I never before or since have seen a man fight like Atlantic Jones did then. Stripped to the waist, his long hair flying in the wind, his hands red with blood, his body bespattered, too, he looked more like a fiend than a human being, much less a very bad play-actor; but all the while he fought he never once ceased yelling out the silly gibberish he thought was sailors’ talk.
They fell back at last enough to allow us to reach the boat, and we pushed off. They fired on us then, furiously, and I did all I could to make Jones lie down, to be out of harm’s way, but he would not—continuing to yell defiance and wave his cutlass. Those left alive were too drunk, fortunately for us, to make any decisive effort to stop us; and we drifted away, for the oars had fallen into the water.
This would be a longer tale—and it’s long enough now, I’m sure—if I were to tell you what we suffered those four days we drifted in the open sea. Then, more dead than alive, I was taken on board a passing ship; and Jones, who had tended me the while with every possible care, though his own sufferings were at times intense, nursed me through a long illness.
I told you I never could tell a tale. My tale ought to have begun where it’s left off, pretty nearly.
The last time I saw Jones he was at his play-acting again at the Hull Theatre. He was a sailor once more, and had a deuce of a set-to with some Lascars. But the audience didn’t seem to think much of it. They goosed him, and shied orange-peel.
Very low-spirited he was, poor chap, when I met him at the stage-door afterwards, and he didn’t cheer up much when I stood some beer.
Next day I picked up with a skipper, and got off on a whaling voyage. Rare game it was, ketching the big fish, I can tell you, only one day they put me ashore on an iceberg to pick a hole for an ice-anchor, so as to get the ship on the lee when it came on to blow.
I didn’t take no notice though, but kept on picking away, till all at once there came on such a fog that I could hardly see my boots.