The men in the approaching boat were all forecastle hands, the one steering having the appearance of being either the boatswain or the carpenter of the ship, and this it was that gave me—and no doubt the skipper and mate also—the first specific hint of what was actually wrong aboard the stranger. Nothing, however, was said; and presently, when the boat came rounding under our stern, Captain Martin and Mr Bryce descended to the main deck and awaited our visitors at the gangway, our own steerage passengers, who had crowded the lee rail to see the strange boat come alongside, respectfully making way for them.
One only of the boat’s crew—the man in the stern-sheets—ventured to come on deck, the other three staring up at the heads peering down at them from our rail, without saying a word in reply to the multitude of questions that were fired into them, beyond remarking that “the bo’sun will tell your skipper all about it.”
The boatswain of the Mercury—for such the newcomer proved to be—passed through our gangway, pulled off the knitted woollen cap which decorated his head, and at once addressed himself to the skipper.
“Mornin’, sir,” he remarked. “My name’s Polson—James Polson, and I’m bo’sun of the Mercury, which ship you see hove-to yonder,”—with a flourish of his hand in the direction of the vessel named.
“Yes?” said the skipper enquiringly, as the man paused, apparently waiting to be questioned after this introduction of himself. “I see you have a signal of distress flying. What’s wrong with you?”
“Well, the fact is, sir, as we’ve lost our cap’n and both mates—” answered the man, when the skipper struck in amazedly:
“Lost your captain and both mates! How in the name of Fortune did that happen?”
“Well, sir, you see it was this way,” was the reply. “When we’d been out about a week—we’re from Liverpool, bound to Sydney, New South Wales, with a general cargo and two hundred emigrants—ninety-seven days out—when we’d been out about a week, or thereabouts—I ain’t certain to a day or two, but it’s all wrote down in the log—Cap’n Somers were found dead in his bunk by the steward what took him in a cup o’ coffee every mornin’ at six bells; and Mr Townsend—that were our chief mate—he took command o’ the ship. Then nothin’ partic’lar happened until we was well this side o’ the Line, when one day, when all hands of us was shortenin’ sail to a heavy squall as had bust upon us, Jim Tarbutt, a hordinary seaman, comin’ down off the main tops’l yard by way o’ the backstays, lets go his hold and drops slap on top o’ Mr Townsend, what happened to be standin’ underneath, and, instead of hurtin’ of hisself, broke t’other man’s neck and killed him dead on the spot! Then,” continued Polson, regardless of the ejaculations of astonishment and commiseration evoked by the recital of this extraordinary accident, “then Mr Masterman, what were origin’lly our second mate, he up and took charge, and navigated us to somewheres about where we are now. But four nights ago come last night—yes, that’s right, it were four nights ago—’bout three bells in the middle watch, while it were blowin’ hard from the west’ard and we were runnin’ under single-reefed topsails, with a very heavy sea chasin’ of us, the night bein’ dark and thick with rain, somebody comes rushin’ out of the poop cabin yellin’ like mad, and, afore anybody could stop him, sprang on to the lee rail, just the fore side of the main riggin’, and takes a header overboard!” More exclamations of astonishment from the listeners, amid which Polson triumphantly concluded his gruesome narrative by adding: “Of course we couldn’t do nothin’, and so the poor feller were lost. And when Chips and I comed to investigate we found that the unfortunit man were Mr Masterman, he bein’ the only one that was missin’!”
“Well!” ejaculated the skipper, addressing himself to Mr Moore, our chief mate; “I’ve heard a good many queer yarns in my time, of maritime accident and disaster, but this one tops the lot. The captain and both mates lost in the same voyage, and, so far as the two last are concerned, by such queer accidents too! Did you,”—turning to Polson—“find anything in Mr—what’s his name!—Masterman’s cabin to account for his extraordinary behaviour in rushing out on deck and jumping overboard in the middle of the night?”
“No, sir,” answered Polson with much simplicity. “He’d been drinkin’ a goodish bit, and there were a half-empty bottle of rum under his piller; but—”