This was the disturbance that was going on when I arrived on board. Captain Gay, who was one of the old-time sea captains and a very “taut hand” with his crews, ordered the second mate to go down into the forecastle and bring up any rum he might find there. He supposed, of course, that the liquor the men had obtained had been smuggled on board from the bumboat.
Mr. Daniels went down with a very ill grace, I thought. The forecastle was just then a very lion’s den, and he did not stay long, but came up with a rush through the hatchway with a bleeding nose and puffed eyes.
When he could regain his breath, he exclaimed: “Captain Gay, they’ve got a barrel of whiskey there on tap, and they are fighting over it like a lot of wild Indians! It was all I could do to get out of the forecastle alive!”
“A barrel! What do you mean?”
“It’s just so, sir; there is a barrel on tap, and they are drinking it out of their pint cups! I am almost sure it is one of the barrels from the hold, but how on earth they got it out I can’t imagine. The hatches haven’t been opened to-day; that I will swear to!”
This was certainly a very bad state of affairs, and Captain Gay felt that he must take summary action. Going to the cabin, he returned with four revolvers and gave one each to the officers and to the carpenter. Then looking down the hatch, he shouted, “Men, come on deck at once, every one of you!”
A howl of derision was the only reply.
“I will give you five minutes to get up here, or I’ll come down there and find out the reason why!” he cried.
They simply yelled defiantly in drunken chorus.
“Come along, Mr. Bowker,” said the captain. “You and I will start these fellows up. Mr. Daniels, you and the carpenter put the irons on them as they come up the hatchway!”