THE LAST STRAND OF MY YARN
When we came alongside the man-of-war, another small boat had already
arrived. Lights were in the gangway, and forms showed along the rail.
The vessel was a brig-rigged cruiser, not very large, but, judging from
the heaviness of her spars that towered above in the darkness, she was
very fast, capable of overhauling the majority of traders. She would not
have caught _The Gentle Hand_ in a breeze of any weight, and, as I gazed
at her, I remembered the sail I had seen before dark, and to which I had
called Bill’s attention while aloft. This vessel was evidently the one
seen but not reported, and she had probably crept up on us in the
darkness without our knowing it. Then came the rising forward among the
men, planned and led by Shannon and Martin, who had plotted with the
slave-driver ashore for some of the profits. They had intended taking
the barque in themselves, selling and landing the cargo somewhere on
either the Cuban or American coast, and then making another trip, or
sinking her before being overhauled and found out. It was a game easily
played among dealers who asked few questions and who paid cost prices.
Clearing would not be difficult to men who thought nothing of forging
papers, and who would close the mouths of certain officials of the
Spanish ports well known to them by handing over a small percentage of
the profits. How it all ended is now known, and I seemed to be the sole
survivor of the affair.
We ranged alongside the cruiser, and the order came to peak oars. How
the accurate obedience of the men and quick, certain movements brought
back memories of the days when I wore the blue uniform and served
frigate’s guns. Then we were fast, and I was ordered to stand up.
“Now then, up with you,” snapped the officer aft. “Clap that fellow in
irons as he comes aboard,” he added to the quartermaster, who stood in
the gangway, and who promptly laid a heavy paw upon my shoulder. I was
seized by two sailors and hustled below without further ado, and when I
arrived in the ’tween-decks, a fellow clapped the irons upon my wrists.
“Where’ll we put him?” asked one of the sailors of the master-at-arms,
who was superintending operations.
The light from the lanterns shone upon me, and I must have presented a
pretty hard spectacle. Several wounds that I had received had begun to
bleed afresh, and the salt water mixed with the blood, completely
saturating my clothing.
“You look like you had a clip or two, my friend,” said the
master-at-arms to me. “Had a bit of a fracas, hey?”
The tone was familiar, and I looked hard at the man. Then, in spite of
his clean-shaved face and uniform, I had no difficulty in recognizing
old Peter Richards, bos’n of _The Gentle Hand_.
“Well, how in thunder did you get here?” I asked.
“Didn’t you get my note?” said Richards.
“I did, but am not the scholar you appear to be. Sink you, Peter, how
did you play it on me so?”
Richards smiled grimly.
“You know,” he said, “when you first signed with old Watkins, I did not
want to go in the barque. Your gaff set me on, John, and I thought you
such a fool you would get in trouble. I knew what she was, well enough,
but I would have stayed with her if they had treated me right. But folk
in that business don’t treat people right. The whole game is one of
wrong and oppression,--an’ you know it. When I left, I knew she was
going out the next day, and tried to tell you, but you had just gone
ashore, and when I found you had gone, I went as far as the place where
you had the outfly with Curtis on account of the gal. I heard of the
mess, an’ got to the long skipper’s boat in time to see him rowing you
back to _The Gentle Hand_.”
“Did you know what he had in the chest, too?” I asked.
“No, but I knew he was up to something. I knew he couldn’t do much with
the vessel he had, and I thought I would come along in your wake in this
brig. We got here too late. Tell me how the trouble came about.”
I told as much as I could of the rising, and before I was through, an
officer called him aft to give instructions about me. I knew he would do
what he could, and hoped to have him stand between me and the end of the
gant-line.
While he was gone, a master’s mate came up and took me in hand.
“What became of the rest of the crew?” he asked,
“They killed all hands,” I answered, sullenly. “I’m the only one left.”
“Not exactly,” answered the sailor, kindly. “Not exactly, my boy.
There’s a pretty good lump of a Welshman and a fairly sized Dutchman
already ahead of you.”
“What!” I cried. “Did you pick up Miss Allen and Big Jones?”
“I haven’t the honour of the gal’s acquaintance,” said the fellow, “but
we’ve got her aboard all right, and the men with her. Who is the young
lady,--the skipper’s daughter?”
“Daughter of the trader,” I answered, with a feeling of relief. “Her
father was killed with the rest. So she’s aboard, is she?”
“All safe, but we don’t hang women for piracy, so I don’t know what the
old man’ll do with her. No, Sam, we won’t put him in the brig,” he said,
addressing one of the men. “It’s too hot, too much like the hold of a
slaver to suit him. I’ve always noticed these fellows are mighty
particular about themselves. You can stow yourself there in that hammock
to-night, my friend, and here’s some togs for you,” he continued to me,
“and here’s a nip of grog for you. Stand by for a call to come aft and
be sentenced.”
His tone was kindly, but so cool withal, when discussing my probable
end, that I hated the fellow. Hadn’t I gone through enough? Must I be
goaded and hung, after all? I changed my dripping clothes, with the help
of a couple of men who loosed my hands for a few minutes, and then the
order was passed to bring me aft to the captain for examination.
Tired and exhausted as I was, I was hustled aft between two sailors, and
brought to the poop, where sat the captain of the cruiser in a chair. He
was only partly dressed, on account of the heat, and he smoked a long
cigar of the kind rolled in Cuba. Richards had passed a word for me, and
he looked less dangerous than I expected.
He was an intelligent officer, and, as I told my story, beginning at the
time I was tricked into signing into the barque, he became interested,
and I could see he believed much I told. While I talked, Jones was
brought up, and, without hearing what I had already said, corroborated
me in all details. Then we were allowed to go below and turn in, and for
twelve blessed hours I knew nothing. Ernest was too far gone to talk
that night, but the next day his story was found to be in the main like
ours.
As for Miss Allen, she was unable to leave her room for several days,
but when she could tell of the affair, her testimony did much to save
our lives.
We were paroled and given the liberty of the ship while she cruised to
the eastward along the coast of the Guinea Gulf and Bight of Benin.
Soon I found the cruiser, which proved to be the _Hornet_, was looking
for a brig commanded by a fellow named Shannon, who had made a
reputation on the coast for being a most desperate pirate and slaver.
When the bos’n came aboard, they immediately gave chase to the barque.
Then I explained the affair that happened in Funchal, and the encounter
with the brig to the southward of that place. It was evident from my
description of the fellow that it was the same man they were hunting,
and they finally had enough confidence in my testimony to bear away
again to the westward and start up the coast.
After two weeks’ cruising under the hot sun, we raised the topsails of a
peculiar-looking craft that was heading down toward the slave coast. Her
foretopmast was remarkably short, and, as we overhauled her, I had no
difficulty in recognizing Captain Shannon’s vessel.
She saw us and stood inshore close-hauled, and when within a mile of the
beach, backed her foresail and waited for us to come up. The brig fired
a shot or two across her, and then called away three of her boats, which
were filled with armed men, to go in and take possession.
We were to leeward, and the odour that came down the wind told plainly
her occupation. Had it been night, Brannigan would have dumped the
blacks he had aboard into the sea, for he was capable of anything, but
the sun was shining now, and it was no use, for he had failed to
recognize the _Hornet_ as a man-of-war until she was close enough to see
any such manœuvre from her tops. There was nothing to do but either
get rid of the cargo, or get out of his vessel, and, as we could now see
her deck plainly, Brannigan chose the only course to keep clear of the
hangman’s noose. He lowered down his boats, and, as ours started in for
him, he started for the beach, keeping up a rapid and well-directed fire
from muskets until he struck the surf. His brig, which had been named
the _Black Jewel_, after the manner customary among facetious slave-ship
owners, was scuttled where she lay as soon as the blacks were taken out
of her.
As the _Hornet_ had been some time on the coast, just as soon as she put
the slaves ashore, she stood away for home. We crossed the line, picked
up the northeast trade, and made a straight course for the States.
I was allowed the freedom of the deck after I had made known my true
rating, and had explained how I had once served in a war-ship and as
first officer in several others. In this way I had a chance to meet Miss
Allen.
“You are a rough sailorman, are you not, Mr. Heywood?” she asked one
day, as we neared the Carolina coast.
“I suppose I may be classed as such,” I assented, “but I’ve held a
master’s position once, and been mate of several ships.”
“Well,” she said, “I must confess that I like rough sailormen very much.
You know I’ve been used to the society of gentlemen.”
“Your discernment in choosing acquaintance does you immense credit, Miss
Allen,” I answered. “I’m sure I feel honoured.”
“I have always associated with men who could read and write, you know,
and who have been to school. But I do like rough sailormen. They have
much that is interesting about them,” she continued, calmly, without
heeding my interruption.
“There are over a hundred on board this ship,” I asserted, getting my
breath. “Possibly some of them could sign their names, or, at least,
make a cross-mark opposite them. As for me, I fear so much learning
would be dangerous in so rough a sailor.”
She flushed, and I saw at once that she had meant nothing disagreeable.
Then she asked me straightway about Sir John Hicks.
“How was it he did not follow us?” she asked.
“Because he held the ladder for me,” I answered.
“And you let him stay below while you escaped,” she cried, her eyes
flooding scorn and contempt. “You, a sailor, let him die, and ran to
save yourself?”
“Only after he refused to go. I did all I could to persuade him,” I
answered.
She looked long and steadily at me. Then she turned and went slowly
below, and I saw her no more on board. We ran in between the Chesapeake
Capes, and Jones, Ernest, and myself were soon given our liberty.
I took command of a coaster running general cargo to Havana, and before
I sailed I received a letter from New York. I read it over and over many
times on the run south, and finally decided to call on the writer at the
end of the return voyage. But this matter has nothing further to do with
the last voyage of _The Gentle Hand_.
Sometimes I wonder at the end of all those former shipmates of mine, all
the strange, savage, and kindly crew of that old, ill-fated barque. Even
Tim, the little American sailor, had a history. Where are all those
faces, the strong, bad, saturnine, and jovial? They flit like phantoms
through my memory,--men who have gone before. I have missed their voices
often. In the deserted forecastle of some large, home-arrived ship, I
have more than once half-expected to meet one or more of that last crew
I sailed with as a man before the mast.
Far away offshore, in the middle of the southern ocean, I have heard
that strange voice of the sea again, the low, far-reaching, vibrating
murmur that thrills the soul of the listener until each fibre of his
being responds. It is then the sailor realizes the vast world of rest
and peace of the countless crews who have gone before, and wonders as
though the cry came from some mighty invisible host, calling through the
void of air and sunshine. He thinks of the men he once knew, and
wonders. They were good. They were bad. They were a mixture of the two.
But they were all human. And who shall say where they have gone?
THE END.
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Transcriber’s Note
Compound words which occur at line or page breaks retain the hyphen if
supported by other mid-line instances of the same word.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
26.17 brought in a very substan[t]ial meal Inserted.
286.12 while the badly wounded, though[t] still Removed.
undaunted