“Just one more, Cap’n Hap! Just this! This I’ve got to know. What was it—exactly—that those men did? How did they come to be in such a plight? How in the world—that beautiful new boat—and an intelligent officer at the helm, Captain—how on earth did it come about?”
“The Clara Em was sot to sail,” replied Captain Hap calmly. “That’s about all. Her owners they were sot, and her cap’n he was sot. It was the sotness done it. They’d make the market first, you see, if they got the start—and it’s a job gettin’ your crew aboard, you know. Anything to get your crew. Drunk or sober, that isn’t the point. Drunker they be, the easier to ship ’em. See? Get your crew. Get ’em anyhow! They was all full, every mother’s son of ’em. Cap’n Joe, he was the only sober soul aboard, and that’s the truth, and he knew it when he set sail. Yes—oh, yes. The storm was comin’. He knew it was breezin’ up.—Oh, yes, of course. So he got some sober men off the wharves to help him at the sheets, and he put up every stitch. Yes, sir! Every stitch he had! And out he sails—with thirteen drunken men aboard—him at the wheel, and not a hand to help him. That’s the English on’t. The boat was d——drunk, beg your pardon, Parson! He driv right out the harbor, and it was a sou’easter, and blew quite a breeze o’ wind, and you see he tacked, and set in, and he was tackin’ out, and it had breezed up consider’ble more’n he expected. So he drove right on the reef. That’s about it.”
“But why didn’t he take in sail?”
“How was he goin’ to do it with that crew? Why, he couldn’t leave the wheel to tie a reef-point.”
“But there was his anchor.”
“Did you ever try to heave one of them big anchors? It takes four men.”
“What a situation! Horrible!”
“Wall, yes; it was inconvenient—him at the wheel, and a dead drunk crew, thirteen of ’em, below. Why, they was too drunk to know whether they drowned or not.”
“Can the boat be raised? Will she ever be good for anything?”
“Kindlin’ wood,” remarked the captain dryly.