"Call yourself a Cornishman, and afraid of a crab!" exclaimed my father as my uncle turned and ran for safety.
But it was not a cause for jest. One of the men stabbed at the creature with a crowbar, but, seizing the iron between its formidable claws, the monster wrenched it from the man's grasp, nearly throwing him to the deck. Another struck a heavy blow with an axe, but the steel seemed to have no effect upon the tough armour of the brute's shell, and it was clear that a man would stand little chance if caught by those powerful nippers.
"Hack off his legs!" shouted the bos'n, and, snatching an axe from one of the seamen, he put all his strength into a powerful cut at the creature's leg. The steel bit deeply into the member, but, before the bos'n could withdraw the axe, the crab spun round, swept the bos'n off his feet, and made for its prostrate antagonist, who, wedged against the ship's side, had no chance of escape. But before the hideous brute could accomplish its object, Lord, the quartermaster, made a bound, and alighted on its shell, and with his axe dealt two smashing blows at the creature's eyes. This interference caused the crab to swerve from its purpose, and, raising itself, threw the quartermaster to keep company with the bos'n.
Taking advantage of the raised position of the brute, my father fired three shots in quick succession from his revolver straight into its head, and, having had more than it cared about, the crab retreated for its den, but, before it reached the doorway, it stopped, gave a few convulsive struggles, and fell dead, a thin stream of pale-coloured blood trickling over the slimy decks into the debris on the lee side.
"Hot work while it lasted," remarked my father, ejecting the three empty cylinders and reloading his revolver. "Move the thing out of the way, and let's explore the cabins. I hope there are no more of that sort, though."
One of the men had returned with a lantern from the whaler, and by its aid we began our tour of the cabins and state-rooms. There were multitudes of crabs, large and small, though none approaching in size the one we had killed; several small cuttlefish squirmed in the mud that was ankle-deep on the floors; while overhead the mouldering beams were alive with immense worms, gliding in and out of the innumerable tunnels they had eaten in the timbers.
Most of the cabin doors were locked, but so rotten was the woodwork that a kick was sufficient to demolish them. The first five or six were practically empty, though one contained a number of brass-hilted swords, all in a more or less rust-eaten condition. At length we came to one over which were the letters "...apitan."
"This ought to contain something worth having, being the captain's," remarked my uncle, bursting open the door. Compared with the rest of the cabins this apartment was large and well-lighted, the stern window being fairly free from the trailing weeds.
Rotting curtains still hung from the walls; furniture that for nearly two centuries had floated against the once-gilded ceiling had fallen in utter confusion on the mud-covered floor, while there was the usual scurrying of swarms of shell-fish, as they sought shelter in the darker recesses of the room. In the centre stood two massive chests, bound with iron, and to these my father hastened, ignoring the crabs that impeded his footsteps.
"Hurry up with the crowbar!" he exclaimed excitedly, and, inserting the iron bar underneath the lid, he put his whole strength into the task of prizing open one of the chests.