Bahama Bill, Mate of the Wrecking Sloop Sea-Horse

by T. Jenkins Hains

"I'm learning it now," said Macreary, cheerfully, sitting down and gazing over the sea to where the tiny speck of the bark's topmast showed above the horizon. He was not going to show how absurd and mean he felt to that crowd, so he sat and gazed apparently calm and unruffled, without a sign of the burning shame which seemed to stifle him.

He was now silent and thinking. There was a short cut along a narrow and tortuous channel which would let the vessel out to sea close to the point of the dry coral bank, or end of Cay. He thought he might know it, although he had only been through twice before. The wreck lay only a few miles beyond, and even now the white glint of the rival wrecker's sails showed plainly that he would board the prize first and claim the salvage. But the memory of the big black mate's hand was too strong upon him, and he kept silent. The Sea-Horse was working up behind the reef and it was noticeable how smooth and sheltered the sea was in its lee. It would make a fine harbour for a vessel caught working upon the wreck in a heavy easterly, if she could navigate the channel. But the master of the Sea-Horse knew nothing of the channel, and he would have sooner thrown the pilot overboard than trusted him again. He stood out behind the Cay and made a good offing, reaching well off into the open ocean in spite of the fact that he would have ten miles further to go.

But Macreary sat silent and watched the horizon where the black speck rose. He was not thinking about the wreck. To him it was nothing whether a Conch or two should make a little money from the disaster of a sailor. His thoughts were back with the strange men he had left upon the Cay of the Great Bahama, the little band led by the tall and muscular Jones, leader of the Sanctified people who sought refuge from the strife of the world upon the sun-beaten reefs of the Bahama Bank.

Jones had taught him to read. Jones had read to him from the Book of all Books, the relic of an ancient literature, revised, rewritten and put together in somewhat disconnected pieces, the Bible of the most enlightened people upon the face of the world. And in it he had heard the words of wisdom as set down by men who had gone before, men who had lived their lives and who had learned from experience. And the philosophy of these men he believed was true, for they had lived their lives out and had left behind them the results of years of life. It was not the one tale of a single man, which must necessarily be narrow and worthless, but it was the gatherings of the teachings of many who had been in positions to learn. Yes, what Jones had read him was the philosophy of ages. And Jones had read to him, "Hide not thy light under a bushel," and he had told him that it meant to use what talents he possessed, to try to do what he thought he was able to—and not hang back. He felt abashed and ashamed beyond expression at his failure, for he had believed he was a fit pilot over the Bank. He founded his belief upon the fact that he had gone fishing many times in a small skiff in the vicinity of the island and had twice gone southward along the edge of the Bank; he had noticed many times how the water shoaled from the deep ocean to the white water of the coral reef. It was hard to account for his failure, he thought, with men aboard who must have seen the bottom as plainly as he, himself, could—and then the big black man's mortifying stroke——

The vessels stood toward the wreck under the impetus of the easterly breeze, the Buccaneer, a point free, raced up and let go her anchor close under the bark's lee in just enough water to float. Then her skipper putting forth in a small boat boarded the Ramidor just as the Sea-Horse came through the breakers on the edge of the Bank. She cleared the bottom by a few inches, although the wash of the sea swept her decks and drenched the men standing by to take in the mainsail and let go the hook. Sanders ran her well in behind the wreck and rounded to, scraping up the sand with the keel, and anchored behind the Buccaneer. It was close work and a heavy sea would drop both vessels heavily upon the reef. They must make good use of the smooth water, and Sanders hailed his lucky rival to get what he could.

"See ye got a wrack there," said he, calling to the long Yankee skipper, who smiled at him from the bark's quarter-deck.

"Talk like ye never see it afore. Wonder ye didn't notice it bein' as ye were headin' this way. Strange how these Dagoes pile up thar ships," answered the skipper of the Buccaneer.

"Don't suppose ye want to whack up, hey? An' have us turn to an' help with the cargo?"

The long skipper squirted a stream of tobacco juice over the side in derision.