WE HEAR OF LONG TOM
In less than half an hour we were back again aboard, and as the trader
clambered over the side, he was greeted by his daughter. He was
evidently surprised, for he threw his head back until his beard,
sticking upward from his throat beneath his collar, stood out straight
in a most aggressive manner. It evidently had its effect on the young
lady’s spirits.
“You don’t seem overpleased to have me here again,” she said before he
had spoken.
Yankee Dan gave a loud grunt of protest.
“Are you going clear to the coast, and be aboard when we take ’em on,
hey?” said he, with a show of sarcasm in his harsh voice.
“I’m going with you, and you may put me ashore with Aunt Mary at St.
Helena, or on board some vessel bound for New York, so I can get to
Uncle Henry’s. I’m not going to stay ashore here,” she answered.
Then the father turned away; the interview ended as Hawkson came up.
Fearing trouble for the vessel in her dismasted condition when she
arrived, her treasure had been removed ashore, so that in case some
prying man-of-war should happen to take charge on suspicion, it would be
safe. This alone saved the enterprise from failure that morning, but,
when the story of the brig’s rascally skipper had been related to the
trader, he instantly started ashore with Mr. Gull and a couple of men,
to get the gold at once from Mr. Curtis, in order that there might be no
delay in getting to sea and overhauling the brig, if only to give him a
lesson in trading etiquette. At this time slave-traders were not
overscrupulous in their dealing, and among themselves were little better
than pirates, for they would seldom hesitate to overhaul or rob each
other, knowing that the slaver robbed could get no redress without
admitting guilt of similar transactions.
By the time he returned, the barque was hove short, and her sails ready
to sheet home, and the young lady, who had already gone below to her
cabin, was not given much thought by either her father or the old
skipper. As the boat drew up alongside, I noticed Mr. Curtis aboard, but
he took no thought of me as he came on deck. In an instant we had hooked
the boat on and whisked her on deck, and in less than five minutes we
were starting out to sea before a light westerly breeze that sent us
along about five knots.
I cleared the guns and loaded them all, and then a man was sent aloft to
keep a lookout for a sail, which we all hoped might be the Yankee brig.
We were on our course for the African coast, but might alter it if
occasion offered.
The old barque sailed well with her new topmasts, and, if anything, she
showed a bit faster, as her main was now a foot higher and her new-cut
topsail a little deeper. Much of her fine gear was gone, but what we had
purchased in Funchal was of the best quality, and we had lines enough to
rig another ship. Altogether she made a good showing, and even Mr.
Gull’s crew, who had eaten much goat meat, and in consequence were in
prime condition, were not sorry to get back aboard her.
All day we held to the southward over an almost glassy ocean, ruffled
here and there by the falling breeze, and by sunset we were rewarded by
Big Jones’s yell from the foretop: “Sail dead ahead, sir.”
We were going too slow to tell just what the vessel might be before
dark. Her royals were showing white on the clear blue line, and the sun
went down before even her topsails rose above the horizon. The white of
her cloth, however, gave us some hope, for Americans used white canvas,
and the brig could not be very far ahead of us, and undoubtedly bound on
the same course.
It was calm all night, but somehow the barque slid along, and by
daylight the fellow ahead could be made out plainly not over three miles
distant. It was the brig, and the long skipper was evidently not much
disturbed at our approach, for he took in his after stunsails and
wallowed along slowly over the smooth swell.
We were through breakfast before we knew anything of Howard’s plans,
although there had been much speculation among the men forward, some,
who had suffered in the fracas the evening before, being especially
anxious to try conclusions with the men who had inadvertently dropped
the chest and themselves on top of them and their goat meat in the small
boat.
Gus, a stout Swede, and Pat, a heavy-built little Irishman, showed
bandaged arms which they wished avenged, and Jennings, a Dutchman, who
was a good sailor, poked his swathed head over the rail and swore an
unintelligible oath at the Yankee. Hawkson stood upon the poop and
watched the brig steadily, until Hicks and Howard came from below.
“Will he fight?” asked Hicks, coming to the old mate’s side.
“Did you ever see a Yankee sailor that wouldn’t?” said Hawkson. “No
fear! You’ll see all the fighting you want, if we come in range,--an’
we’re mighty near that now.”
“We’ll take him before eight bells,” said Howard, without interest, as
though it were a thing he did every day. “Get the small arms ready, and
stand by.”
We were nearing the brig, although only going about three knots an hour,
and when within about a mile of her, a puff of white flew from her
starboard quarter, and in a few moments later a six-pound shot landed
with a loud bang against our side, and smashed through into the
’tween-decks, drowning the faint boom of the gun with its slamming
around below.
“He, he, he!” laughed Howard, his ugly mouth showing barely a trace of
amusement. “He means fight without any talk. That’s plain enough.
Suppose you pop him one or two, just to try the range.”
Hawkson stepped down on the main-deck and went to a forward gun.
“Keep her off a couple of points,” he bawled to Henry, and, as the
barque yawed a little, he fired.
We watched to see the shot strike, and saw a jet of water thrown against
the brig’s side, telling plainly that the ball had struck at or below
the water-line. Several men cheered, but behind me I heard a fierce
oath. Turning, I saw Martin glaring savagely at Hawkson, while near him
stood Anderson with a scowl on his face. Even as I looked in surprise,
the wily Scot caught my eye, and his look changed.
“’Tis a pity it didn’t hit him and cut his mast out. Ye may ken it’s far
better to knock out a spar in a chase,” said he to me, in a low voice
that Hawkson could not hear. His tone was not natural, however, and I
wondered at him for some time afterward, and thought of the possible
ways the long skipper could have heard of the barque’s treasure-chest in
the lazarette that he had run off with so handily. We were soon busy
firing the guns of the port broadside as fast as we could serve them at
the enemy, now well within range.
Shot were striking the barque often, for the Yankee was making excellent
practice with his light guns, but no one had been injured aboard. This
being cut up did not suit Howard. He valued the old vessel too highly to
have her hurt badly, and knew also the difficulty of repairing old
timbers.
“Let her head up half a point,” said he, and we were soon dead astern of
the brig and creeping up toward her, our own guns unable to fire, and
receiving only the fire of one little six-pounder they brought on the
poop. This single gun made havoc with our sails, hitting them time and
again, and tearing our outer jib so badly that it was useless. We drew
closer, and suddenly the Yankee ceased firing. We were very close to him
now, and the long skipper could be easily seen leaning indolently upon
the poop-rail, watching us with apparent unconcern.
Hawkson took up a speaking-trumpet and bawled out.
“Heave that vessel to, or we’ll sink you,” he roared.
The long captain put his hand to his ear, as if unable to understand,
and the hail was repeated.
“I can’t heave her to,” drawled the fellow. “There’s too many men aboard
her, an’ they won’t let me.”
Yankee Dan now came from below, where he had taken his daughter for
protection, and gazed at the brig.
“It’s Long Tom Shannon,” said he, “and it would have been a lot better
if we hadn’t come up with him. It’s strange you didn’t know him, the
worst rascal on the coast.”