CHAPTER XIII
Of the Mysterious Ship in the Midst of the Ocean
Next morning when I came on deck I saw the man we had rescued from the Algerine vessel. He was lying on a rough couch under the lee of a cannonade, being too weak to stand. He had received a pistol shot in the left arm, so that his escape was all the more to be wondered at, although he asserted that while swimming for his life he knew nothing of the matter.
He was a man of gigantic stature, broad in frame, and with muscles that stood out beneath his tanned skin like knots on the trunk of a forest oak. All this I saw in spite of his distressed condition, and should he recover, which seemed likely enough, he promised to make a welcome addition to our crew.
His name was Joe Clemens, and he hailed from East Looe, a small fishing village in Cornwall somewhere betwixt Plymouth and Fowey, so that when we picked him up he was almost within sight of his native place. He had been the mate of the Surprise, armed trader, which had been cast ashore on the Barbary coast, all her crew being carried into captivity.
He was the only Englishman on board the Algerine galley; and had laboured at the oar for nearly three years, sleeping and working at the rowers' bench, to which he was shackled by a chain passed round his middle.
Our broadside severed the chain, and seizing the opportunity he sprang overboard, followed by a fellow-slave, a Sardinian. As he leapt over an Algerine discharged a pistol at him, wounding him in the arm; but such was his strength and determination that, although wearing part of the heavy chain and bleeding profusely, he managed to swim strongly till picked up. His companion had sunk, as I have already related.
For the next few days nothing happened beyond the ordinary routine on board; but on the morning of the fifth day at sea I happened to notice a man who must have previously kept out of my way. His face was partially hidden by a short, stubbly beard, in spite of which I felt certain 'twas the same man that had vied with my father in bidding for Captain Jeremy's picture.
Concealing my agitation, I sought the Captain and communicated my suspicions.
"Wrong again, lad," he replied. "'Tis Ned Slater, an old shipmate of mine who has fallen on evil times. Out of charity I shipped him aboard the Golden Hope."
"The same old shipmate who bought a dagger in Lisbon?"
"Aye, Master Clifford----"
"But, sir, you described him as being as thin as a handspike."
"So I did, lad; but he has filled out since then. 'Twas a score of years ago at least. But rest easy in your mind concerning him, for he has been to the Indies for the last four years, and only landed in Chatham a month ago, the sole survivor of the barque Enterprise. I know that, for I saw his papers."
With that there was no more to be said; yet, though I might be mistaken, I resolved to keep a close watch on the movements of Master Ned Slater.
Favourable winds bore the Golden Hope to the Azores, where I had my first impression of foreign parts. Then, after a three days' stay, we shaped a course for the Bermudas; but, owing to constant head winds, Captain Jeremy decided to run south, so as to pick up the north-east Trades.
For several days we sailed over a vast expanse of ocean, with never a sail to break the regular skyline. The days, too, were rapidly becoming hotter, while the hours of daylight appreciably diminished, though the nights were warm and balmy, so that keeping a watch on deck was robbed of all discomfort.
At length one morning the sun rose red and fiery, betokening a change in the weather; and barely was it clear of the horizon when the cry was heard, "Sail, ho!"
"Whither away?" asked Captain Jeremy, as he ascended the poop, glass in hand.
"A point off our starboard bow, sir," replied the seaman who had picked up this craft.
With the naked eye we could distinguish the topsails and t'gallants of a brig, the hull being still below the horizon. Captain Jeremy clapped the glass to his eye and examined her intently.
"What's amiss with her?" he exclaimed. "She's hove-to."
"Perhaps she has sighted us, and wishes to communicate," suggested Touchstone.
"Or else she's a buccaneer," added 'Enery, as he swung himself into the main shrouds in order to get a better view from the topmast head.
"We are out of the regular cruising ground of those gentlemen," remarked Captain Jeremy. "But 'tis no saying what she may prove to be. Master Touchstone, will you see that the arms are served out?"
Two hours later, for the wind was still light, we were within a mile of the strange brig. She was a vessel very similar to the Golden Hope in design, but with what a difference in appearance!
She was still hove-to, moving very slowly through the water. Her yards were badly squared, while her running gear seemed to be in a state of neglect, several of the sheets and braces trailing over the side. She carried four guns abroadside, and these were run out in apparent preparation to ward off an attack; while her decks were crowded with men.
"What do they think to do?" asked the master gunner. "'Tis certain they have no stomach for a fight, or else they would keep way on her."
"If they do not pay heed to their t'gallants they are lost men," said Captain Miles. "See, already the sky is overcast to windward. Yet it may be but a trick, so stand to your guns, men."
In obedience to a further order, the red cross of St. George was shown from our foremast truck, for the course our vessel was taking prevented the ensign at the peak being seen by the stranger.
No ensign was hoisted in reply, and in perfect silence the others awaited our approach.
"What ship is that?" hailed Captain Jeremy through his speaking trumpet. There was still no answer, although the Golden Hope was passing within fifty yards of the stranger's bows. The hail was repeated, and to our surprise a lusty voice shouted:
"Can yew give we a hand wi' this boat ov ourn, zurr?"
"If that isn't a Zummerset or Devon yokel, sink me for a landlubber!" remarked Captain Jeremy; and almost at the same moment 'Enery, who had descended to the main top, shouted, "Bless me, Cap'n, if it ain't Garge Oddicombe."
"Aye, aye, we'll send a boat," replied Captain Jeremy to the other's request; and in a very short space of time twenty men, with 'Enery in charge, were making-towards the forlorn brig, I having obtained permission to accompany them.
"Look sharp!" shouted our Captain as the boat shoved off. "Make all snug alow and aloft, and keep us in company."
A strange sight met our eyes as we gained the deck of the brig, which, by the name painted on her stern, we now knew to be the Neptune of Topsham.
The confusion on deck was in accordance with the disorder aloft. Ropes, gun tackles, broken casks and planks, and torn canvas were lying about in the utmost disorder; while some hundred men, grotesquely dressed in motley costumes, gazed at us with mingled expressions of relief, curiosity, and fear. Many still wore the smocks of their native Somerset and Devon, but gone was the healthy hue of a country life. Haggard faces, unkempt hair, and beards showed that these sons of the soil had had a trying time on shipboard.
Without waiting to question this mixed crew, some of whom recognized our men as comrades on the fatal field of Sedgemoor, 'Enery took steps to ensure the safety of the brig, for the wind was piping up in long-drawn moans, the forerunners of the expected gale; and by the time everything was snugged down the sea was too high to permit the boat to return to the Golden Hope for further orders.
Under easy canvas both brigs scudded before the gale, and, thanks to 'Enery's management, and the fact that the Neptune was a seaworthy craft, we had no fears as to her ability to make good weather of it.
All night we kept the Golden Hope's poop lanterns in view, both vessels being of about the same turn of speed; nor was it possible to return to our own craft until late in the afternoon of the following day.
Nevertheless, long before that time we were acquainted with the facts that led up to our meeting with the Neptune, and a ghastly story it was.
The Neptune, commanded by Captain Jonas Wright, had left the port of Topsham on the tenth of September, with a living cargo consisting of one hundred and twenty poor peasants whom the inhuman Judge Jeffreys had condemned at Exeter Assizes to a lifelong slavery in Jamaica.
This Captain Jonas Wright was a harsh, tyrannical man, who, far from alleviating the miseries of his prisoners, had added to their hard lot, keeping them on low rations of nauseating food, and only allowing them to come on deck for fresh air at very long intervals, while he took a savage delight in bestowing the dreaded "cat" whenever an opportunity occurred. Frequently, through sheer love of cruelty, he would invent some pretext for whipping the manacled prisoners, shouting in drunken glee at their appeals for mercy.
At length George Oddicombe, a man of enormous strength, but withal somewhat dull of understanding, who had fought stubbornly at Sedge moor till ridden down by the Royals, contrived to free himself from his gyves and leg irons, and by working heroically for six hours also managed to release most of his luckless comrades, who in turn devoted their energies to knocking off the fetters of the remaining rebels.
That same night, the captain being in drink, as were most of the seamen, a horde of fierce and resolute peasants poured through the hatchway and overpowered the crew. What happened to their erstwhile captors we did not ask, there being little need to imagine their fate.
Although freed from their oppressors, the ignorant yokels found themselves helpless, for the brig soon got in irons[1]. Unable to manoeuvre her, they had slowly drifted in a vessel which, but for our aid, would ere now be lying on the bed of the Atlantic.
Directly the wind moderated sufficiently, 'Enery and I returned to the Golden Hope, leaving seven of our men still on board the Neptune.
Captain Jeremy listened intently to the bos'n's report, his brow frequently puckering as if with the perplexity of the situation; but when at length 'Enery finished his story, the Captain brought his hand down on the cabin table with a tremendous crash.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I'll risk it. Bring Oddicombe on board."
[1] A vessel is said to be "in irons" when she is head to wind, and will not tall off on either tack.