Frank Nelson in the Forecastle; Or, The Sportman's Club Among the Whalers

by Harry Castlemon

A feeble attempt had been made to clear up things a little, but the traces that were left of the recent contest proclaimed that it had been a severe and by no means a bloodless one. Frank ran his eye hastily over the crew gathered about him, and saw that there were some familiar faces missing—among them those of the captain, his two mates and his old enemy, Calamity. What if he had been there when the fight came off? Might not he also have been among the missing? Perhaps Captain Barclay's attempt to get him off his vessel had been the means of saving his life.

"What's been going on here, any how?" demanded the mate, as soon as he could speak.

A chorus of hoarse voices arose in reply, each one trying to give his version of the story, and to make himself heard above his companions; but Mr. Gale, finding that there was nothing to be learned in that way, commanded silence, and pointing to one of the crew ordered him to speak for all. The man complied, telling his story in regular sailor lingo which we put into English as follows:—

The Tycoon arrived at the island that morning about three o'clock, and came to anchor two miles outside the bar. The captain, knowing the treacherous character of the natives, kept one watch on deck until morning, but nothing suspicious being seen, the ship stood close in at daylight, and came to; after which the water-barrels were got overboard, and the captain and first mate set out in their boats to tow them ashore. No sooner had the crews touched the beach than they were assailed by a swarm of natives, who had been lying in ambush waiting for them. Almost at the same moment two large war canoes filled with savages made their appearance, coming from one of the numerous little inlets which set into the land from the bay. They headed straight for the ship, their crews brandishing their lances and clubs, and yelling at the top of their lungs.

The sailors on board the Tycoon, who had witnessed the massacre of their shipmates without the power to aid them, now found themselves called upon to provide for their own safety. The second mate, who was in command, made an effort to bring the ship about and run out of the bay; but she struck the bar in going around, running on with sufficient force to knock all the crew off their feet. They could not run, and their only chance for life was to beat off their assailants, who outnumbered them five to one. The weapons that were left in the arm-chest were quickly brought up, muskets, pistols and cartridges to put into them were distributed among the crew, lances, harpoons and spades placed about the deck in convenient nooks, so that they could be readily seized, and by the time these preparations were completed, their foes were upon them. They made the attack at two different points, one canoe running under the bow and the other coming alongside at the starboard quarter. The sailors met them at both places, and the first assault was repulsed. The seamen, having the advantage of position, knocked their assailants over the side as fast as they could climb to the top of the bulwarks, but the natives persevered, and overwhelming numbers began to tell. They succeeded in gaining a footing on deck, and drove the sailors before them toward the waist.

Almost in the beginning of the fight the second mate had been struck down by a lance, and as there was no one to direct the movements of the sailors, each man fought on his own hook, and did just what he thought best, without paying any attention to his neighbors. Boson probably saved the day. While the sailors were retreating he caught up the mate's revolver, which was lying on deck, and turning fiercely on his foes fired all the barrels in quick succession, every shot striking a native and bringing him dead or wounded to the deck. That was more than the enemy could endure. Appalled by the havoc the six-shooter created, they beat a hasty retreat, followed by the sailors, who thinned their ranks very perceptibly before they could clamber over the side into their boat. As they were about to push off, Boson and Tully added a grand finale to the victory. The former threw a harpoon at one of the natives, which, missing its object, passed through the bottom of the boat, knocking a hole in her that would have caused her to sink long before she could reach the shore, even had Tully not followed it up, as he did, with the heavy snatch-block, which made a complete wreck of her.

The enemy being beaten at the quarter, the sailors who defended that part of the ship ran to the assistance of their friends in the bow; but the fight was over there, also. The natives, failing to gain the deck, became discouraged, and dropping back into their boat, made all haste to reach the shore. Some succeeded, others did not. The sailors rushed for their muskets and pistols, which they had thrown to the deck after firing their contents at the foe, and hastily ramming down cartridges, opened fire on the natives. Those of their companions who were not provided with these weapons, employed themselves in clearing the deck of the dead and wounded the savages had left behind them, tumbling them all unceremoniously over the side, and never looking to see what became of them afterward.

The battle being ended, the crew began to look about them and make an estimate of their losses. They found that six of their number had fallen beneath the war-clubs and lances of their assailants, which, counting in the twelve that had gone ashore in the boats, made eighteen men they had lost out of thirty-five. Greatly alarmed, disheartened by the loss of all their officers, and afraid to risk another encounter with their diminished numbers, they hastily committed the bodies of their dead companions to the deep, and set to work to get the ship afloat. They had kept hard at it for more than six hours. They had moved her a little, but the tide began to fall just at the wrong time, and there she was as fast as if she had been nailed to the ground.

The new-comers listened to this story with breathless attention. If any evidence was needed to convince them of its truthfulness, they found it in the frightened faces of the men and the disordered state of the deck, which bore unmistakable signs of the conflict. Their assailants had left some of their property behind them in the shape of lances, war-clubs and head-dresses, and close alongside the ship floated the wreck of the canoe, which was slowly moving out to sea with the tide. A moment later additional and most unexpected evidence was produced. A warning exclamation uttered by Lucas, under his breath, drew all eyes toward him. Frank saw him pick up a lance that happened to be lying near, and following the direction of his gaze, saw that it was fastened upon a head which was slowly rising above the combings of the fore hatch—a head covered with a mass of shaggy hair. It was one of the natives, who had no doubt been knocked into the hold during the fight, and was now coming up to see if the coast was clear, so that he could make his escape. Not a man moved. Every one held his breath as Lucas raised the long, slender whale-lance in the air and held it poised in both hands.

The head was raised slowly, cautiously, inch by inch, above the combings of the hatchway, and presently a dark-brown forehead and then a pair of eyes appeared. At that instant the lance whistled through the air. Thrown by a practised hand and flying true to its aim, its keen point was buried in the combings exactly in range with the spot where the head had been a second before. Its owner had seen the weapon coming and dodged just in time, but his escape was a narrow one.