“Ware ye sure rung in like the rest? Waren’t ye in the game?” Then he burst into a hoarse laugh and held out his hand. At that minute the tramp of feet sounded overhead, and a half-score of men came clattering down the companion-ladder.
It was a mixed crew,--Norwegians, Swedes, dagoes, and Dutchmen,--but all with the unmistakable swing of the deep-water sailor. They stared at me, and then started a gabble of language that in my disturbed condition I failed to understand. They crowded around me and asked questions, and I noticed Anderson eyeing me suspiciously. Then Martin, with a sweep of his hand, cut them off, and began telling how I came aboard. When he was through with his flowery description of Henry, I noticed several men shake their clenched hands aft.
“Well,” said I, “I’m the mate, and I guess I’ll go aft and find out who rapped me over the head. Some fellows in the other watch, I suppose.”
They burst into derisive laughter.
“We’re all mates and captains here,” sung out a big Norwegian addressed as Bill. “You better turn in while you may, friend Heywood. You’re in Henry’s watch, an’ the captain ain’t turned out yet.”
“Who’s the old man?” I asked, bewildered, and thinking I must still be daffy from the crack on the head.
“Ain’t seen him yet,” said several at once.
“Well, what infernal hooker am I in, anyway?” I asked Martin.
“They call her The Gentle Hand, but there ain’t na name painted on her. Some says she’s the Fly-by-Night, Howard’s old pirate barque, but that canna weel be. She’s light. Not a hundred ton below decks, an’ that’s mostly stores.”
“The Fly-by-Night was a cruising brig before the first war with England,” I said. “It can’t possibly be that old hooker. Besides, she was used against the French by your General Braddock.”