THE LAST OF THE MUTINEERS.
The gale continued to blow ugly and gusty during the day, until eight
bells in the afternoon. The fog hung heavy over the ocean, and the bell
was rung every five minutes, in accordance with the English Admiralty
instructions. The ship had been standing close-hauled to the
north-north-west since noon, when she had tacked, at the warning of the
fog signal, made at some light station on the coast of France, in the
vicinity of Cape de La Hague. For four hours she had been on her
present course, and was therefore approaching the coast of England
again. At the beginning of the first dog-watch, there were some signs
of a change of weather. The fog appeared to be lifting, and the wind
came in less violent gusts.
In the steerage, among the rebels, the most unalloyed misery prevailed.
The runaways had exhausted their supply of water under the pressure of
thirst caused by the salt provision, though they had not yet begun to
be very uncomfortable. Certainly they had, as yet, no thought of
yielding, but were rather studying up the means of obtaining a new
supply of water. Raymond's party were only waiting for the boatswain's
call to ask permission to join their shipmates on deck; but, most
provokingly, no call came. Their leader had been discharged from the
brig as soon as he ceased to be violent; for the principal did not wish
to punish any one for the mutiny, preferring to let it work its own
cure on the diet he had prescribed.
With the exception of the rebels, every one seemed to be particularly
jolly. The principal had explained his policy to them, and they were
entirely satisfied. All the evolutions of seamanship were performed
with remarkable precision even in the gale, demonstrating that the crew
had not lost their prestige, when the will was right. In the cabin,
even, the rough sea did not dampen the spirits of the passengers, who
had been, in a measure, accustomed to the rude action of the sea by
their voyage in the steamer and in the Josephine. The Grand Protectress
of the Order of the Faithful was full of life and spirits, and watched
with the deepest interest the progress of the rebellion in the
steerage.
In Raymond's party the suffering from thirst had become intolerable.
Lindsley's back had been broken early in the forenoon, but Raymond
declared that he would never yield--he would die first.
"What's the use?" demanded Lindsley. "We are whipped out, sold out,
played out, and used up. My tongue is as dry as a piece of
wash-leather."
"I don't like to give it up," replied Raymond. "It looks mean to back
out."
"Just look at it a moment. We are suffering for the sins of Howe's
fellows. They let off the water, saving a supply for themselves, and
our fellows are really the only ones who suffer for their deed. We are
sustaining them, even while they won't give us a drop of water to
moisten our lips. For one, I never will get into such a scrape again.
We have been fools, and whenever I see the runaways go one way, I'm
going the other."
"All hands, on deck, ahoy!" shouted the boatswain at the main hatch.
"That means me," said Lindsley, rushing to the ladder. "Come along,
Raymond. Howe and his fellows have been stingy and mean enough to be
left alone."
Most of the crew were on deck when the call was piped. Lindsley led the
way up the ladder, and Raymond followed him. The last argument of his
friend had evidently converted the latter, for, however much he
disliked to yield, it was not so bad as supporting the cause of such
fellows as Howe, who would not even give him a drink of water. And the
idea of enduring positive suffering for the evil deed of the runaways
was not pleasant. They had let the water out of the tanks, but Raymond
and his friends were the only ones who had thus far suffered in
consequence of the act. It was these reflections which absolutely drove
him upon deck, rather than any disposition to undo the wrong he had
done.
A lift of the fog had revealed the Bill of Portland, a narrow neck of
land projecting outside the channel from the English coast. The wind
was hauling to the northward, and the prospect of fair weather was very
good. The order was given to turn out one of the reefs in the topsails.
The appearance of the Raymond party was noticed by Mr. Lowington, and
even the passengers observed those who wore neither the white nor the
blue ribbon. As soon as the rebels reached the deck, they discovered
the water breaker in the waist. They charged upon it with a fury which
required the interference of an officer; but half a pint was served out
to each of them before they were sent aloft.
The reefs were turned out, and the ship came about on the other tack.
Nothing had been seen of the Josephine since the fog settled down upon
the squadron the night before; but the principal had no fears in regard
to her safety. Fog-horns, guns, and bells warn the voyager of his
approach to any of the perils of the shore; and the experienced
navigator can interpret these signals so as to avoid all danger.
"South-west by west, half west," said Paul Kendall, who was the acting
sailing-master on duty, giving out the course to the quarter-master in
charge of the wheel.
"South-west by west, half west," repeated the latter.
"Where will that take us?" asked Grace Arbuckle, who watched everything
that was said and done with deep interest.
"That course will take the ship to a point off Ushant, which is an
island near the coast of France, not far from Brest," replied Paul, who
took especial pleasure in explaining to her the working of the vessel.
"How far is it from here?"
"From the Bill of Portland, which is the land you see astern of us, the
distance to Ushant is one hundred and fifty-seven miles."
"How long will it take us to go there?"
"That will depend entirely upon the wind," laughed Paul. "We are
logging ten knots just now, which would bring us off Ushant about ten
o'clock to-morrow forenoon. But the wind is going down, and we may not
get there till to-morrow night."
"Well, I'm in no hurry; and I rather hope it will not blow very hard,"
added Grace.
"That's just my wish. If the water only holds out, I don't care."
"But there is something more for the Grand Protectress to do," said
Grace.
"A dozen more who are to take the first degree; but I do not know
whether they will be willing to be initiated."
"Why not?"
"Raymond, who is generally a good fellow, has been very ugly. Perhaps
he feels better now he has quenched his thirst."
"May I speak to him?"
"Certainly, if you wish to do so."
Paul conducted the Grand Protectress to the waist, where the head
steward was giving the Raymond party another half pint of water apiece.
They were very thirsty, and, as boys understand the word, they had
doubtless suffered a great deal for the want of water. As they had
returned to their duty, and yielded the point, Mr. Lowington had
directed that they should be frequently supplied, until they were
satisfied. The general opinion was, that they had already been severely
punished, not only by the thirst they had endured, augmented as it was
by their diet of salt beef and hard bread, but in the mortification
they had experienced at the failure of their scheme. The latter
punishment was quite as severe as the former.
"Miss Arbuckle wishes to speak to you, Raymond," said Paul, addressing
the discomfited leader of the mild party.
"What for?" demanded he.
"She will explain for herself."
"Does she want to preach to me?"
"I think not. Of course you are not compelled to see her, if you don't
wish to do so," added Paul, who could not see why any one should not
wish to converse with Grace.
"I will hear what she has to say," said Raymond, with a condescension
which Paul did not like.
The commodore presented the delinquent to the young lady. Raymond
touched his cap, and bowed politely.
"I am very glad to see you on deck, Mr. Raymond, for I have wished to
make your acquaintance since last evening," Grace began.
"Thank you. I was not aware that I had any claims upon your
consideration."
"I see you wear no ribbon. Shall I furnish you with one?"
"I don't know what it is for?" said Raymond, glancing at the white
ribbon on the commodore's breast. "What does it mean?"
"I can't tell you anything about it just yet. I suppose you are very
sorry for what you have done."
"I feel better since I have had a drink of water," replied Raymond,
good-naturedly; and there was no doubt that he spoke the literal truth.
"I regret that it was necessary to deprive you of water."
"It was not my fault. I had nothing to do with emptying the water
tanks," pleaded the culprit. "It was the runaways who did that."
"Then you were in bad company."
"I think so myself," answered Raymond, candidly, for he was still under
the influence of the clinching argument which had induced him to come
on deck.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the call of the
principal, who summoned the Raymond party into his presence on the
quarter-deck.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Mr. Lowington, with a pleasant smile on his
face, when the rebels had assembled before him.
"No, sir," replied Raymond, promptly, and before any other of the party
could give a different answer.
"Why did you come on deck, then?"
"We couldn't stand it any longer without water."
"Is that the reason why you came on deck?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you may return to your former diet till you are satisfied," added
the principal, pleasantly.
"We don't wish to do that, sir."
"Didn't I understand you to say that you were not satisfied."
"I am not, sir," continued Raymond, stoutly. "I don't think it was fair
to--"
"Stop!" interposed the principal, rather sharply. "I do not purpose to
listen to your grievances. You have undertaken to redress them
yourselves, and I see no reason why you should not persevere till you
are satisfied."
"We can't live on salt junk and hard bread without any water, sir."
"Can't you, indeed? You should have thought of that before you joined
hands with those who started the water out of the tanks."
"We did not even know that they meant to start the water, or,
afterwards, that they had done it, till the cook said so. We are not
responsible for what they did."
"Perhaps not; yet you were in the hold, in full fellowship with them.
But I do not intend to argue the matter with you."
"We are ready to return to our duty, sir, whether we are satisfied or
not," added Raymond.
"O, you are?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, as long as you are willing to do your duty, I suppose it does
not matter whether you are satisfied or not."
Raymond made no reply, and could not help wondering that he had been so
simple as to believe the principal would ask an explanation of
mutineers.
"Are you willing to obey all orders?" continued Mr. Lowington.
"Yes, sir."
"And the others?"
"Yes, sir," replied Raymond's followers.
"Will you refrain from all communication with those in the steerage who
still refuse to do duty?"
"I will," answered Raymond, who had before made up his mind to do this.
"Especially you will not inform them of anything which takes place on
deck, or give them the benefit of any explanation you may hear," said
the principal. "Those who assent to these terms will walk over to
windward."
The party, who could not help wondering at this singular treatment of
what they regarded as a very difficult matter, walked squarely up to
the weather-rail of the ship, and halted there. The remarks of the
principal, and the pledge he exacted, seemed to explain the strange
conduct of the white and the blue ribbon bands in the steerage. No one
had been able to ascertain definitely what those badges meant.
"Very well. I am satisfied, if you are not," said Mr. Lowington,
mildly. "You deserve punishment, but it shall depend upon your future
conduct whether you receive it or not. You will go forward."
When the party reached the waist, they were confronted by Grace and
Paul.
"You have promised to be faithful--have you not?" asked she.
"Yes; but I'm not satisfied," replied the leader.
"Then I confer upon you the first degree of the Order of the Faithful,"
added Grace. "Its emblem is a yellow ribbon;" and she pinned the
decoration upon Raymond's breast.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
She explained its meaning, and then initiated his companions.
"How happens it that we have yellow ribbon while others have white or
blue ones?" asked Lindsley.
"Because you have taken only the first degree, being the last ones to
come. If you do well, and are faithful, you shall be raised to the
second, and then to the third degree," replied Grace, with a vivacity
which was not at all impaired by the laughter of the initiates, who, as
others before them had, regarded the order as a pleasant joke.
"When you have proved yourselves worthy, you will be advanced to the
second degree by the Grand Protectress," added Paul. "The motto of the
concern is, '_Vous ne pouvez pas faire un sifflet de la queue d'un
cochon_;' and I think you have fully proved the truth of the saying.
The meaning of the sentence is one of the secrets of the order. Do you
promise not to reveal it?"
"I do, for one," laughed Lindsley. "I haven't the least idea myself
what it means."
"Nor I," added all the others."
"Then you will all be discreet. The motto contains a very valuable
moral lesson, which bears on your case, and I hope you will take it to
heart," said Paul.
"I should like to take it to head first," replied Lindsley.
"I hope you are satisfied now, Mr. Raymond," continued Grace.
"Not at all. I am willing to do my duty, rather than be starved on salt
junk, and choked to death for the want of water; but I am not
satisfied."
"Not satisfied!" exclaimed Grace. "Not after you have been initiated
into the noble and magnanimous Circle of the Order of the Faithful!"
"Not much!"
"You should say, '_Nicht viel_,' when you want to use that expression,"
laughed Grace, who did not like American slang, and had already
partially cured Paul, who had a slight tendency in that direction.
"Well, _nicht viel_, then. It was not fair, when we had been promised a
trip into Germany, to send us off to sea, just to please Shuffles."
"Captain Shuffles is a good young man. If you say anything against him,
you shall be expelled from the Order of the Faithful!"
"Well, I won't say anything against him, then, Miss Arbuckle; but they
say the ship is bound for Belfast."
"Do you see that land, Mr. Raymond?" she added, pointing to the light
on the headland.
"I do."
"What land is it?"
"I don't know."
"It is the Bill of Portland. Now, which way is the ship headed?"
"About south-west," replied Raymond, after looking through the skylight
at the tell-tale in the steerage.
"South-west by west, half west," she added.
"Bully for you!"
"Instead of that, you should say, "_Bulle für ihnen_." In other words,
you should utter all your slang in German: it sounds better."
"I only meant to say that you reeled off the course like a regular old
salt," laughed Raymond.
"If the ship were bound to Belfast, its course would be nearer west. We
are not going to Belfast. We are going to Brest. Mr. Lowington said the
ship's company needed a little exercise to perfect the discipline, and
to save the trouble and expense of going into the dock at Havre, the
vessels will be left in the harbor of Brest. He never had a thought of
giving up the trip down the Rhine."
"Is that so?" asked the leader of the mild rebels.
Paul repeated the explanation to the penitents which the principal had
given the day before.
"We understood that we were going to sea just to please Shuffles," said
Lindsley.
"The captain certainly wanted better discipline, and he did propose a
day or two at sea for its improvement," added Paul.
"I don't care for two or three days at sea, if we are to go to the
Rhine," continued Raymond. "I'm satisfied now."
The conversation was continued till the starboard watch was piped to
supper. Raymond was fully satisfied now that he had made a fool of
himself, and, what was even worse, that he and his companions had been
the dupes of the runaways. Those who belonged in the starboard watch
were permitted to go to the table, and they did ample justice to the
cold roast beef, butter toast, and tea which covered the mess tables.
Peaks and the head steward paced the steerage, as before, and no one
without a ribbon was allowed to partake. At six o'clock, after the port
watch had been relieved, the second supper was served, and the rest of
the hungry and thirsty delinquents enjoyed the change in their bill of
fare.
Then the runaways sat down to their supper of salt beef and hard bread,
without tea or water. The food did not suit them, and they turned up
their noses at it. The thirst created by their salt breakfast in the
morning had required large draughts upon their water bottles, and
before dinner they had exhausted the supply. They were very thirsty,
though none of them were actually suffering. The fact that they could
not get any water made them want it all the more. They ate none of the
salt meat, which by this time was loathsome to them. Ship bread was dry
feed, and they could eat very little of it. Doubtless it was a hard
case for them, the sons of rich men; but they had only to obey the
boatswain's pipe, and "eat, drink, and be filled."
"I can't stand this," said Monroe, when a group of them had gathered in
their mess-room after the unpalatable supper.
"Can't you? What's the reason you can't?" growled Howe.
"I'm almost choked."
"So am I," added several others.
"Are you going to back out?" demanded the leader.
"Rather than perish with thirst, I am," answered Herman.
"What's the use? All the rest of the fellows have deserted us," added
Ibbotson. "Even Raymond is sporting a yellow ribbon, and is as jolly as
a lord now."
"We can't make anything by it," said Monroe. "I move you we back out,
and get a drink of water. All hands will be called at eight bells, I
think, to put on more sail."
"No, no! Don't back out," interposed Howe. "We haven't made ourselves
felt yet."
"That's so," groaned Herman. "No one takes any notice of us. Even
those fellows that went up last won't speak to us, not even to answer a
civil question. The principal evidently regards us with perfect
contempt. I go in for doing something, or backing out. As it is, we are
making a milk-and-water affair of it. We are starved and choked. That's
all we have to show for what we have done."
"Why don't you preach, and say, 'The way of the transgressor is hard,'
or something of that sort, which is original," snarled Howe.
"I should judge from your talk that you did not feel very good," added
Herman.
"I don't; I'm as dry as any of you, but I have no idea of backing out."
"What are you going to do? What's to be the end of this?" demanded
Ibbotson. "I've got enough of it."
"That seems to be the general opinion," continued Herman.
"Where's Little?" demanded Howe, who could not help realizing that the
fortunes of the last of the mutineers were becoming desperate, and that
it was not an easy thing to contend against such enemies as hunger and
thirst. "I shall not give it up so. Let us do something. Let us make
ourselves felt, even if we are hanged for it."
"What can we do?" inquired Herman, earnestly. "We are caged here like a
lot of donkeys, and I have had enough of it."
"Will you hold on for a couple of hours longer, fellows?" persisted
Howe.
"I will hold on till the boatswain calls all hands, and not an instant
longer," replied Herman. "My tongue feels as though it were cracking
with thirst."
Howe rushed out of the room to find Little, who was the man of
expedients for the runaways. He found him in an adjoining room, and
stated the case to him. The little villain was as uncomfortable and
unhappy as the rest of the mutineers, and, to the surprise of Howe,
counselled yielding rather than suffering any longer.
"I didn't think that of you, Little," sneered Howe.
"Didn't you? Well, it's only a question as to who can stand it the
longest on a diet of salt horse without water," replied Little. "I can
hold out as long as any fellow; but we shall not make anything by it.
If we could, I would stick."
"Let us do something, at least, to make a sensation before we give in.
I don't like the idea of being conquered just in this way."
"What can we do?"
"Let us set the ship afire, or bore holes in the bottom," whispered
Howe.
"Of course, you don't mean anything of that sort," added Little, with a
grim smile.
"I would rather do it than be whipped out in this manner. I never felt
so cheap and mean in my life," continued Howe, kicking the front of the
berth, and pounding with his fist to indicate the intensity of his
wrath.
"Nor I either; but what are you going to do about it."
"Well, you furnish gumption for the crowd, and I came to ask you what
to do. Our fellows' backs are broken, and they will go on deck when the
boatswain's pipe sounds again."
"I shall go with them," replied Little, quietly.
"Can't we get into the hold, and find some water?"
"No; Bitts put a lock on that scuttle this morning, and the forward
officers are watching all the time. You can set the ship afire if you
like. I don't think of anything else you can do to make yourself felt."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed Howe.
"No, you won't," added Little, mildly.
"What's the reason I won't?"
"You dare not."
"You see!" said the discomfited leader, bolting out of the room.
Some men, and some boys, are the most easily overwhelmed by letting
them severely alone. If Howe could have made a sensation, he would have
been better satisfied, even if he had been committed to the brig. He
was vain and proud, and it hurt him more to be ignored than to be
beaten. It was questionable whether he was desperate enough to put his
savage threat into execution; but he collected a pile of books and
papers in his mess-room, and declared his intention to Herman, Monroe,
and others, who were his messmates. No student was allowed to have
matches, and he lacked the torch to fire the incendiary pile.
"Don't be an idiot, Howe!" said Herman, disgusted with the conduct of
his leader.
"I'm going to do something," persisted he.
"You are not going to do that."
"Yes, I am! As soon as the steward leaves the steerage, I shall borrow
one of the lanterns, and there will be a blaze down here."
"No, there won't!"
"What's the reason there won't?"
"The fellows won't let you do any such thing. A fellow is a fool to
burn his own ship at sea."
"Of course it won't burn up; but it will bring Lowington down here, and
he will find out we are somebody."
"Nonsense!"
"But I mean it."
"No, you don't! It is all buncombe."
"You wait and see if it is. If I can only bring Lowington down here,
and see him scared out of his wits, I shall be satisfied. I shall be
willing to go into the brig, then, and stay there for the rest of the
cruise."
"You are a fool, Howe."
"I'm desperate."
"You shall not kindle any fire here. If you say you mean to do it, I
will call Peaks at once."
"I said it, and I'll do it," said Howe, leaving the room.
His messmates followed him. The steward had left the steerage, and
Howe, in order to take down the lantern, leaped upon a stool. Herman
kicked it from beneath him, and he fell upon the floor.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Howe, with clinched fists.
"Don't you touch that lantern--that's all!"
"Yes, I will;" and he tried to mount the stool again.
Herman, Ibbotson, and Monroe seized him, and dragged him back into the
room. The noise attracted the attention of the rest of the mutineers,
and some others, who were below.
"Go, and call Peaks, Monroe," said Herman. "I will hold him till you
come back."
"Don't do that," interposed the desperate leader, becoming suddenly
calm, and apparently reasonable. "You are all cowards. Let me alone. I
might as well yield, with such milk-and-water fellows around me. Don't
say anything to Peaks."
"You are a bigger fool than I thought you were," added Herman, taking
no pains to conceal his disgust at the conduct of his leader.
"All hands, on deck, ahoy!" piped the boatswain.
All hands, Howe included, answered the call. The mutiny was ended.