
knives and cutlasses.
Before I could reach him a dozen or more set upon me and I backed away,
firing chamber after chamber of my revolver at the men nearest to me.
I heard shouts from aft, and Crojack’s hoarse voice from the
companionway. Then there was rapid firing from all quarters at once.
Men swarmed over the t’gallant-rail and fired at our men crowding under
the fo’castle head.
A tall man in front of me flashed a pistol so close to my face that it
almost blinded me and the powder burnt my cheek.
I took deliberate aim at him with my last cartridge and shot him dead.
Then they closed in on all sides and bore me to the deck. I felt a knife
point at my throat, but the next instant a hand dashed the blade aside
and a powerful voice ordered that I be bound hand and foot.
Men crowded about me and upon me. In spite of my struggles, my empty
revolver was wrenched from my grasp and a line quickly passed around my
body, lashing my arms to my sides.
I saw O’Toole fighting like a demon. Twice a dozen or more men bore him
by sheer weight to the deck. But he fought free, as a bulldog in a swarm
of rats. Each time he went down, struggling fiercely, and instantly
afterward arose, dragging the crowd of men to their feet along with
him.
Cutlasses flashed, but there was no chance to use them in the crush. He
struck out with both fists, the men clinging to him, and whether
belaying-pin or knuckles landed, the man dropped who caught the blow.
It was inspiring to see the red-headed giant fling about him, and I
found myself cheering him on.
“On, O’Toole, for ever!” I yelled, almost laughing as he knocked a man
over, and he bawled out something in reply, at the same time struggling
with renewed vigour.
It was too unequal a fight to last long. A tall man reached over his
comrades’ heads and dealt the second mate a heavy blow over the ear with
a handspike, and that ended the fight as far as that officer was
concerned.
The firing continued on the poop for a few moments longer. Then
Crojack’s hoarse cries ceased, and I knew what had happened aft.
A man came forward and gave an order in the deep, strong voice I had
noticed before, and the next instant O’Toole and I were dragged aft
along the deck and into the cabin. There we were bundled into a heap
with Captain Crojack and Brown, both of the latter being wounded.
The old skipper lay panting hard and, although I couldn’t see what he
had done on deck, I knew he had made a desperate fight for his ship.
We understood now what had happened, so there was little to be said. I
found myself thinking of old Bill Garnett, and wondered if the convicts
had killed him and the rest of the officers on his ship. Then the
thought of the women on board our vessel flashed through my mind for the
first time.
I looked at Crojack and was about to ask him a question, but he read the
look in my eyes and turned away his face. I heard him give a deep groan.
Then I knew what was to happen.
As the uproar died away forward, the men swarmed into the cabin, and for
the first time, by the aid of the cabin lamp, we had an opportunity to
get a good look at the convicts’ faces.
All of them were pale from the effects of long confinement, but their
bristling, uncombed hair and beards gave them a fierce appearance. Many
of them were blear-eyed and unsteady on their feet from the effects of
the rum they had captured.
They had taken their vessel, as we learned by their talk, shortly before
midnight. They had planned the affair carefully and had risen in a body,
overpowering the guard by sheer force of numbers. After this they had
taken their arms, and, after a desperate fight with the crew and
after-guard, they were in possession of the ship.
All of them appeared to be rough men, except the man whose powerful and
commanding voice I had heard above the general uproar. He was followed
everywhere by a few who kept close at either hand, and the way he roared
out orders told plainly that he was the leader.
He was a tall, fine-looking young man, and his powerful frame showed in
marked contrast to the rest. But it was his face that appeared most
different from those of his followers. Every line in it spoke the
leader, and every feature, from the fierce, bright eyes to the square,
heavy jaw, spoke the man of indomitable spirit and sudden action.
When I first had a good look at him I could hardly believe such a
fine-looking man could be a great villain. It was easy to gather from
the remarks of his companions, however, that his appearance belied him,
and that even the worst of them stood in awe of his passions. Afterward,
when I had learned his history, I realized the enormous power for evil
that this man was capable of and the great influence he held over nearly
all with whom he came in contact.
It was he who had planned the uprising and had taken advantage of the
calm weather when he was allowed on deck to communicate with his
fellows.
As he entered the cabin where we lay, the men who were ransacking some
of the skipper’s lockers desisted, and their shouting and swearing
moderated a little. He forced his way through the crowd without noticing
any one and strode up to where we lay. He stopped and gazed at us a few
moments, and then, speaking in a low tone to a couple of the ruffians
who followed at his heels, he started up the companionway.
The two men spoken to remained behind and sat on the transom near us,
holding away from the rest of their fellows and evidently watching us
closely, although we were all four fairly wrapped in coils of rope.
I turned my head to see where the leader had gone, and as I saw his head
pass the opening of the hatch I noticed his face was reflecting a ruddy
glare of light.
A loud exclamation from Brown, who lay staring up through the skylight,
made me turn my eyes in the direction he was looking and I saw the lurid
glare reflected on the hoisted spanker.
Crojack tried to turn, but was too weak. “It’s the _Countess of
Warwick_,” he gasped, “and these devils intend to stay aboard of us. Is
O’Toole dead?” and he tried to look into the face of his second mate.
“He made a great fight,” I answered, “but he got a clip on the head from
a handspike. What did these fellows fire their ship for?”
“Just to take this one so no one will recognize them,” answered the old
man.
“And us?” asked Brown, “what will they do with us?”
“We’ll have to go the way Garnett went, I guess,” gasped Crojack,
“though I wouldn’t mind it so much if it wasn’t for those poor women.
Mrs. Waters got a bullet meant for me. She won’t live till morning. Shot
through the breast--”
“But Miss Waters?” I managed to get out in a whisper.
“Locked in my stateroom and that tall devil has the key.”