Deep-Sea Plunderings

by Frank Thomas Bullen

Of course, it could hardly be expected that such sturdy independent souls as Algoa Bay boatmen would be likely to take contumely of this sort meekly in exchange for their hard labours. At any rate, if such a thing had ever been expected, the expectation was doomed to instant disappointment. Turning to the rail, the boatman who had spoken to the skipper gave a shout which brought the six of his mates on deck. Just a word or two of explanation, and they advanced threateningly towards their debtor. We stood in passive enjoyment of what we felt was soon to be a due meting out of reward to a man who deserved such recompense richly. The two mates made a feeble attempt to interfere, but were roughly thrust aside, while the enraged boatmen seized the burly form of our skipper, and were about to manhandle him over the side when he roared for mercy, saying that he would pay all their demand. He did so, and they departed, not without a full and complete exposition of what they considered to be all his characteristics, mental and physical. They had hardly left the side when the skipper ordered the windlass to be manned, and, in spite of his drunken condition, no long time elapsed before we were under way and standing rapidly out to sea.

But that night a black south-easter sprang up, to which we set all the sail we could stagger under for our northward passage to Pondicherry, but towards morning the wind backed to the northward, and blew so hard as to necessitate the sudden taking in of all the sail we had set except a tiny storm-staysail. But, while we were, all hands of us, in the throes of our conflict with the slatting topsails, a curious thing happened. Sharp snapping noises were heard, and flashes of light totally unlike lightning were seen on deck. Cries were heard, too, that were disconcerting, for it seemed as if a row was going on for which we could imagine no cause. Suddenly the little Italian, who was manfully struggling by my side to get the topsail furled, yelled at the pitch of his voice something in his own language, at the same time disappearing to a dangling position on the foot-rope. This was strange, but almost immediately after something with a sharp “ping” struck the yard by my side, and the horrible truth flashed into my mind that somebody on deck was shooting at us poor wretches struggling aloft. It is difficult, indeed, to express what the conditions of our minds were upon making this discovery. The handling of sails by a weak crew in a gale of wind at night is no child’s play at any time, but when to that great fight is added the peculiar complication of a drunken madman amusing himself by taking potshots at the men aloft, the condition of things is, to say the least, disconcerting. The sails were let go. Incontinently we slid down on deck, taking refuge behind whatsoever shelter we could find. Happily, Natalie, the poor little Italian, managed to get down too, having, as we presently discovered, a bullet through the fleshy part of his arm. The sails blew to pieces, the ship tumbled about helplessly, the helmsman having run from his post, and it appeared as if a terrible calamity was about to overtake us, but presently the two mates came forrard, saying, “It’s all right, men. We’ve knocked him down, and, although we couldn’t find his revolver, we have locked him up in his cabin. For God’s sake, turn to and get the ship in hand.”

With many muttered curses and desires of taking the skipper’s life we resumed our duties, and soon had got the rags of sail still left on the yards snugly secured. Then the watch entitled to go below retired. Natalie had his wound dressed, and peace reigned for a time. In the morning the skipper, being sober, begged piteously to be released. All of us protested strongly against any such piece of folly being perpetrated. However, after he had been confined a week our hearts relented towards him, and, upon his making a solemn assurance that he had no more ammunition or grog, which latter disturbing element the mates assured us they had searched for and were unable to find, it was agreed that he should resume command.

During the rest of our passage to Pondicherry there was certainly nothing to complain of. More, she was as comfortable a ship as one could wish to be on board of. Evidently, with a view to mollifying our feelings towards him, Captain Scott allowed us to fare as well as he and his officers did, so that by the time we anchored in Pondicherry we had, with the short memory for previous sufferings peculiarly characteristic of sailors, apparently entirely forgotten his amiable little outbreak. Nor during her stay at Pondicherry did we have anything to complain of. Then came the welcome news that we were homeward bound. On a glorious morning, just at daybreak, the order was given to man the windlass, and, with the singing that old-time shanty of “Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound,” we were all lustily engaged in tearing out the big mud-hook, when suddenly, to our unspeakable horror, Captain Scott emerged from the cabin, his outstretched hands each grasping a huge navy revolver, and almost immediately after bullets were flying like hail. Like frightened rabbits, we bolted for even the most impracticable holes and corners—anywhere, indeed, out of that withering fire. The situation was desperate, but, happily for us, a British gunboat was lying near. The officer in charge of her deck, hearing the fusillade, with naval promptitude sent a boat’s crew on board to inquire into the cause of this strange occurrence.

It so happened that the inquirers arrived just as Captain Scott was recharging his revolver, and they lost no time in taking him prisoner. We, the luckless crew, emerging from our various hiding-places, laid the matter before them with much wealth of detail, and the result that we presently had the satisfaction of seeing our vivacious commander, bound hand and foot, being lowered into the boat for conveyance on board the man-o’-war. Her commander held an inquiry immediately into Captain Scott’s conduct, examining us closely as to the reasons for this outbreak, if we could give any. Strange to say, our recollection of his good treatment outweighed our immediate resentment against him, and we agreed that if only he could be rendered incapable of either getting drunk or shooting, we should be glad to finish the voyage with him. So, after a thorough search for fire-arms and rum, resulting in the discovery of no less than four more revolvers, quite a large box of ammunition, and an extraordinarily large quantity of the potent liquor, all of which was duly confiscated by the naval authorities, we returned to our duties, got under way, and sailed for home.

The Sarah Jane was a most fortunate ship, as far as weather was concerned, at any rate. Catching the first breath of the north-eastern monsoon immediately outside the harbour, under all canvas we bowled briskly down to the line, crossed it with a steady, if light breeze from the northward, and, without experiencing any calm worth mentioning, presently found ourselves in the tender embrace of the south-east trade-winds, and being wafted steadily at the rate of about five knots an hour across the vast placid bosom of the Indian Ocean.

Life at sea under such conditions is very pleasant. For the vicissitudes of a sailor’s life only become hard to bear when weather is bad, food scanty, and officers brutal. When the opposites of these three conditions obtain, the sailor can gladly put up with many evil qualities in the ship itself. The leakiness of our old vessel troubled us not at all as long as the pleasant conditions of which I have spoken continued. Even when we reached the stormy latitudes adjacent to the Cape of Good Hope we were favoured by fair winds until we arrived off Simons Bay, when the wind fell away, and a perfect calm ensued with lowering, ugly-looking weather. But our good fortune still remained. The great sweep of the Agulhas current carried us round the Cape of Storms homeward without any wind worth taking notice of coming upon us out of the leaden-looking sky, and so we rounded the Cape, and with a fine southerly breeze pointed the Sarah Jane jibboom homeward.

The usual routine work of cleaning ship was indulged in. Nothing worthy of notice occurred until losing the trades. In about 7° N. lat. a calm of a week’s duration ensued. Here we fell in with several other ships, and our captain, apparently with a view of getting a little amusement, had a boat out, and went ship-visiting. This suited us admirably. Sailors always enjoy it, perhaps because they get so little of it on board merchant ships. The first two ships we visited were evidently strongly teetotal, for we noticed that while our captain returned on board perfectly sober, he always looked exceedingly glum and disappointed. But at last we spoke a vessel whose captain was in dire want of a little fresh water. We had plenty to spare, and in no long time had filled a couple of puncheons, lowered them over the side into the water, and towed them to the other ship. Her captain’s gratitude was great; in fact, he seemed hardly able to reward us sufficiently. Among other gifts we received a huge hog, two cases of preserved beef, a barrel of cabin biscuits, and two large cases of what appeared to us to be lime-juice. We returned on board, and hoisted in our spoils.

That night a breeze sprang up, and the little company of vessels that had clustered together in the vortex made by the “trades” separated, and pursued their various ways. Next morning we were alone, our ship was by herself on the face of the deep. The steward went to call the captain as usual, but could get no response. Alarmed, he came and reported the matter to the mate, whose watch on deck it was at the time. The mate went down, and, after repeated knockings at the captain’s door which failed to obtain any response, took violent measures, and burst the door open.

The captain was not there. A search was immediately made without result, but presently, to the horror of every one on board, the steward, a rather feeble-minded mulatto, rushed on deck shouting “Fire!” It need not be said how terrible this cry at sea always is, but it is never more so than when on board a badly-found wooden ship. However, all hands rushed aft at the call of the mate, and prepared to do everything that was possible for the subdual of the fire when it should be located. The smoke appeared to be rising from the lazarette, a store-room in the after part of the ship beneath the cabin. The mate and a couple of men tore off the hatch, and, half choked with the smoke that burst up in a great volume, made their way below, only to scramble out again in double quick time and fall fainting on the deck.