The day of work was at hand at the United States Naval Academy,
situated in that quaint, sleepy old town of Annapolis, whose greatest
attractions are its antiquity and its sea school.
The time had come when the “future admirals,” the “heroes in embryo”
were to cease their flirting and “bone” with all their hearts and heads
in latitudes, longitudes, parallelograms, tonnage, displacement, and
all the other studies necessary to make the greenhorn a perfect sailor.
The middies had returned from their summer cruise, the “academy” had
awakened from its lazy slumber of weeks, and all were looking forward
to the year before them with varied feelings of hopes and fears.
Those who had already served one or more terms at the academy felt
their superiority unquestioned to the unfortunate “Plebe,” who was
standing upon the threshold in fear and trembling of what was before
him.
Standing on the sea-wall of the academy grounds one afternoon a
month or more after the bold act of Mark Merrill in saving the yacht
Midshipman from destruction in Hopeless Haven, on the coast of Maine,
were a number of middies, unmindful of the beauties of the scene about
them, the old training ship with its history of the past, waters of
the Severn lashed into foam under a gale that was blowing up the
Chesapeake, visible over a league away, tossing in angry billows,
a vessel of war anchored off in midstream, and the ancient town of
Annapolis to the right, with its fleet of oyster boats fretting
their cables as they plunged and reeled on the incoming waves--I say
unmindful of the scene about them, the group of young sailors had
their eyes riveted upon a small schooner which had shot around Bay
Ridge Point at a tremendous speed, jibed her sails to starboard most
skillfully, though she reeled low under the shock, and came tearing up
to the town in gallant style.
“There’s a bold skipper at the helm of that craft,” said Cadet Captain
Byrd Bascomb, of the first class, with the air of one whose superior
knowledge no one could contradict.
“He is too bold, for he carries too much sail for safety,” Midshipman
Herbert Nazro responded, for he observed that the little schooner was
carrying only a single-reefed mainsail.
“She’s one of those deep-keeled yachts that can stand her canvas,”
Cadet Lieutenant Frank Latrobe added.
“Yes, and her foolhardy skipper will carry the sticks out of her yet
before she reaches port,” put in Midshipman Winslow Dillingham.
“I guess he knows his craft; if he does not, he’s a fool,” was the
decided opinion of Midshipman Harbor Driggs.
“Ha! what did I tell you?” cried Captain Byrd Bascomb, as a terrific
squall struck the little vessel, causing her to lay over until her keel
was visible.
“Aha! well done that!”
“Wasn’t it beautiful!”
“That skipper knows himself and his ship, too!”
Such were the admiring expressions that went up from the crowd of young
sailors as the yacht was splendidly rescued from her danger and sent
along, as before, in the same rushing style by her bold helmsman.
“Ah! he is heading for an anchorage off here!” said Cadet Captain Byrd
Bascomb, as the schooner’s sheets were eased off and her prow headed
away before the wind.
On she flew, at the same mad speed, reeling, staggering, rolling, until
her boom ends dipped, but held on unswervingly straight toward the
vessel-of-war anchored off the grounds in the Levern River.
“By Neptune’s beard, men, but that is a youngster at the helm of that
craft,” cried Byrd Bascomb, as he put his glass to his eye.
It was not long before all could discover the truth of this, and that
three men were all else to be seen upon the deck of the schooner, one
of these forward, another at the foresheet halyards, the third at the
main sheet.
Like a rocket she sped under the stern of the vessel-of-war, and then
there came an order from the helmsman, the sheets were hauled in and
made fast, and luffing up sharp, the anchor was let fall, the sails
came down on a run, and ten minutes after a boat left her side and
pulled for the shore.
The cadets lounged up to meet the single occupant of the little boat,
which was a surf-skiff, and though tossed about upon the waves, was
handled with a skill which caused the middies to set the rower down as
a master of the oars.
The oarsman sprang ashore, touched his hat politely, and asked nobody
in particular:
“May I ask where I will find the commandant of the Naval School?”
Then the innate deviltry of the juvenile tar asserted itself, and a
look of mischief flashed from eye to eye, a sort of telegraphy, which
said:
“Here’s fun for us.”
They saw before them a bronze-faced youth of seventeen, perhaps, with a
splendidly knit frame, clad in spotless duck trousers, a sailor shirt,
beneath the wide collar of which a black silk scarf was knotted, and a
tarpaulin cocked on the side of his head in a kind of devil-I-care way.
“Have you the oysters the commandant ordered?” asked Midshipman
Dillingham, with a look of intense innocence.
The dark face of the young sailor flushed, but he responded with
dignity:
“My name is Mark Merrill, and I have orders to report here to be
examined for the berth of midshipman in the United States Navy.”