Rounding Cape Horn, and Other Sea Stories

by Walter McRoberts

Chapter III.

So quiet was the night, that Freeman’s measured footsteps, as he trod the quarter-deck, sounded with strange distinctness to the guilty occupant of the space beneath. No other sound disturbed the silence but the gentle swish and gurgle of the water alongside, and an occasional creak from some block or pulley.

The piles of swelling canvas; the mast-heads nodding against the stars; the white paint-work of the poop; the delicate shadows cast upon the deck by the ropes and shrouds; the motionless figure of the man at the wheel;—all were beautified and softened by the white flood of moonlight. Drops of dew glittered everywhere, and when Freeman laid his hand upon the main brace, it was wet as though from rain.

He had been reading odd items in an old copy of the Sydney Herald, and put it down just as two great rats that had come up from the hold scampered across the deck. This was nothing unusual, and after stamping with his foot to scare the bold creatures, he glanced at the binnacle.

“Keep her at N. N. E., Matt; you’ve let her go off a point. Watch the card, man.”

“Keep her at N. N. E., sir,” the fellow repeated, shifting his quid to starboard as Freeman walked away.

“I’ll see how the lookout does,” the officer thought, “though if every night was like this, there’d be little need of any.”

He went forward along the port side. Happening to cast a glance through the open forecastle door, he noticed that the light was out.

“That’s queer,” he soliloquized; “it burned brightly enough when I passed by a couple of hours ago.”

He entered the door to see if the wick was out of order, or whether all the oil had been consumed. Neither—the lantern was gone!

He had just made this discovery, and was leaving the building to ask his men whether any of them had removed the light, when a curious jarring sensation rooted him to the deck. The idea of a submarine earthquake flashed through his brain, but within a second’s time there was a deafening report,—a blinding flash,—a staggering of the bark,—and then flying timbers and bales of merchandise were hurled skyward with awful power. The whole after part of the vessel seemed going up in the air piecemeal!

“Great God!” breathed Freeman, grasping the ladder on the forward house.

His self-possession soon returned. Already some of the crew had begun to act like lunatics.

“Call all hands, and behave like men. The bark’s still afloat, and now three of you come aft with me.”

His cool decision inspired confidence, and half a dozen of the crew followed.

The canvas began to flap—the bark was badly off her course. Freeman bounded on as he noticed this fact.

“That cowardly Matt’s deserted the wheel,” he thought—“or else the poor devil’s been killed.”

But the officer stood motionless when he reached the place where the quarter-deck had been—the spot where he had been standing not five minutes since. The whole deck was gone, and in its place was a great cavity that reached from one side of the vessel to the other, and seemed to go down to the very keelson.

It was a time for action, and he crept along on the starboard side, walking on a few jagged splinters, and holding to the main brace with his hands. The wheel had been shattered and was useless, while Matt lay against the rail where the force of the explosion had hurled him.

“Men, sheet everything home, and move d—d quick! The wheel’s smashed and we can’t steer the bark. Let go all the halyards and sheets, and get her stripped. Work for your lives!”

Had the wind been stronger, a serious accident would probably have resulted before the unmanageable vessel could have been relieved of her canvas, but although she careened badly, it was but a few minutes before enough sails had been taken in to avert the threatened danger.

The unaccountable disaster that had befallen was sufficiently appalling to those who were on deck at the time it occurred; but imagine the feelings of the others—roused from a sound sleep at three in the morning by a shock as of an earthquake. The mate’s watch were asleep in the forecastle, a considerable distance from the lazarette, but to the captain, passengers, mate and steward, who occupied the after house, the sensation was indeed awful. What wonder that the screams of Mrs. Evans and Miss Blake rent the air? Or that Captain Maxwell, experienced seaman that he was, found himself utterly stunned and bewildered? But he was on deck in no time, issuing orders with the confidence of one who has long been accustomed to command.

Nothing so quickly restores our presence of mind in great crises as the knowledge that others look to us for advice and help. When the terrified Miss Blake rushed into her aunt’s cabin, it must be said to the widow’s credit that she left off screaming, and endeavored to pacify her niece. She tried to think what Captain Evans would have done in such an emergency, although having no clear idea as to what manner of evil had befallen the vessel; and after hastily assuming her dressing gown and slippers she issued forth with a boldness that surprised even herself.

The sight that presented itself utterly confounded the good woman, and it was only after passing her hand across her eyes several times, that she could believe the evidence of her senses. The cabin partition towards the stern was blown entirely out, together with the companion-way, and skylight above. The roof of the cabin had been splintered in places and lifted up, until Mrs. Evans could see a patch of sky here and there, while the floor under her feet was so uneven she could hardly walk upon it. She stood holding to the center table, blankly wondering what could have happened, when the steward came from Captain Maxwell’s room.

“Oh, steward, in the name of heaven, what has happened? Are we sinking? Have we been pooped? Is the bark stove to pieces on a rock?”

“It’s not that bad, Madam Evans. There’s no rock in this part of the ocean, and if we’re sinking it’s very slowly. Are you hurt?”

“No; only badly frightened. I cannot realize yet what is the matter. Is anyone killed?”

“We can’t tell yet, ma’am. But I must not stop here talking. The after wall of the captain’s room is blown out and the head of his bed torn off. The room was set afire, too, and in putting it out he burned his hands badly. Will you hold this lamp while I get some linseed oil and batting?”

Captain Maxwell’s injuries were more painful than dangerous, and considerable relief was afforded as soon as Mrs. Evans’ deft fingers had applied the dressing. He then returned to the deck. It still lacked over two hours of dawn, and the moon was low in the west. Total darkness would soon descend, and there was much to be done. Already the carpenter was at work on a new wheel, and the moment it was in position the captain resolved to steer for Rio de Janeiro, where repairs could be made.

The strong smell of powder, and the shattered timbers, left no doubt in the captain’s mind that an explosion of some sort had caused the catastrophe. Fortunately, its greatest force had been upward; otherwise the vessel’s bottom might have been blown out, thus ending her career and those of all on board in short order. The signals in the lazarette were the only explosives on board the bark, but how they could have become ignited was not easily seen, unless a fire had started. Everyone was on deck but the ladies; there was no more sleep that night.

“Mr. Bohlman, you will muster all hands amidships, and you and Mr. Freeman will then call the names of those in your respective watches. Some one may have been killed. Whose wheel was it at the time of the accident?”

“Matt’s, sir,” answered Freeman. “He was badly hurt by being blown against the bulwarks. We’ve put him in his bunk, and two hands are rubbing him.”

While the crew were assembling, the captain questioned his second mate closely as to whether he had noticed any signs of fire about the after part of the vessel, or seen any person enter the lazarette. Freeman was certain, however, that he should have smelled smoke had there been any fire, while as for anyone entering the place without being seen by himself or the man at the wheel,—it was impossible. It will be remembered that he had gone below just before Captain Maxwell discovered the lighted lantern, and therefore knew nothing of that circumstance.

“About how long was it after you left the quarter-deck until the explosion took place?”

“It wasn’t five minutes, sir. I was going forward to the fo’k’sl deck to see that everything was all right, when, happening to look in the port door of the fo’k’sl, I noticed the light was out. I stepped in to see whether the lantern was empty or not, but found it gone. Then—”

“You found the lantern gone!” exclaimed the captain, an idea striking him. “Did you notice whether Dick Lewis was gone, too?”

“Dick Lewis? No, sir; why should I? It was his watch below, and he was probably in his bunk.”

“We shall see. Come with me to the main deck.”

All hands were assembled around the capstan in various degrees of astonishment. Several of that motley crew had probably been shipwrecked during various stages of their careers, but it may be doubted whether any had ever witnessed an accident similar to that which had just taken place.

“Dick Lewis, step forward!”

The captain’s stern command produced a sensation, and all hands wondered what was coming next.

“Dick Lewis, step forward!”

The words were repeated, but no response came from among the crowd of men standing about in the raw morning air.

“That settles it,” said the captain, decisively. “Let the fo’k’sl be searched, and every other part of the bark. If that boy is not to be found, he has paid the penalty of his rashness. He may be dead in the hold, or he may have been blown through the quarter-deck and into the ocean.”

Freeman remembered the conversation of the previous afternoon, when Dick had betrayed his curiosity regarding the signals. Yes, the captain’s theory must be correct, and he shuddered to think how long the boy might have been at work in the lazarette while he walked the deck above. But how had he entered the place? Matt was not so badly hurt but that he was able to swear no one had passed through the hatch, and he, Freeman, had left the quarter-deck but twice during the watch, and then only for a few minutes. The true solution of the problem passed through the minds of Captain Maxwell, his mate and second mate, at almost the same moment, but the two former at first dismissed it as too improbable. Freeman, however, insisted that Dick must have gotten into the lazarette, if at all, by crawling all the way aft through the hold; and as Matt insisted that no one had gone below by the usual way, this view of the matter was the only possible one left.

“God only knows what ailed that boy,” Captain Maxwell said, as Dick’s devilish ingenuity became apparent, “but he’s found out by this time how those signals work, and what twenty-five pounds of powder can do.”

CROSSING THE LINE.

When one bell struck, and the steward brought Captain Charles Pitkin his morning cup of coffee, the skipper felt as light-hearted as a boy, and knew, without looking at the compass, that the craft was speeding along towards Buenos Ayres, instead of drifting aimlessly about in the calm belt or beating to the southeast against a head wind.

“We ought to cross the Line to-day, at this rate,” he said to himself.

The steward heard the words, and made bold to say: “Will we, sir? I only wish Father Neptune would come aboard and make subjects of those three lubbers in the fo’k’sl. They are the worst greenhorns I ever did see.”

“You mean the two Swedes and the Austrian?”

“Yes, sir; especially that Christian Anderson, in the mate’s watch, that claimed to be able to steer and then couldn’t box the compass to save his life.”

The captain made no answer, and the steward withdrew.

“George! it’s not a bad idea,” mused Pitkin. “It would do those three ‘able seamen’ good to meet the Old Man of the Seas, I honestly believe.”

The more thought he gave the matter, the better he liked it; and by breakfast time, when the captain, his sister, and the mate gathered about the table, the former had arranged in his mind the principal details of the ceremonies which he decided should take place that morning.

Miss Pitkin did not receive the narration of her brother’s plans with the approval he had expected; in fact, she was in a decidedly unpleasant frame of mind.

“Why, Rosy, you seem out of sorts this morning. I thought you’d be pleased to hear that Neptune was coming aboard.”

“Neptune, indeed! The Flying Dutchman will be the next thing on the programme, I suppose. And as for being out of sorts—Charles Pitkin, are you aware that this is the first morning for two weeks that you have not resembled a thundercloud?”

“Perhaps; but I’ve had reason to look black. Now the Doldrums are done with, I’m as merry as a lark, and you ought to be, too.”

“You are mistaken. That beast of a cat has killed my poor canary.”

Miss Rose said this in a tone of mingled anger and grief, looking hard at her coffee-cup meanwhile. She seldom indulged in the feminine weakness of tears, or a few would doubtless have been shed now as a tribute to the departed canary.

“Pshaw! that’s too bad, Rose,” said the captain, sympathetically. “Shall we kill the cat? I detest the stealthy, cold-blooded creatures, and this one does nothing but lie around in the sun all day instead of catching rats.”

“No, Charles, we will not do that. I came near throwing her overboard myself, but I suppose the creature was only following her instincts. I must try and bear it.”

Miss Pitkin had celebrated some forty birthdays, but the years had touched her lightly, and her charms, though mature, were not inconsiderable. A plump, well-rounded figure, fresh complexion, black eyes and hair, combined with regular features, made an attractive whole, the one serious blemish of which was an habitual expression of firmness and decision which was so strong as to be almost masculine. She had four brothers, all younger than herself, and on the early death of their father and mother, Rose assumed the cares of housekeeping and the bringing up of the younger children. Thus she had come to be looked up to by her brothers, and regarded rather in the light of a parent than as a sister.

As they left the table she said: “I am going to overhaul the store-room. It needs to be done, and will keep me from thinking of poor Goldie.”

“But you’ll return to the deck when Neptune comes aboard?”

“I’m in no humor for any such tomfoolery. Perhaps, between you all, you may manage to get up a snowstorm, or have an earthquake when we cross the Line.”

“But wait, Rosy, I want to ask a favor.”

The lady vanished, and was soon delving among lime-juice, guava jelly, apples, potted meats, and sundry other stores.

There was something strangely incongruous in such a woman being addressed by so childish and undignified a name as Rosy, but her brother had so called her when scarcely able to toddle about, and now that he was thirty, she was “Rosy” still.

Time was, when no craft of any description crossed the Equator without having all the landsmen on board introduced to the royal Neptune; but the good old custom has been gradually falling into disuse, and in this prosaic age the ceremony of “Crossing the Line” is rarely observed.

Captain Pitkin decided that Fritz, the carpenter, should be metamorphosed into King Neptune—principally because he was large and massive, and had a long, thick beard. Fritz was an excellent carpenter, though his mental development was far from being on a par with his physical. However, he would look the part, and that was no small item.

His majesty always comes aboard with an attendant, and here it was that Pitkin hit upon an original and brilliant idea. He had been humming an old song whose first verse runs:

“’Twas Friday morn when we set sail,
And we were not far from the land
When the captain spied a lovely mermaid
With a comb and a glass in her hand.”

These words ran in his head some time, until he finally exclaimed: “Well, I’ll ‘spy a mermaid,’ too, though she may not be very lovely. Yes, a mermaid shall come aboard this bark to-day with Father Neptune.”

He congratulated himself upon this happy thought and set about carrying it into execution. There was but one woman aboard—his sister—and her assuming the role of mermaid was, of course, not to be thought of. Among the crew was a bright, good-looking fellow, known as Mike—just the man to make an acceptable mermaid. In stature he was somewhat below the medium height, but well proportioned and with rather attractive features. He was much tanned, of course, and his expression was decidedly bolder than is thought pleasing in one of the fair sex; but these were minor difficulties in comparison with the great question, How to obtain suitable clothes? The captain solved this, as he thought, by deciding to ask his sister for the loan of some of her old skirts and waists, but she had buried herself in the store-room before he had time to prefer his request. This was just as well, he concluded, for in her present humor he would have met with a peremptory refusal.

So, having ascertained that Rose was engaged in hauling the steward over the coals for misplacing a case of honey and leaving matches where the rats could get at them, the captain entered his sister’s room. He felt rather guilty, but suitable attire for the mermaid must be had, and he tried to think that “Rosy wouldn’t mind,”—hoping, nevertheless, that the ceremonies would be over before she came on deck.

“What a lot of clothes women have,” he soliloquized, examining the various gowns and other apparel hanging on pegs. His sister’s best garments were laid away in her trunks, and he spent considerable time in trying to choose what seemed to be the least valuable skirt and waist among the lot. He finally selected an old black alpaca for which Rose cared little, and a red dressing jacket for which she cared a great deal—it was the one she slipped on every morning when combing her hair. Just as he was leaving a green veil caught his eye.

“That will make Mike look mysterious,” he thought. He took it, bundled the things up in a newspaper, and Mr. Rivers, the mate, conveyed them forward.

The morning was hot, but a fine breeze tempered the heat and prevented discomfort. The seas chased each other along the vessel’s sides, and occasionally sobbed and gurgled in the lee scuppers as the bark leaned over to port. Just as the man at the wheel struck five bells, two strange figures climbed over the bows and gained the forecastle deck. They were the Old Man of the Seas and his companion.

The royal Neptune’s head was encircled by an elaborate wooden crown, painted green, about which were twined several pieces of sea-weed. His long beard was carefully combed out, and swept down upon his chest with a truly patriarchal air. The principal garment was a long green toga (formerly a piano-cover), which extended from the neck to the heels, and was ornamented with sea-weed stitched on in various fantastic shapes. The arms and feet of the royal personage were entirely bare, and in his right hand he carried a substantial sceptre some five feet in length, having three prongs at the upper end.

Neptune’s companion was a sight to behold. From the crown of her head to her waist, floated a wealth of yellow hair, of which any mermaid might well have been proud. This telling effect had been achieved by unbraiding and combing out several strands of sennit. The dressing-jacket and the alpaca skirt did not seem exactly “the thing” for a sea-nymph, and yet they fitted as well as could have been expected, except that the jacket was too tight across the shoulders. A straw hat covered with sea-weed was perched upon the damsel’s head, and the green veil concealed the fact that she had been freshly shaven. Her feet were encased in a pair of knit slippers. Depending from a belt around her waist were a small cracked hand-glass, a comb, and a flying-fish which had fallen on the deck that morning.

“Mariners, behold Neptune, the Ruler of the Seas, and his daughter, the beautiful Mermaid of St. Paul’s Rocks!”

Neptune made this announcement in a deep bass voice, and Captain Pitkin and the mate bowed low before the two august personages.

“Your majesty has conferred an unspeakable honor in deigning to come aboard,” answered Pitkin. “Will it please you to accompany us to the main deck, where some slight preparation has been made for your reception?”

The captain and mate led the way, followed by Neptune and his daughter. The former held his head high in the air and looked neither to the right nor to the left, while the Mermaid walked with a mincing gait and twined her long hair about her fingers.

All hands were assembled in the waist, eager to see the siren and her father, and as the quartette approached, the crew winked, nudged each other, and cast meaning glances at the three “candidates,”—Oscar, Christian and Josef, who formed a little group by themselves.

A low platform had been constructed about the capstan, and when Neptune took his seat upon the brass surface of the latter, his appearance was really imposing. A cloth-covered box had been provided for the Mermaid, but she disdained it, and leaned gracefully against the throne.

“And what bold craft have we here, which thus invades our domain and hopes to cross the Line with landsmen aboard, for the wrinkles in this vessel’s copper prove that more than one lubber stands before us!”

Neptune delivered this speech in accents of wrath, and brought his sceptre down with such force that those nearest fell back a few steps.

“We are the barkentine Mohawk, sire, from Portland for Buenos Ayres, and your majesty’s keen perception has not erred in assuming that there are landsmen aboard. I cheerfully relinquish to you the freedom of the vessel, and trust that all aliens here will shortly be transformed into loyal subjects.”

The captain bowed and withdrew to the poop, where he had an excellent view and could hear all that was said.

“Let the landsmen come before us,” commanded Neptune.

But the trio hesitated, evidently not relishing the aspect of affairs. All three possessed a certain amount of common sense,—though mostly latent,—and half-suspected that King Neptune and the carpenter were one and the same. But the silent female figure puzzled them completely, for the Mermaid, although unconventional in appearance, was so cleverly arrayed that the illusion was quite perfect.

Josef timidly whispered a few words to Oscar, but before he could reply, Neptune stamped his foot. Royalty cannot brook delay, and at this token of displeasure, half a dozen of the crew seized Oscar, Josef and Christian, and dragged them before the throne. The two former were conducted to one side in obedience to Neptune’s gesture, while Christian remained standing before the frowning monarch.

A slight hitch now occurred, caused by Neptune forgetting his lines. He was unequal to the task of extemporizing, and the more he tried to remember what “came next,” the more confused he became. His majesty glared about, his face meanwhile becoming red with embarrassment, which poor Christian attributed to rage. The Mermaid was equal to the emergency, and came to her father’s rescue.

Mike was something of a ventriloquist, and when the order was issued “Minion, box the compass!” Christian was not the only one who stared in amazement, wondering whence the strange voice proceeded. He had never been called by such a name before, and was in much doubt as to whether he was the one addressed. The Mermaid whispered something in Neptune’s ear, and the latter, tapping the culprit with his sceptre, commanded: “Answer, varlet, and quickly!”

The compass was a Chinese puzzle to Christian, [175] but he dared not remain silent, and began desperately: “North, northeast, east by north-east, east by east,—”

Here the crew set up a roar of derision, and the mate remarked: “A fine able seaman you are. The shipping-master that put you aboard this bark ought to be sent around the world as mate of a ship with two dozen like you for a crew!”

Neptune had by this time got his bearings, and asked:

“Does the sun cross the equator on the 21st of June, or the 21st day of December?”

“June,” hazarded Christian.

“What route must a steamer take to go from New York to Honolulu in eight days?”

“The middle route.”

“Why is the gulf-stream always full of sharks?”

“I never knew the reason, sir.”

“What year was the Panama Canal discovered?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What time does the moon rise at the South Pole?”

No answer.

“How many wrecks are there on the bottom between here and Pitcairn Island?”

“There must be a good many, sir.”

Half a dozen equally absurd questions followed, most of which the wisdom of Minerva could not have answered correctly.

“Enough; away with him to the shaving-chair!” finally cried Neptune. “He’s the most unpromising subject we ever came across, and calls me ‘sir,’ instead of ‘your majesty!’”

An old steamer chair had been tilted back, and the victim—for such he now considered himself—was marched to it, and requested to sit down. Behind this chair stood a large wash-tub filled with water, but the tarpaulin spread over it concealed this fact.

The Mermaid now produced a tar-pot, in which she swished a brush about until the “lather” was of the right consistency. A piece of sacking having been spread over the occupant of the chair, the operator brandished her brush and prepared to begin.

“I don’t need to—to be shaved,” gasped Christian.

This was true, for he was one of those men—mostly Finns and Scandinavians—who couldn’t have raised a beard had his life depended on it. A few colorless hairs appeared on his cheeks and upper lip, which the Mermaid proceeded to count aloud.

“Twenty-nine!” she announced, contemptuously. “Rather different, father dear, from the visages of Columbus, Magellan, and Vasco de Gama, upon whom I operated in centuries gone by.”

She now lathered the face of the squirming Christian, laying on the tar with the peculiar slapping sound made by an experienced painter when applying a coat of paint to a flat surface.

The patient had by this time resigned all hope, and betrayed little interest when the brush was laid aside for the razor. This was a marline-spike, and the Mermaid gave it an edge—if a round object can be said to have an edge—by stropping it on a capstan bar which one of the crew had placed in the capstan. She then held the cracked hand-glass before Christian’s face, that he might see how he looked, and proceeded to shave him. This was a decided relief, and the man wondered if it was not the end of the performance.

Vain hope! Scarcely had the lather been scraped off, when two of the crew advanced to the tub and removed the tarpaulin. They then tipped the chair back suddenly, causing its occupant to slide into the tub, where he was immersed all but the feet. He was quickly drawn out and hustled forward on the port side, directly beneath the fore yard. A bowline had been rigged up at the extremity of the yard-arm overhanging the water, and the ends of the rope hung down to the deck. One end was made fast around Christian just beneath the arms, and a dozen hands grasped the other end amidst the most uproarious hilarity.

An old salt with bare feet, brass rings in his ears, and a red cotton handkerchief wound about his head, now ascended to the roof of the forward house and played a wild air upon a wheezy violin. He danced about at the same time, and sang in a hurricane voice and with great gusto, the first verse of a song whose subject was: “The Baptism of Captain Kidd.” Everyone joined in the chorus, even Neptune and his daughter, while the shrieking Christian was hoisted up to the yard-arm. There he remained suspended between sea and sky while the old salt rendered another verse, and then, as all hands took up the refrain, the rope was slackened away. Three times was the Swede ducked in the heaving swell, before being drawn up and lowered on deck again. He was then released, and patted on the back by the Mermaid, who said patronizingly:

“My son, you are a lubber no more,—in name at least,—and can now consider yourself a true subject of Neptune.”

The new subject was past speech, but he drew a deep breath of relief and got upon the galley roof, where he sat down to dry, as well as to see what befell Oscar and Josef. He had not been hurt in the least, but, as some one has said, “A man might as well be killed as scared to death.”

The other two felt that their time had come. At first they had watched the proceedings with great interest, which gradually changed to dismay, and finally gave place to absolute terror. That Christian was to be hanged or drowned, they did not in the least doubt; and just as he was ducked for the third time, Oscar gave a yell and broke from his guards, who were absorbed in watching the rites. He ran to the main rigging and darted up it as though Satan were at his heels. The guards were about to pursue, when they remembered Josef, and the latter’s break for liberty was nipped in the bud.

Neptune, the Mermaid and attendants now came aft, and many volunteers presented themselves to bring Oscar down from the top-mast head, whither he had climbed with an alacrity entirely foreign to his nature. The royal personages consulted together and announced that Josef would be “finished” before Oscar was taken in hand. So everybody gathered about the throne; even the cat, who sat gravely upon her haunches and licked her chops as though desiring another canary.

A number of ridiculous questions were propounded to Josef, who had a very imperfect knowledge of English, and made worse work than Christian in answering them. He was hurried to the chair, and the tar-bucket again brought into requisition.

Meanwhile Miss Pitkin had inspected the store-room thoroughly, and now came up the companion-way with a comfortable sense of duty performed. She scanned the horizon line for a sail, took a look at the compass, and then started to find her brother. There he was on the poop, and she ascended thither.

“Why, what is the matter, Charles? Why are all hands in the waist? Oh, I remember,—Neptune.”

The captain was relieved at seeing his sister smile, and began to hope that she was rallying from the grief and ill-temper into which the canary’s death had thrown her. Suddenly, through the crowd of figures pressing around the throne, she caught a glimpse of the Mermaid. Surprise at sight of this extraordinary vision kept her silent a moment, when she called out: “Mr. Rivers, what is that creature,—man or woman?”

The Mermaid’s wit got the better of her discretion, and she answered, before the mate could reply, “Neither one, ma’am: I’m ’alf and ’alf, like the ale and stout we mix together in Liverpool, or like one of those morphodite [183] brigs, that’s part brig and part schooner.”

The crew respectfully fell back at sight of Miss Pitkin, and the nymph was exposed to view. Rose instantly detected the deception, and in spite of the cleverly disguised voice, her feminine facility for jumping at conclusions told her that Mike was the speaker. Without knowing why, she was as absolutely certain of this fact as of her own name. Then she recognized the dressing jacket! The lady could hardly believe the evidence of her senses; but it was not her habit to remain in doubt if it could be avoided, and she hurried from the poop to verify her suspicions.

The captain was considerably disturbedby the expression of his sister’s face, and called out: “Don’t do anything rash, Rosy; it’s only a mermaid.

“Hang that fool of a Mike,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t he have kept quiet? I wish I’d never heard of mermaids or anything of the sort.”

Miss Pitkin sought her room and took a hurried inventory of her possessions. Yes, what she deemed impossible had occurred; one of the crew had actually dared to invade the sanctity of the cabin—her own room, even—and deliberately steal her clothes! The theft, audacious as it seemed, was yet of secondary importance compared to the outrageous breach of discipline it involved. At this rate the crew would soon want to dine with the captain, or sit in easy chairs upon the quarter-deck!

“And there sat my brother on the poop with his eyes open, and never even noticed that that creature was wearing his sister’s clothes!” she thought, surprise for the moment taking the place of indignation.

She gained the main deck, and advanced towards the capstan, where the ceremonies had been resumed the moment she went below. Her black eyes flashed ominously, and the crew, with a common impulse, fled in all directions, though none could have told precisely what they were fleeing from. The two mates thought it prudent to withdraw to their rooms, and the guilty Mermaid set down the tar bucket and escaped, leaving Josef in the chair with but one side of his face lathered. Neptune alone remained to face the enemy, not being actuated by bravery so much as by astonishment at the sudden rout of his attendants. While the Ruler of the Seas sat upon the throne trying to decide what to do, Miss Pitkin stepped up and surveyed him with scornful amusement. There was her green veil in his left hand, whither it had been thrust by the Mermaid!

Unable longer to control her indignation, Rose seized the tar brush, exclaiming, “Take that, you great overgrown dunce.” Suiting the action to the word, she gave his majesty’s cheek a sound slap; which insult, instead of rousing him, appeared to befog his faculties still more. She plucked the sceptre from the monarch’s palsied hand, knocked the crown from his head, and threw both overboard.

Neptune’s daughter had taken refuge in the carpenter shop, but the red jacket caught Miss Pitkin’s eye as she passed the window. Pursued and pursuer darted through the room and out of the opposite door, but as Rose was used to skirts and the nymph was not, the latter was at a disadvantage. Thrice was she nearly thrown down by the alpaca, until gathering it up in one hand, she dashed to the rigging, and attempted to ascend. Miss Pitkin was close behind, and made a pass at the Mermaid with a harpoon she had picked up; the end catching in the damsel’s hair, which all came off, together with her hat. The looking glass fell to the deck and was shivered into fragments. There was the erstwhile siren part way up the rigging, all her wit, confidence and gayety gone; while the very members of the crew who had so lately admired her, now jeered and derided from the other side of the deck.

“It will go hard with you when we reach port!” cried the irate lady, when she had recovered her breath; “and if Captain Pitkin doesn’t have you in irons before night, he’s not the man I take him for. You brazen thief, to steal my clothes!”

“I never did steal a thing of anybody aft since I came aboard, ma’am. Do you think I’d be going into the cabin where I’ve no business, and risk being caught? I’m no fool. The captain told me all I had to do was to be a mermaid (may the Virgin forgive me), and he’d furnish the togs.”

“Do you mean to say that Captain Pitkin gave you those clothes?”

“He sent them to the fo’k’sl, ma’am, this very morning.”

“Would my brother do such a thing?” Rose asked herself, as she again took her way aft.

The captain was invisible. In fact, he had retired to his room, and was endeavoring to banish the present by a perusal of the fascinating adventures of D’Artagnan and his reckless companions. He was roused by a knock at the door, but before he could say “Come in,” his sister entered.

The captain took in the situation at a glance, and knew he was in for it. The years seemed to roll back, and as Rose marched him to the sofa he imagined himself a boy of ten, and the subject of well-merited chastisement. He made a full confession, asked to be forgiven, and swore never again to hold any intercourse with Neptune or his relatives. He could not help adding: “It was partly your fault, though, for if you hadn’t flounced out of the room at breakfast, I should have had a chance to ask for the use of the clothes. Are they completely ruined? Can’t they be washed?”

“Are they ruined? Do you suppose I will ever touch them again after that Mike has worn them? And have they not been in the forecastle?”

Rose whispered a single word in her brother’s ear. It was the name of a creature all mention of which is strictly tabood in good society; or, if referred to at all, it is usually between housewives exchanging confidences, and then only with bated breath. “I cannot name ’t but I shall offend,” and it suffices to say that it is a certain little animal which invariably inhabits ships’ forecastles, though on all well-regulated craft it never invades the cabin.

“Good heavens, Rose, I never thought of that,” replied the captain, looking serious. “But never mind, it can’t be helped, and you shall have what clothes you want in Buenos Ayres, if you can find anything to suit.”

Rose was fond of her brother—in her own way,—and his straight-forward confession mollified her considerably. She did not yet allow this to appear, however, but announced sternly:

“After the manner in which you have made away with my garments, Charles, I very much doubt whether I shall make another voyage on the Mohawk. It would serve you right if I left you to your own devices. You could mend your clothes, lose your pipes, go without my desserts, and live on hash and lobscouse for years to come, besides having the satisfaction of knowing that the steward was secretly drinking bottles of ale and beer, and making way with provisions.”

The captain made a gesture as if to banish some disagreeable remembrance.

“Don’t, Rosy,—I couldn’t endure to live the way I used to. It seemed all right then, but since you’ve taken the cook, and steward and cabin in hand, it’s like a different vessel.”

This admission pleased Rose, and she answered, “Well, we shall see,” in tones which informed the captain that he was forgiven.

He put his arm about his sister’s waist and escorted her to the deck, with a sensation of having recovered a treasure whose worth had not been fully appreciated.

“It’s curious how one woman can upset everything, and raise Pandemonium in no time,” he said, aside to Mr. Rivers, a few moments later.

Orders were given for the wash-tub to be restored to its proper place, the platform about the capstan to be removed, and for everything to resume its wonted appearance.

As for Christian, Oscar and Josef, they might very appropriately have been likened to the three degrees of thankfulness. Christian, drying himself on the galley roof, represented the positive degree, and was merely thankful that Neptune had got through with him without taking his life. Josef, with one cheek lathered, felt like a fish that has been hooked, and then succeeds in escaping. He looked rather woebegone, but was thankful indeed to have escaped with such comparative comfort. But Oscar, who had now ventured part way down the main mast, had fairly baffled Neptune and his daughter; and had there been any degree beyond the superlative, it could not have been too strong to express the state of his feelings. Henceforth he regarded Miss Pitkin as a deliverer, and had she been a goddess, his veneration could scarcely have been greater.

The Mohawk crossed the Line during the afternoon on the 30th meridian of west longitude, and for all we know, Oscar and Josef are lubbers yet.

MISSING.

It was the second dog-watch; that time at sea when, the day’s work being over, decks swept up, and supper eaten, all hands bring out their pipes and gather in groups to discuss passing events, or to while away the twilight hour in telling stories.

Job, the negro cook, sat in the galley door singing one of the plaintive melodies of his race. An old banjo, played as only a darky can play that instrument, furnished the accompaniment. The singer’s voice was rich and mellow, and the simple notes floated out on the still evening air with a soothing charm that went straight to the heart, and struck many a forgotten chord in the breasts of the four rough seamen who comprised his audience. Near the booby hatch were gathered the mate, the bo’s’un and the steward; each relating in turn some reminiscence or bit of adventure connected with his past life. Many of these provoked roars of laughter, while the conclusion of a few was followed by a period of silence rendered more eloquent by a shake of the head or a sigh. That was the way these hardy men received the narration of some half-forgotten ocean tragedy.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” the steward was saying, “I recollect hearing of those two gales off Cape Flattery, now you speak of it. About ’87, wasn’t it?”

The mate thought a moment before he answered: “It was in the spring of ’87, in the first of those gales, that the ship St. Lawrence went to the bottom. If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget it; but if I should happen to, here’s something that’ll make me remember.”

He pushed back the thick hair from his forehead and revealed an ugly-looking scar of a peculiar reddish-brown color. “Now you know why I wear my hair long even in the tropics,” he said. “I’ve not got much beauty to boast of, maybe, but I’m a little sensitive about that cursed mark all the same. I hate to think of it!”

The steward seemed astonished. “The St. Lawrence! You were on that ship, Mr. Morgan?” he exclaimed, in accents that betrayed his incredulity.

“I was mate of her on her last four voyages.”

“We were in Antwerp at the time, but I always understood that all hands were lost with her.”

“All but the carpenter and me.”

He rose, emptied his pipe, and appeared anxious to drop the subject, but the curiosity of the steward led him to ask how those two had managed to escape. The bo’s’un seconded the request, so Morgan again seated himself, and after a short silence related the affair in these words:

The St. Lawrence was a neat little ship—you may have seen her,—and Captain Fairley was one of the finest men I ever met,—quiet, and a man of few words, but when he said a thing he meant it. I didn’t like his wife so well, but his daughter, Miss Marion,—oh, she was a lovely girl. She’d never lived on shore much, and had that shy, retiring disposition that you often see in such cases, where the captain’s children always go with him and have nobody of their own age to associate with. She never hankered after shore life though, and seemed perfectly happy to be always at sea.

Miss Marion had quite a liking for me, and many and many an evening would she pace the deck in my watch, telling me the names of the different stars and how far off some of them were, and all such things. That was her favorite study—astronomy. Then she read a great deal and used to tell me about her books. All the tidies for the cabin chairs were made by her hands. You remember that silk handkerchief I showed you,—that one with the M embroidered on it? She worked that letter and gave me the handkerchief on my birthday. It was the first birthday present I ever got, and I guess it’ll be the last. Poor girl! she wasn’t quite seventeen when the accident happened.

We came across from Hong Kong to San Francisco and found that the ship had been chartered to load coal on Puget Sound. We arrived at Nanaimo near the end of March. In those days there were no stevedores at most of the coal ports on the Sound, and it was the captain’s or mate’s business to superintend the work of the crew in loading the vessel. Captain Fairley had to go to Tacoma on some business matter, and as ill-luck would have it, I was taken sick the day after we got to Nanaimo, and the doctor made me turn in. I wasn’t able to get out of that bunk for ten days, with the result that the second mate had charge of loading the ship.

I won’t say anything here against Ike Summers,—all of us have our failings,—but what I do say is this: his being drunk while she was loading caused one of the worst accidents on record, and the loss of one of the finest ships I ever saw. Half of the crew were drunk of course, and twenty-six hundred tons of coal were pitched in at random. I’ll swear she wasn’t half trimmed, though I was just able to get about the morning we sailed. Captain Fairley, his wife and Miss Marion got back from Tacoma the afternoon before, and I told him that night it was my opinion that the second mate had been drinking a good deal. He looked serious, but Ike swore everything was all right,—he’d got pretty well sobered up that afternoon,—and as the clearance papers had been taken out, the captain concluded to sail next day. He wanted to get to San Francisco as quickly as possible, for we’d been chartered to load from there to New York. If it hadn’t been for that, I’ve always thought the captain would have looked into the way the cargo had been stowed. He must have suspected something was wrong, for he wanted Mrs. Fairley and Miss Marion to go back by rail, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

So we were towed to sea one fine April morning, having for company a crazy old bark named the Lizzie Williams. The St. Lawrence was rated A-1 at Lloyd’s, and that bark probably had no rating at all, but the old hulk was a good deal more fit to go to sea that morning than we were, as it soon turned out. Her cargo was stowed right, even if she did have to be pumped out three times a day.

Ike Summers had the afternoon watch, and when I turned in after dinner the tug had just cast us off, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. I heard Captain Fairley tell his wife that we must be going to have a blow on account of the falling glass, but he thought it wouldn’t amount to much. Miss Marion was doing some fancy work, I remember, and Ike had just ordered some of his men to spread an old cro’-jack out on deck to be mended. It was a warm, pleasant day, and the sun shone on the sails of the Lizzie Williams as she slumped along like an old canal boat a few miles to leeward. She was the last thing I saw before I went to my room and turned in. I soon dropped off, being dead tired and not very strong yet after my sickness.

How long my sleep lasted don’t matter,—it seemed about ten minutes, but must have been several hours,—when I was roused by the steward shaking me and yelling “Come on deck, Mr. Morgan, for God’s sake!” That brought me to my senses in an instant, and only stopping to throw on my shoes, I ran out.

What a change! A heavy squall was bearing down, and all hands were working like demons to get the ship stripped. Some were aloft cutting away the earings so as to let the sails go overboard, while others were letting go halyards, sheets and tacks. A kind of fog or mist was settling down, and the sails slatting against the masts and shrouds made a horrible din, to say nothing of the hoarse orders that the captain and Ike were bawling out.

I ran up the shrouds to help Summers cut away the mains’il.

“Good G—, Ike, you must have been mad to let that squall catch the ship with all sail on. Where was the captain?” I cried.

“He was below. I just called him. It came faster than I reckoned on.”

“You’ve done it this time! If we ar’n’t dismasted it won’t be your fault.”

We got the mains’il loose, and I had just slid down the backstay to the deck when Miss Marion came running up with face as white as a sheet, but perfectly cool.

“Tell me what I can do to help,” she implored.

“Close the lazarette hatchway,” I answered, “and see all the cabin windows and skylights shut. Then stay below.”

Mrs. Fairley was a very nervous woman, and the suddenness of the affair had upset her completely. There she stood at the break of the poop clinging to a tops’il brace, and literally paralyzed with terror. Miss Marion went to her mother’s assistance, and at the same moment the captain ordered me to take my watch and haul up the fores’il. They were the last words I ever heard him speak.

All this had happened within two or three minutes of my coming on deck, and but few of the light sails had been cut away when I got some of my watch at work on the fores’il. The first thing I knew, an extra heavy gust struck the ship and heeled her over about twenty-five degrees. That wasn’t much, but I tell you a lump came in my throat the next second when I heard a dull roar in the hold beneath. All of us knew what that muffled sound meant—the cargo had shifted!

Of course the ship went clear over on her side then, and the squall broke on us in earnest right after. Everybody grasped whatever he could lay his hands on to keep from sliding down the deck. There was no sea running to speak of, and the chances of saving the ship were fair provided the squall soon passed over; but as the thought of Ike Summers having caused all this came over me, I was in such a fury that if he’d been near by then, I could have pitched him overboard, and not been sorry.

I won’t speak of what we all felt as we clung there on different parts of the ship,—it had all been so sudden, but before anything could be done to right her, the main mast broke off underneath the deck, ripping her all open amidships. The water poured in at an awful rate, and all hands knew the ship was doomed.

“The boats! Cut the lashings before she founders!” I yelled.

Myself and two or three more sprang up on the forward house, where three of the life-boats were made fast, and as we whipped out our knives I happened to look aft and saw the captain and steward on the poop trying to get the gig free before the ship went down. Miss Marion and her mother were holding to the spanker boom, both bearing up nobly in this awful crisis. I knew they would be safe in the gig along with the captain, which was a great load off my mind.

“How shall we get water and stores for the boats?” someone cried.

How, indeed? It was impossible.

We had just got one boat free when the ship gave a plunge, and we felt her going. Everyone was tugging at the boats; a few were yelling and screaming; and then all hands were in the water. I had hardly come to the surface when I felt a terrible blow on the head, and dimly realized that a piece of wreckage had struck me. There was a gurgling sound in my ears,—that was the last thing I recollect.

I was lying on my back with my eyes open looking up at the sky. The new moon was shining, and a large bright star twinkled not far away. I vaguely felt that one of my hands was in the water, and knew that my limbs were being chafed by some person. A kind of dreamy stupor was on me, and though these ideas passed slowly through my brain, they seemed to make no impression, and I didn’t even wonder where I was, or how I came there. Some one spoke to me.

“Mr. Morgan, try and brace up a bit. You know Simms, the carpenter—”

The voice sounded strange and unnatural.

“Yes, I know Simms, the carpenter,” I muttered; but the words meant no more to me than does some senseless phrase to the parrot that mechanically repeats it.

“Them’s the first words you’ve spoke, sir. Now let me pour a little whiskey down your throat.”

The whiskey must have done me good, for I began to get my senses back after a while and became conscious of a terrible throbbing in my head. Putting my hand to my forehead where the pain was, my fingers came in contact with blood. That brought me round more than anything else, and I shut my eyes and tried hard to remember where I was.

“Mr. Morgan, it won’t do to give up like this. We can’t be over sixty miles from the coast, and right in the track of the coal fleet at that.”

The voice sounded familiar now, and I knew it was the carpenter speaking.

“How did we come here, and where are the rest? Where is the ship?” I asked, still a good deal bewildered.

There was a groan and a short pause before the answer came.

“No mortal man will ever set eyes on the St. Lawrence again, Mr. Morgan, nor on any of her crew but you and me.”

It took me some minutes to realize those awful words.

“But Captain Fairley and his family—they escaped?”

“All gone, sir; all but us two.”

“How were we saved?” I asked, as soon as my mind had grasped the fact that out of two dozen lives, ours alone had been spared.

“Everything was sucked down in the vortex—boats and all. I held my breath till I nearly burst before I came to the surface, and there you was close beside me. You was just going down again, I judged, when I grabbed you. A good ways off was Jim Parsons, but not another soul was to be seen. Two capstan bars floated near by, but I struck out for this big piece of the poop-deck that we’re on now, which was half a ship’s length off. It must have been wrenched loose when she went down. I made shift to get on it after a hard fight, for I daren’t leave go of you for fear you’d sink. You was so limp I allowed you must be dead, and your head was bloody besides. Then I looked for Jim, but the poor fellow was nowhere to be seen.”

I owed my life to the carpenter, that was certain.

“Don’t thank me any more,” said the brave fellow. “You’d have done as much for me.”

“How long have we been here?” I said. “Is this the first night after the accident?”

“Yes, sir; this time yesterday the ship was at Nanaimo.”

It seemed incredible. A mere squall had wrecked that fine ship—a blow not one twentieth part as strong as she had weathered hundreds of times before—and all on account of a shifted cargo.

“Is there any water to drink?” I knew very well there couldn’t be, yet I asked the question.

“No, Mr. Morgan. I happened to have this flask and an apple in my pocket, which is all we’ve got. If we were in mid-ocean now, our logs would soon be wrote up, but I make no doubt we’ll be picked up in a day or so at the most. There’s no sea on, so our chance is good.”

We didn’t talk much for a long time, but just before daylight the carpenter, who had been standing up, said: “Don’t be excited, sir, but there’s a vessel bearing down.”

“Where away? Point her out!” I struggled up, though it made my head swim.

None but a sailor would have recognized a vessel in that dark blotch away in the north. My heart thumped pretty loud when I sighted it, and realized that the craft was coming our way. We prayed for daylight,—or I did, anyway,—and it was the first prayer I’d said for years.

Well, the sun came up, and there was a large Englishman not four miles off. She couldn’t help seeing us, but we never stopped waving the carpenter’s coat—I had none—till they signalled us. No need to tell how we got picked up, or how glad we were to have a ship’s deck under our feet again. She proved to be the Scottish Glens, bound from Tacoma to Hamburg, and all hands were mightily interested in our story, several having seen the St. Lawrence sail the morning before.

There we were not a hundred miles from shore, but of course the captain wouldn’t put back, so there was nothing for it but to start on an eighteen-thousand-mile voyage. We worked our passage, and an awful one it was as far as length goes.

While entering the harbor of Hamburg, one hundred and ninety days later, a small boat came alongside with mail for the officers and crew. There was a large assortment of letters and papers bearing postmarks from all parts of the world; but the carpenter and I got nothing, nor did we expect anything, for our relatives must have long since given us up. One of the officers handed me a late copy of the Marine Register, and in the department of Disasters I found this item, which sounded like my obituary:

MISSING.

St. Lawrence (ship), Fairley, which sailed from Puget Sound April 7 for San Francisco, has never been heard of since, and is supposed to have foundered with all hands. Posted at Lloyd’s as missing.

A DANGEROUS CARGO.

The remarkable feature of a calm in the equatorial latitudes of the Pacific is the interesting appearance of the water, which literally teems with various forms of animal life. It is clear and limpid as crystal, and, viewed from the Lochleven’s deck, an endless procession of strange creatures slowly floated by with the current. Two shapeless blotches of film appeared, whose only sign of life was a great red eye at one end. They seemed to have less than the consistency of jelly, and represented one of the lowest forms of animal life. Next was a curious jointed creature of a deep orange tint, coiled up like a snake. Then a fragile nautilus was borne along, with the delicate pink shell projecting above the surface like a sail,—“Portuguese man-of-war” seamen call it,—while a bunch of long tentacles hung down beneath. Just over the stern were two active little fish the size of a brook trout, whose bodies were blue, with wide brown stripes. The pair swam side by side, occasionally darting away capriciously, only to return in a moment. How harmless and innocent they looked! And yet their presence was a certain indication that a shark lurked beneath the ship. One or two of these pilot-fish always accompany a shark to find his prey and lead him to it, for their ugly protector is lazy and nearsighted, and would fare badly without them. Close to the ship’s side a magnificent dolphin floated motionless in the translucent water; the beauty of his steel-blue and pale lemon tints being enhanced by the clear element until the splendid creature seemed too glorious to be real. So quiet was the ocean, so still the fish, that one might easily imagine it only the image of a dolphin reflected in a vast mirror.

Several hundred miles to the eastward of where the Lochleven lay becalmed were the Galapagos Islands, where thousands of turtles assemble, lay their eggs in the sand, and then float away with the current; sleeping on the water most of the time. A dozen were now in view at various distances from the ship, besides a big one that had just been captured, and was crawling awkwardly about the deck. Its great discolored shell, dead-looking eyes, and beak massive enough to sever a man’s wrist, gave little indication of the rich steaks and agreeable soup into which the cook promised to convert it on the morrow.

Howard, the captain’s seven year old son, considered the turtle a new kind of steed, and bestrode its broad back in great glee. The bare-footed youngster was brown as a berry, and carried a toy sailor which had been christened Lord Nelson. The fact that his lordship was minus an arm only increased the affection with which he had been regarded for two years past, when he supplanted a golden haired doll, which Howard soon after consigned to a watery grave.

Captain Stafford had been standing by the main hatch, watching the turtle, and seeing to it that his reckless son did not get a finger bitten off, when he became sensible of a faint, almost imperceptible odor. It was so vague as to be almost intangible—probably not half a dozen on board would have noticed it even had they stood where the captain did then. At first he tried to think it might be only imagination, and this view of the matter was strengthened when he walked to another part of the deck not far off and detected no odor whatever. He returned to his former position and sniffed the air as a hound does when scenting danger. Again that slight smell of gas.

Captain Stafford knew what sort of a cargo was stowed under his feet, and from that moment he thought no more of the turtle. Walking to the carpenter-shop, he beckoned to its occupant. “Carpenter, get the main hatch off at once.”

Cardiff coal is extraordinarily liable to spontaneous combustion, and not a few of the many ships that carry it from Cardiff and Swansea all over the world catch fire. Often the danger is discovered in time to be checked, but one of the peculiarities of this cargo is, that it may burn for days and even weeks in the center of the mass without giving the least sign, only to break forth at last in uncontrollable fury. The Lochleven carried 4,000 tons of this commodity, consigned to San Francisco.

The carpenter brought out his tools and began removing the hatch-cover, while such of the crew as were aloft “tarring down” the rigging wondered what this unusual proceeding meant. The moment the aperture was laid open the nostrils of those who looked down were saluted by a smell like that of a sulphur match that has been lighted and then immediately extinguished. It was not overpowering, and the captain was the first man to descend the ladder. The carpenter followed with an iron testing-rod, and then the mate, with several of his watch. The latter were equipped with spades. Placing his hand upon the coal, the captain found it slightly warm on the surface, and the crew commenced digging according to his directions. Then the carpenter inserted the testing-rod, which was withdrawn presently, and showed that no fire existed thereabout, although the coals were badly heated.

“Now, carpenter, take off the other hatches, and use the tester in the other parts of the ship. And you, Mr. Maitland, get the rest of your watch down from aloft. Let them bring below every spade on board, and dig trenches wherever the coal is heated.”

The captain’s lungs were not strong and he was seized with a fit of coughing, brought on by inhaling gas. This compelled him to go on deck for a time, and he saw Mrs. Stafford approaching.

“What is wrong, Edward, and why are the hatches being opened? You look troubled.”

“Nothing serious, I hope. The cargo is badly heated, but we find no fire as yet.”

Mrs. Stafford glanced at her husband interrogatively, as if to divine whether he concealed anything. She was a woman of commanding presence, and though hardly thirty-five, her abundant hair was perfectly white.

“There is no smoke,” she said, looking down into the hold.

Even as she spoke the carpenter removed the third hatch, and instantly a thin, yellowish vapor ascended into the air. “That’s a bad sign,” said McKenzie, the third mate, aside to the carpenter, who was preparing to descend. But he drew back, holding his nose, and before it was possible to go down a wet sponge had to be bound over his mouth and nostrils. Those who accompanied him took the same precaution.

It was nearly noon, and time to take sights. Still no wind, and the rudder-chains creaked and rattled as though to remind everyone that a calm prevailed.

While Captain Stafford waited for the sun to reach the zenith, the carpenter approached, with a serious face.

“There looks to be a fire, sir, in hatch No. 3. The further down the men dig the hotter the coal gets, and the smoke is so much thicker we can hardly keep at work. All hands are digging trenches, but I’m afraid, sir, that opening the hatches is making it worse.”

“Begin now and pump water into the trenches. We will see what effect that has. I shall be there as soon as possible.”

He hardly dared to think what would become of the ship in case it should prove impossible to subdue the fire. She was a fine new vessel, having been built on the Clyde only two years before. Should a fair wind spring up and the fire continue to burn inwardly, there might be some hope of making Callao or Panama, and thus saving the ship; but here they were in a dead calm, at a place where a steady wind of any sort was practically out of the question.

All the afternoon water was pumped into the hold, being led over the coal by means of the trenches, and when pumping ceased early in the evening it appeared to have done much good. The coal in the main hatch was cooled off, and the smoke had disappeared from the one next to it. But the morning would prove whether the fire was to be subdued or not, and the crew were ordered to bring up their mattresses and sleep on deck. Then all the hatches were tightly battened down in order to exclude air from the hold, and supper was served two hours later than usual. But no one in the cabin except Howard was able to do justice to the turtle-steak, the others hardly knowing what was before them. Anxiety and suspense destroy appetite, and not until morning arrived would it be known whether or not the fire had the ship at its mercy. If the coal was merely heated and not actually burning, the water pumped on it would probably suffice to avert combustion. The fact of the vapor having vanished was of little importance—the exterior of a volcano may be treacherously fair and peaceful at the very moment the interior is a mass of molten fire.

Howard turned in at the usual time. He vaguely understood that something was wrong, and wondered why all were so grave. But the boy saw neither fire nor smoke, and his childish mind had not yet grasped the peril which threatened the ship. Clad in his white nightgown, he knelt at his mother’s knee; and, burying his face in her lap, said the evening prayer she had taught. He repeated the words more slowly than usual, and after reaching “Amen” continued earnestly, “God, don’t let us be burned up, and please let us catch another turtle to-morrow.” Then he ran into his little room next to that of his parents, and bounded into bed in a way that made the slats rattle.

Ten minutes later, when Mrs. Stafford stole in on tip-toe, the child was sleeping peacefully; the bed-clothes were all kicked off, and the cherished figure of Lord Nelson—without which he never went to sleep—had just fallen from one little hand. There he lay in the sweet forgetfulness of childhood, while his mother stood beside him thinking of the many nights he had slept in that little bed; in storm and calm, in heat and cold, in the Atlantic, in the Pacific, in the Indian Ocean. How many more nights would he sleep there? She softly imprinted a kiss on the tanned forehead, and left the room with moist eyes. Ascending to the quarter-deck, she lay down in a hammock underneath the awning.

Captain Stafford and William Wells, the second mate, were standing by the rail discussing the chances of saving the ship, and speaking of other vessels that had caught fire under similar conditions. One, a large British ship, called the Kenilworth, had been abandoned after being burned entirely out inside. She was afterwards picked up, towed into San Francisco, and sold at auction. An American firm was the purchaser; she was rebuilt, and is sailing the seas to-day under the stars and stripes. Another, less fortunate, was entirely consumed in the South Pacific, her officers and crew escaping to the island of Juan Fernandez.

The two men thought Mrs. Stafford was asleep, but she heard every word, and the relation of these disasters depressed her spirits exceedingly. She struggled with this feeling, for she was not a woman to despair easily, and at length succeeded in forgetting everything in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Dawn put an end to suspense. Through two of the closed hatches a thin cloud of smoke was filtering, proof conclusive that fire had been slowly consuming the cargo for days and days past. Now it was eating its way to the surface The hatches were opened, but dense clouds of hot, suffocating yellow smoke belched forth, driving all back. It was overpowering, and they were covered up again as fast as possible. It was useless to pump more water into the hold, for the removal of the hatches, by creating a draft, would simply fan the fire. Nothing but a miracle could now save the ship.

Orders were given for the crew to bring all the stores and provisions up from below,—all their bedding, sea-chests, and whatever else there was in the fore peak. The smell of gas down there was intolerable, and besides, it was necessary to keep every hatch closed in order to smother the fire as much as possible. When everything had been brought up, the cover was put on and secured, and the seams caulked with oakum.

One of the apprentices did not realize until it was too late, that the crew must live entirely on deck from that time forth; evidently supposing it would be possible to go below again after an interval. When he discovered his mistake the boy asked to be allowed to fetch his sea-chest, but the hatch was secured permanently, and his request had to be refused. He was the only son of a widowed mother, who had fitted him out finely on this, his first voyage, and tears filled his eyes when he thought of all the things she had made for him with so much care.

The calm continued—there was no sign of the longed for wind. Several men were kept aloft all day to scan the horizon for a sail, even the captain ascending the rigging; but not a solitary object was in sight.

The endless procession of yesterday floated by with horrible monotony. The red-eyed blotches of film, the jelly-fish, the orange-colored snakes, the large turtles asleep on the water or paddling slowly about,—it was precisely the same. The previous day the water and its strange inhabitants had possessed a fascinating interest to many of those on the ship; now this same scene of tranquil beauty had become an aggravation. As Mrs. Stafford’s anxious eyes fell on these curious sluggish creatures contentedly floating with the current, she wondered absently whether they derived any pleasure from such a passive and aimless existence. The two pilot-fish still swam by the counter; the invisible shark still lurked beneath the ship; the dolphin alone, was gone.

It was the Sabbath,—usually a day of perfect rest on the Lochleven, for Captain Stafford was a man of strong religious convictions. Every soul on board, from Mrs. Stafford and Howard down to the apprentices, was required to be present at the Sunday morning services. In pleasant weather these exercises were conducted on the main deck, where all hands were accustomed to assemble at six bells (11 o’clock), but to-day was an exception, for the crew was hard at work.

Every deep-water ship, before she reaches port after a long voyage, is thoroughly cleaned and painted from stern to stern. This is a job requiring at least a couple of weeks. The Lochleven had expected to reach San Francisco within a month, and ship-cleaning was nearly completed at the time the fire was discovered. The iron yards and lower masts were freshly painted, the wooden top-masts and top-gallant masts had been scraped, sand-papered and oiled, the rigging tarred down, the life-boats and deck-houses cleaned and painted, and the decks holystoned and oiled up to the top notch.

Now each man in the crew was working as only desperate men can, to heave overboard every inflammable article about the ship. Buckets of tar and paint; cans of benzine and linseed oil; spare spars and planks; empty barrels; old sails; oakum and sennit;—all covered the placid surface of the ocean.

Howard was very silent all the morning. He knew now something very serious had happened, and his surprise was great at sight of so many useful articles being made way with. More than once had he been punished for thus disposing of belaying pins, brooms, swabs and marline-spikes. He trotted around near the mate, who was an especial favorite of his, and followed the example of the others by throwing into the sea such light articles as were suited to his strength. But when six bells struck and the work still continued, he ran to find his father. Never before could he remember a Sabbath when services were not in progress at that hour.

“I thought this was Sunday, papa?”

“So it is, Howard.”

“Then why don’t we have church? Have you preached all the sermons you know?”

“It is not that, my boy.”

“And shan’t we have duff for dessert, either?”

“I suppose we shall; we usually do on Sunday and Wednesday. The reason services are not held to-day is because there is much work that cannot be delayed. The Lord helps those who help themselves, and instead of stopping to pray for deliverance we must first do everything in our power to lessen the danger.”

The boy thought a moment, and then ran off to inform his mother. “Mama won’t believe it; she’ll think I’m fooling her!” he called out to his father.

During the afternoon the boats were watered and provisioned, and made ready for launching, though Captain Stafford was determined not to abandon the ship until the last extremity. It is appalling to think of leaving a large vessel in mid-ocean for a few frail cockle-shells, and the master of the Lochleven entertained a desperate hope that some sort of a breeze might soon spring up that would at least carry the doomed ship nearer the Galapagos Islands,—the only land within a radius of a thousand miles of the spot where the vessel lay. A few white wind clouds could be seen on the south-western horizon, but they rose very slowly.

The fire was evidently gaining very rapidly, for when Mrs. Stafford went below towards evening she noticed a strong sulphurous smell pervading the cabin and sleeping rooms. The captain had not reckoned on this so soon, and took the precaution to bring his sextant, chronometers, the ship’s papers and some of the charts on deck, where all hands made arrangements to pass the night; the crew being in the extreme forward part of the long vessel, the officers amidships, and the captain’s family on the quarter-deck. This in itself was no especial hardship, for the weather was warm, though not excessively so.

Magnificent beyond all description was the sunset. The sky reflected every possible tint—indigo, light blue, pink, magenta, light and dark green, yellow, orange, gray and other hues—all blended and shaded so harmoniously that it was impossible to tell where one began and another left off. In the midst of the indigo blue hung the moon, a crescent of burnished silver.

As midnight approached, great banks of purple clouds massed themselves in the heavens, while forked and sheet lightning shot across the lurid sky. A dozen hands were aloft furling the skysails and royals.

“Only a squall, Mary,” Captain Stafford said, in answer to his wife’s question, “but there is wind behind it, though perhaps not much.”

In the early morning hours the first great drops pattered heavily on the awning, and a puff of wind was perceptible soon after. Mr. Wells had the deck, and the men joyfully sprang to the braces to trim the yards in accordance with his orders. By the time this was accomplished the tropical rain descended in perfect torrents,—blinding sheets,—and the ship was well heeled over, running before a heavy squall with nearly squared yards. The rain hissed into the foaming ocean, the lightning flashed, and for four hours the Lochleven seemed literally to fly, as if trying to escape the demon of destruction within. The awning was new and shed the torrents of water well, though the heaviness of the deluge threatened to split it.

The squall passed over slowly, having helped the ship along nearly fifty miles towards the islands. Then the rain ceased and the wind nearly so, leaving only a two-knot zephyr. Even this was better than a calm, but soon after sunrise it increased to a steady breeze which held all that day.

The captain and Mrs. Stafford undertook to go below and bring up some of their clothes and other possessions, but were rendered nearly insensible before they had crossed the cabin. Up through the floor came volumes of poisonous gas, rendering the atmosphere so stifling that both hastened back and stumbled up the companion-way to the purer air. The books, trinkets and souvenirs that Mrs. Stafford had picked up all over the world,—many of which were rendered dear by their associations, rather than by their intrinsic value,—all these things she prized so highly were utterly lost. The captain had private charts belonging to himself that could scarcely be replaced. It was impossible to get at them.

All the scuppers were plugged up and water pumped on the main deck until it fairly swam, There was nothing else to be done but to scan the horizon and hope that the crisis might not come until the wind had carried them nearer the islands, which were yet a good three hundred miles to the eastward.

Another squall from the southwest towards evening increased their speed, though everyone was in constant fear lest the wind should fail entirely when it passed over. Captain Stafford resolved to take to the boats the moment it fell calm, for it was already perilous to remain on the ship. They were literally living over a volcano, and nothing but the desire to get as near land as possible induced him to stick to the vessel so long.

Occasional heavy puffs of smoke and sparks came from two of the hatches towards morning, and all hands were on the qui vive, momentarily expecting the order to get the boats over. The wind grew lighter, and as it failed the poisonous vapors nearly choked those on board.

The man at the wheel struck eight bells—it was 4 A.M. Never again would those spokes be clasped by human hands, or that bell be heard to ring. From away forward floated the answering sound of the bell on the foremast.

Then came the order “Abandon ship!”

The ocean was calm, and three of the boats were launched without difficulty; Captain Stafford, Mr. Maitland and Mr. Wells each taking charge of one. There was no time to take a last look, no time for anything but to hurry away from the ship, before the accumulation of gas in the hold should burst the decks open or blow the hatches off.

The Lochleven’s sails were flapping softly in obedience to the gentle swell. Her four tall masts with their great spread of canvas, and imposing three hundred feet of dark hull, lent a deceptive appearance of security and majestic strength. She had not been deserted any too soon, for just as the stars were fading in the east before the swift tropical dawn, the expected rending of her decks took place. Clouds of smoke and sheets of flame leaped up, the canvas and rigging caught, and in an incredibly short space of time, the great vessel was blazing fiercely.

The blowing up of the decks released the imprisoned flames, which roared and crackled; writhing up the ropes and shrouds to the very mast heads, as though eager for more material to devour.

Those in the boats watched the awful spectacle with fascinated eyes. The heat became unbearable, burning brands fell into the ocean, and a little breeze springing up, they took advantage of it to get under way. Fanned by the rising wind, that four thousand tons of burning coal lighted up the ocean for miles and miles around, while the boats seemed to be floating on a sea of blood. To their awe-struck occupants, it seemed that the great beacon must be visible from the Galapagos Islands,—the haven which they were destined to reach three days later.

Suddenly a cry came from Howard. In the hurry and excitement of departure, Lord Nelson had been left behind! He begged his father to put back—implored his mother, with choking sobs, to let him save his cherished companion. They tried to comfort him, but in vain. In speechless grief the boy held out his arms towards the burning ship, gradually melting into the horizon line; and if Howard Stafford lives to be four score, he will never shed more bitter or scalding tears than fell from his eyes at that moment.

THE PARSON’S TEXT.

Bill and Abraham (called Abe for short) were jolly good fellows of more than average intelligence, and they determined to enjoy their day to the utmost. To this end they had refused to join the mess at dinner, in order that their appetites might be the keener for the viands at the Royal George, to whose hospitable doors they directed their steps upon landing. Both were rigged out in their best togs, and took their seats at a table with the pleasant consciousness that their personal appearance was just about at high water mark.

“Heave us one o’ them programmes, Sally,” said Bill. “A mighty trim lass you are, if I does tell you so.”

“Me name is Lucy, your honor,” replied the buxom waitress with a smirk, as she placed a bill-of-fare before the twain.

“Married?” asked Bill.

“No, sir. I’ve not yet met me fate,” answered Lucy, demurely.

“Crackey! You must be stage-struck.”

“’Vast there, Bill, and quit your foolin’,” interrupted Abe. “I’m ’ungry. Wot will we ’ave?”

He was considerably older than his companion, and had reached that stage in life when not even the charms of a pretty waitress could make him lose sight of the fact that it was past the time for dinner.

It seemed to Abe that their orders would never arrive, so he spent the time in devouring a bottle of little round pickles which occupied the center of the table. Bill kept trying to attract the attention of a golden haired fairy who was opening numerous bottles of ale in another part of the room, and only desisted when Abe remarked: “Seems to me these ’ere pickles are awful salty.”

“Them ain’t pickles, you bloke; them’s holives,” said Bill, grinning.

“Wot’s that but another name for—”

Abe’s answer was cut short by the long-expected appearance of Lucy, and both men were soon doing full justice to the dinner, which included beefsteak and onions, fried sole with anchovy sauce, and a pot of stout; besides half a dozen minor dishes, all of which they relished as only men can who have lived for some time on ship’s stores.

At last Bill said: “Well, Abe, ain’t you most done? I’m full to the hatches.”

“Oh, sir, your honors ’asn’t ’ad the sweets yet,” expostulated Lucy. “We’ve got some lovely tarts, and a duff, and—”

“Duff! Bring us a whole one, quick!” cried Abe.

“We’ve eat too much,” said Bill. “I never thought of the duff, or I wouldn’t have eaten all this other truck. We’ll never be able to finish a whole one.”

“Yes we will, too,” Abe maintained; so the dainty was placed before them, and they fell to with a will. But both soon found that their eyes were larger than their stomachs, and though Abe ate more than his companion, even he had to stop before more than a third of the duff had been dispatched.

“It’s too bad we ’ave to leave it,” he said regretfully.

An alarming idea suddenly struck Bill. “Suppose we ain’t got money enough to pay for all these things we’ve ’ad,” he whispered fearfully. They asked for their reckoning, and alas! Bill’s surmise proved correct.

“If we ’adn’t hordered a whole duff, we’d ’ad money left,” said Abe, “and now wot’s to be done? We ain’t eat a quarter of it.”

Lucy thought of the shilling that Bill had recklessly slipped into her hand unknown to Abe. After a moment’s consideration, she said confidentially, “I’ll leave out the price of the duff, for it’s mostly all left, and very few calls for a whole one. Nobody’ll be the wiser if I brings ’em a piece of this.”

A load was removed from the minds of the sailors, both of whom thanked the fair Lucy fervently, and if Bill had had any money left she would have gotten it. Their table was in a corner near the entrance, and as they rose to go a commotion in the rear of the room attracted Lucy’s attention. Bill was already at the door and Abe about to follow, when the tempting duff again caught his eye. He wavered a minute. “I’ll be blowed if I leaves it,” he muttered, as he unbuttoned his loose blouse.

All hands seemed to be gathering in the back of the large room, and after a stealthy glance to be sure that he was unobserved, Abe seized the remainder of the duff and placed it in his bosom. Then he buttoned up his blouse, drew his loose jacket together as much as possible, and boldly walked out of the door with head well in the air.

Bill was a little uneasy at first upon hearing what his companion had done, though he agreed that the duff would be delicious eating a few hours later. Finally he was rather glad of Abe’s action, and only hoped that Lucy would not get into a scrape on account of it.

They walked along for some time, until they came to a church. Many people were entering, and the sound of the organ announced that services were about to begin.

“Let’s go in, Abe,” said Bill. “We looks decent, I guess, and I ain’t been in a bloomin’ meetin’-house since Mag. Halton’s weddin’, when I was a youngster.”

“All right. We’ll cast anchor in this ’ere church for a while. We’ll be safer, too, for I’m kind afeerd of the hofficers of the law nabbing us if we stays on the street.”

They passed through the vestibule and into the church; when an usher took them in tow, and the pair were given seats in the extreme forward part of the edifice—in the second row of pews. Everything seemed strange to Abe and Bill in that dim half-light, and their eyes had scarcely become accustomed to the change from out doors when the grand music of the organ again pealed forth, and the services began with a hymn from the surpliced choir.

The novelty of the scene wore off after half an hour or so, and the exercises began to seem a trifle tiresome.

“There ain’t nothin’ to’t but singin’ and then gettin’ down on your knees, and then jumpin’ up and singin’ again,” whispered Abe. “Awful poor singin’ I calls it, too. I’d like to give ’em a good chorus now—somethin’ like ‘W’isky is the Life of Man’—just to show ’em wot real singin’ is.”

“I can’t say as I admires the parson much, neither,” answered Bill. “He looks almighty severe, he does. I’d hate to sign articles with a craft he was skipper of; he’d hang two or three to the fore yard-arm every morning, just for the fun of the thing.”

“I’m agreed on that, Bill. But look—the old boy’s goin’ up them steps.”

The minister entered the pulpit; the sermon was about to begin.

The members of the congregation settled back in their seats with looks of expectant interest (or resignation) as the reverend gentleman gave a preparatory cough. After adjusting his spectacles and calmly surveying his flock, he announced: “Brethren, my discourse this afternoon will be from the text, ‘Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?’”

The two sailors convulsively grasped the pew cushions as they exchanged glances of consternation.

“Good G—, Bill!” whispered Abe, “the parson knows I stole that duff!”

Bill sat as though petrified, and the silence in the house of worship was such that you could have heard a pin drop.

After giving the congregation a few seconds to digest his words, the pastor brushed a troublesome fly from his nose, and repeated more slowly and impressively, “Abraham, Abraham, what is in thy bosom?”

This was too much for Abe, who jumped to his feet exclaiming: “You know I’ve got it, parson, so, d— you, take it!”

Suiting the action to the word, he hurled the duff at the astounded minister, and followed by Bill, fled incontinently from the church.

ROUNDING CAPE HORN.