“Mark you, if you miss the craft, you shall receive forty blows.”

(p. [214])

IN SHIP and PRISON

A Story of Five Years in the
Continental Navy with Captain
Samuel Tucker

By WILLIAM PENDLETON CHIPMAN
Drawings by ARTHUR DE BEBIAN

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.
NEW YORK AKRON, OHIO CHICAGO

Copyright, 1908
BY
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.
MADE BY
THE WERNER COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

“Of those heroic men who were distinguished in the American Revolution on land or sea, the far greater part have been depictured by able pens. Monuments have been erected, biographies have been written, and the elegant historian has adorned their memory with unfading wreaths. * * * But there is one man of no mean rank in the day of struggle—a pioneer of our infant navy—who took more prizes, fought more sea fights, and gained more victories than, with a very few exceptions, any naval hero of the age.”—From Shepard’s Life of Captain Samuel Tucker.

“He did his part, and did it nobly, while our navy was in an embryo state, and only consisted of a few armed sloops and schooners, and yet performed such essential service in supplying the destitute army of Washington.”—From American Almanac, 1835.

“It is well enough to bring the body of Paul Jones across the ocean and bury it in American soil with appropriate honors. But the nation should not forget that another man—Captain Samuel Tucker—lies in a neglected grave today; yet no man captured more prize ships, or did more to feed and clothe the army of Washington than he.”—From The Herald, editorial, 1905.

The incidents of this book are taken largely from the log-book of Captain Tucker, and are intended to picture the stirring times in which he lived, and the thrilling adventures in which he engaged. Midshipman Arthur Dunn, one of Captain Tucker’s officers, is the narrator, and his story covers the five years during which his commander played no small part in naval affairs. It is hoped the narrative will arouse in the heart of every reader an admiration for the brave Captain, and rescue from oblivion the name of another of our Continental heroes—the man who did so much to keep the land forces of our Revolutionary struggle supplied with ammunition and stores at the expense of the enemy.

William P. Chipman.

IN SHIP AND PRISON

CHAPTER I
I GO IN SEARCH OF CAPTAIN TUCKER

I cannot remember the time when I did not love the sea, nor is that strange. I was born in sight of the ocean. My father, and, as for that matter, his father before him, was a sailor. My first recollections are of boats and oars, of vessels and ropes and sails. At fourteen I had made a trip to the Great Banks on a fishing smack and at sixteen my knowledge of the Atlantic coast reached from Newfoundland to Charleston. Tall for my age, strong and hardy from constant toil and exposure, and familiar with all sorts of sailing craft from a shallop to a ship, I counted myself an able-bodied seaman. I now had one ambition—to voyage to foreign ports.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the single cable which bound me to the homeland was severed. My mother—the only parent I can remember, for my father was lost at sea while I was still a babe—died. I left her in usual health for a voyage to Norfolk. On my return I found her dead and buried. In caring for a neighbor, who was sick with typhus fever, she fell a victim to the disease. A small cottage with its scanty furniture, a few dollars in the care of Squire Sabins, the village lawyer, and her dying message—these were my legacy. It was the message which changed the course of my life, and sent me away from my native town for years. It read:

“My dear Boy:—

But for you I should rejoice over what the doctor just told me—that I have but a few hours to live—for it means a reunion with your dear father, though a separation from you. It is but a change from the presence of one loved one to the presence of the other. Sixteen years I have been with you, fifteen years away from him. Now I go to be with him, and leave you to the care of Him who has promised to be with the fatherless. He will keep you in all your ways.

Doubtless you know that there is no tie to keep you near home, and will carry out your long cherished wish of visiting other lands. You have my free consent. I was a sailor’s daughter and a sailor’s wife. I believe ‘it is as near to heaven by sea as by land,’ and have no objection, as you long have known, to a sailor son. I only suggest that you go to Marblehead and find Captain Samuel Tucker. He was a friend of your father, and will be your friend and adviser. Possibly he may be willing to give you a berth in his own ship; if not, he may be able to secure a place for you with some other captain as good and trustworthy as himself. This much I am sure he will be willing to do for you for your father’s sake. Never forget the great truths you have learned at my knee, and, living by them, you shall some day join your father and me in heaven. With my best love and a kiss,

Your dying mother,
Elizabeth Dunn.”

Squire Sabins, who had been appointed my guardian, though himself averse to the sea, offered no opposition to my plans, and a week later, with a new sailor’s kit and as fine an outfit as a lad of my age ever had, I left for Marblehead to look up Captain Tucker—a man whom I had never seen, but about whom I had heard from childhood, for, as the sole survivor of my father’s wreck on the coast of France, he had been the one to bring the tidings of that unfortunate event to my mother. I arrived at the village in the evening, and was left by the stage at Mason’s Inn, where I passed the night. Early the next morning, while I waited for the breakfast hour, I went out on the street for a stroll. Of almost the first person I met, an old fisherman on the way to his nets, I inquired for the residence of the man I was seeking.

“Capt’n Samuel, I ’spose you mean, seein’ how thar ain’t but one Capt’n Tucker here,” he responded. “That big, gabled house, standin’ thar all by itself on Rowland Hill, not far from the bay shore, is whar he lives when to home. But he hain’t thar now. He sailed yisterday from Salem for Lisbon.”

“You are sure of that, sir?” I asked with much chagrin at the thought that I had lost by a single day the man I was anxious to see.

“I orter be,” he answered good-naturedly, “seein’ how my Bill went with him, rated as an able seaman for the fust time, an’ I was over thar to see them off. Bill will make a capt’n yit, ye see if he don’t, for he’s with the smartest skipper that sails from these parts, who’s promised to do the square thing by the lad.”

I was in no state of mind to dispute his assertion, or to listen further to a recital of his family affairs, which he seemed disposed to make. Thanking him for his information, though it had not been to my liking, I turned abruptly and went back to the tavern, where the disagreeable news I had received was confirmed by the inn-keeper while I was at breakfast.

I arose from the table out of sorts with myself and uncertain what course I had better follow. I knew I could go back to my native town and reclaim the place I had given up on the coasting schooner. But I did not want to do that, now that I had bidden farewell to all my friends there with the expectation that I should not see them again for months, perhaps not for years. I could not afford to wait, without employment, until Captain Tucker returned. Could I find some other ship in the harbor, or over at Salem, on which I might secure a berth?

Debating this question with myself, I tramped about the town for several hours, visiting the cliffs, the beach, the wharves, the old powder house and Sewall fort. Occasionally I made inquiries about the seventy vessels of various kinds which I could count in the harbor, but while I found several opportunities to ship on a fisher or coaster, I did not find a single vacancy on a vessel bound across the ocean. Towards noon I reached Red Stone Cove, where there lay, stranded and broken in two, a long boat, perhaps once belonging to an East India-man. On the stern part of this disabled craft I at length sat down and soliloquized:

“Evidently there’s no chance for me here, and after dinner I’ll hire a boat and row across to Salem, and try my luck there. Perhaps I shall be more fortunate. If not, I can come back here, and take a berth on a fisher until Captain Tucker comes home.”

Little thinking the latter was the wiser course for me to follow by all odds, I arose to retrace my steps to the inn. As I did so I noticed that a yawl had rounded the opposite point, and was coming into the cove, apparently crossing over from Salem. It occurred to me that here might be a chance for me to secure a passage over to that town in the afternoon, so I waited the arrival of the boat. Soon it was near enough for me to see that it was pulled by two men in sailor garb, while a third, whose dress and appearance suggested he might be a ship’s officer, sat in the stern. In another moment the light craft touched the beach, and the last-named gentleman stepped ashore. As I went forward to accost him, I heard him say to his companions:

“Remain here, lads, until I return. I shall not keep you waiting long if I have good luck in finding the man I am after.”

“Aye! Aye! Capt’n,” they replied. “You’ll find us here when you get back.”

Those words gave directions to the form of my salutation, as I reached his side. Touching my hat, I said:

“I beg your pardon, Captain, but are you just over from Salem?”

“Yes,” he answered, a little gruffly, I thought, “but what is that to you?”

“Do you know of any vessel over there that will soon sail for Portugal?”

I added that last word to my query, for it had suddenly occurred to me that, if I could reach that country, I might join Captain Tucker over there as well as on this side of the ocean.

“I do,” he admitted, “but why do you ask?” and for the first time he looked me carefully over.

“I’d like to ship on her,” I cried joyfully. “Will you kindly tell me her name, and where I can find her captain?”

“I happen to be her master,” he responded affably. “Ebenezer Weston, of the brig Young Phoenix, bound from Salem to Oporto within a few hours,” he added with growing politeness. “Now tell me who you are and why you wish to go to Portugal.”

I promptly did so, without a single interruption or word of comment from him until my story was finished. Then he remarked:

“Arthur Dunn, son of Captain Thomas Dunn, and seeking for a place with Captain Samuel Tucker. That’s all in your favor, young man. Now tell me what experience you have had as a sailor—what do you know of a brig and the handling of her?”

Modestly I told him, saying I hoped to be rated as an able seaman on the vessel which shipped me.

We had been walking up the beach as we talked, and were now out of the hearing of the sailors who remained by the yawl, a fact Captain Weston was careful to note before he spoke again.

“I can do better than that for you, Arthur Dunn,” he then said, “if you think you can fill the place. What I want is a second mate. I came over here to look for a young fellow whom I know slightly and whom I believed would answer for the berth. He may be here, and he may not. He might be willing to ship with me and he might not. What is more important, you are here, and are ready to go. Now why can’t we strike a bargain?”

“I would do my very best, sir,” I stammered, hardly believing it possible the man could be in earnest in his proposal.

“You are rather young for the position, I admit,” he said more to himself than to me, “but you have had more experience at sea than the man I was after, and the stock you came from, as I happen to know, is excellent. Your father and grandfather were born sailors, and I believe it will prove so in your case. Anyway, I’m willing to take the risk, and will tell you what I’ll do. If you will sign for the voyage over and back, and not join Captain Tucker until he’s home again, which will be about the same time we heave into port, I’ll rate you at forty-eight shillings as a starter. How will that do?”

“I certainly shall accept the offer, and thank you for it, too,” I answered heartily. “When and where shall I report to you?”

He thought a moment; then replied: “There’s hardly room in the yawl for you and your traps, and it would be something of a job to tote the latter down here. So you’d better go back to the tavern, get your dinner, and take the afternoon stage over to Salem. Let the driver leave you at Long Wharf. I’ll have a boat there for you. This completes my crew, and we’ll sail on the morning tide.”

“I’ll be on hand, sir,” I promised, and turned towards the village. Before I reached the bank above the beach, however, he called out:

“Hey there, Master Dunn, I’m usually pretty close mouthed about my affairs, especially here in this town, so you needn’t say anything to anyone about whom you have shipped with. Just get your luggage and come over to the brig.”

“Very well, sir,” I answered, thinking little then about the strangeness of this request.

A rapid walk of ten minutes took me back to the tavern, where I got dinner, settled my bill and clambered onto the top of the huge coach that soon rattled up to the door.

“When shall we see you again?” asked the courteous inn-keeper, following me out to the stage, with an evident desire to learn more of me and my visit to the town than he had yet been able to ascertain.

“When I come back with Captain Tucker,” I retorted, little knowing how true were my words. “I’ve decided to go over the ocean after him.”

“Your business with him must be important, then,” he muttered as the great vehicle drove away.

Something more than an hour later I was on Long Wharf where I found Captain Weston had been as good as his word. The two men who had been with him at Marblehead were waiting for me with the yawl, and, loading in my kit, they took me swiftly out to as trim a brig as I had ever seen. Mounting to her deck I was warmly greeted by the man whom I, at that moment, counted my best friend, but who was to prove my greatest enemy before that voyage was over.

CHAPTER II
IN WHICH I DEFY THE CAPTAIN

“Here you are safe on board the brig, Master Dunn, and in good season,” Captain Weston said as he grasped my hand. “I’m glad of it, for I’ve changed my mind since I left you, and we’ll heave anchor and be off tonight. First of all, however, let me introduce you to my first mate. Master Thomas Marshall, this is our second officer, Master Arthur Dunn.”

As he spoke, a young fellow, who looked scarcely older than myself, though I learned later that he was just over twenty-one, stepped forward and offered me his hand.

“I’m glad to see you, Master Dunn,” he said in a hearty way that quite won my heart, “and I welcome you on board the Young Phoenix.”

Possibly my face revealed my surprise at finding the executive officer of the vessel but a stripling, for as I took Master Marshall’s hand, the Captain remarked: “Yes, it’s the Young Phoenix—young in name and young in age, for she is only three years old, and what is more fitting than that she should have young mates? Ha! ha! ha!” and he laughed quite boisterously over his attempt at pleasantry.

For myself, I thought his laughter unseemly, and for some reason, though I could not then have told why, it grated on my ears. But the irritation I experienced was forgotten or overlooked the next moment, for, turning to two sailors who stood near, Captain Weston directed them to take my luggage down into the cabin. Then, speaking to me, he added:

“And come right along yourself, Master Dunn. I’ll show you your quarters, and have you sign the ship’s articles, and explain to you about the watches. Then we’ll be ready to get under weigh.”

In five minutes these preliminaries were attended to, in ten minutes more the anchor was hoisted, and, with all sails set, the brig was standing out of the harbor. The breeze was a good one, the vessel proved herself a good sailer, and before sundown we were out of sight of land.

I do not imagine there was ever a more complacent lad than myself when I took the second watch at eight bells, and found myself for the time in sole command of the vessel. The night was a beautiful one; the stars showed bright and clear in the deep vault over my head; the wind—a west one—bore us rapidly along our course; the brig responded to every touch of the wheel like a thing of life; and my own feelings were in keeping with my surroundings.

I walked the quarter-deck with a slow and dignified tread, occasionally pausing to direct some member of my watch to tauten a rope, or ease up a sail, or to keep a sharp lookout forward. Perhaps these commands were not always necessary, but I issued them partly to impress my men with the feeling that I, though young, was equal to the place I had been called to fill, and partly that I might test the working of the vessel and familiarize myself with her peculiarities. For, though you may not know it, each ship has her own whims and moods, and only he who is thoroughly acquainted with them can have full mastery over her.

So the minutes rolled away, each new discovery about the brig increasing my complacency and giving shape to my thoughts. Here it was less than forty hours since I had left home, and, though I had not found Captain Tucker, I was in a better berth than he would have been likely to give or find for me, thanks to my fortunate meeting with Captain Weston. My quarters on the vessel were all I could ask; the meal I had eaten at dusk had revealed the fact that the captain was a good provider; the first officer, Master Marshall, appeared to be a good sort of a fellow and one I could easily get along with. On the whole, I was better off than I had even dared to hope or expect.

So I mused, and among my musings was one that took the form of a resolve: Captain Weston should have no occasion to regret the confidence he had put in me. I would do all that was possible to win his approbation, until I had been advanced to the position of first officer. From that it would be an easy step to the command of some vessel—and when that place was reached I could go back to my native village with pride and elation. Anyway, no more forecastle for me. I was in the cabin, and there I would stay until I was Captain Dunn.

I make mention of these thoughts here, for I was soon to learn the lesson that there is a vast difference between an idle fancy and the stern reality. In fact, my complacency received a rude shock almost immediately. Walking along to Bill Howard, the oldest and most experienced sailor on board the brig, who was taking his trick at the wheel, I asked:

“How does she handle, Bill? Does she mind her helm readily?”

“I’ve seed them that does better,” he growled.

“I don’t know about that, Bill,” I retorted. “I call this a pretty fine craft.”

“She’s well ’nough, I ’spose,” he admitted with some show of reluctance. “At the same time Bill Howard wishes he wasn’t on board of her.”

“Why, what’s the trouble?” I persisted. “It can’t be they don’t give you enough to eat. I saw the supper sent down to you tonight. You don’t often get better on shipboard.”

“I wants no better, if it only continues,” he replied.

“What makes you think it won’t, Bill?” I questioned, thinking he might have been along with Captain Weston on a previous voyage and had some revelation to make. I had known of skippers who always fed their crews well until they got them out to sea. It might be this that would prove to be the weak point of the man with whom I had shipped so unceremoniously. But his reply was a question.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but have you sailed on the brig afore?”

“No, Bill, I haven’t. Have you?”

“Never, sir! and I can’t find anyone from fust mate to cabin-boy that has.”

He paused a moment, as though giving me time to take in the assertion; then he continued:

“You’s young, sir, but I can see you are a sailor. Now let me ax you a question. Does it look well for a Capt’n when goin’ out of his home port to have to ship all new men? Bill Howard says no, an’ he’d never shipped on the brig had he knowed it. Mark my word, sir, I’m no croaker, but I’ll bet ye a month’s pay we’ll both wish we were ashore ’fore we make port again. An’ ’twon’t be the craft, sir; ’twill be the ol’ man.”

“Oh! I guess it won’t turn out as bad as that, Bill,” I replied with a laugh, and walked away.

But the conceit had been knocked out of me by his words. I was not so sure that I had been wise to jump so quickly at Captain Weston’s flattering offer. I was not so certain I wished to remain on the brig longer than for that voyage. And I built no more air castles during that watch.

A few minutes before the time for the watches to change Master Marshall came on deck. Surprised at his early appearance, I went forward to meet him. As I reached his side, dark as it was, I could readily detect that he was troubled about something.

“Master Dunn,” he began immediately, “may I ask if you are well acquainted with Captain Weston? Do you know anything about his habits?”

“No, sir,” I answered with a sinking heart. “I never saw him or heard of him until about three hours before I put my foot on the brig.”

“Then I’m not the only fool on board,” he remarked quickly, and I thought he said it with considerable satisfaction. “My acquaintance with him isn’t twenty hours old.”

He was silent a moment, and then as though some explanation was necessary went on:

“I belong in Eastport, Maine. My last berth was as second mate on a brig in the West India trade. We were wrecked a week ago, and a Salem craft picked us up and brought us in there. I’d hardly stepped ashore when I met Captain Weston. He called me by name, said he knew of me, and, being in want of a first officer, would give me the place if I could arrange to sail at once. Like yourself, I’m ambitious to get ahead; it seemed too good a chance to lose, and, as he was willing to advance enough for my outfit, I promptly accepted the offer. In two or three hours I made my purchases, mailed a letter home, telling of my good luck, and came aboard. As soon as I was settled in the cabin, the Captain went over to Marblehead after you.”

“Not after me,” I interrupted, and then I explained how I came to be shipped on the vessel as second mate.

“It looks bad,” he remarked when I was done. “Captains don’t usually pick up their officers that way. But doubtless some of the crew are old hands, and we can learn from them about the Captain.”

“No,” I declared, and then I told him of the conversation I had just held with Bill Howard.

“It’s worse than I thought!” he ejaculated. “New officers and new men throughout!”

“Why, what have you discovered?” I inquired, coming at last to the question which I had for some time been eager to ask.

“You’ll see for yourself when you go below,” he replied, “though I don’t mind telling you. He’s down there drinking like a fish, and is already so he can’t tell whether he’s afloat or ashore.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s no worse than that,” I said with a sigh of relief, “for I’m sure you and I can manage the brig.”

“It isn’t that that troubles me,” he responded quickly. “But you see he’s captain whether drunk or sober, and you can never tell what freak a drunken man will take. No, Master Dunn, we are in for it, and must stand together so far as we can for our own protection and for the protection of the crew.”

“You may count on me,” I promised, and as the watches were now changing I started for the cabin.

Once there, I found Master Marshall had not overstated the situation. The room was filled with the odor of rum, and a glass and bottle, both empty, sat upon the table, while the skipper was lying on the floor, now entirely overcome with the liquor he had drunk; and there he still lay four hours later when I again went on deck.

It was not, in fact, until the next day at noon that he came on deck, and I never knew a greater change in the appearance of any person within the same length of time than there was in him. From the neatly dressed, affable gentleman who had received me as I stepped on board the brig, he had now become the ill-kept, blear-eyed, irascible sot. Ignoring Master Marshall and myself, though both of us were near the wheel, he walked rapidly down to the galley, where the cook was issuing food to the men. Confronting that personage just as he came through the door of the caboose, his hands full of dishes, he angrily demanded:

“Who told you to give all that grub to those land-lubbers?”

“You did, sir,” stammered the man in great alarm. “Indeed, sir, I haven’t given them a single thing more than you told me.”

“Take that for your impudence,” the irate officer cried, and with his huge fist he struck the fellow a blow which sent him sprawling down the deck, while the dishes he carried rolled to the opposite rail.

“Now, sir,” he shouted as the unfortunate cook regained his feet, “hear me! You are to give the men just one-half what you’ve been doing until further orders, and mark! if I catch you adding a single pound to that, I’ll tie you to the mast and give you twenty lashes with the cat.”

“I’ll do just as you say, sir,” the man meekly promised, as he began to pick up his stray utensils.

That was the beginning of the brutal incidents we were called to witness or experience through the remainder of our voyage. I have no heart to write them out in detail here. But let me say I have followed the sea for well nigh sixty years now, sailing on all kinds of vessels and with all sorts of masters, but I never saw the equal of Captain Weston for meanness or brutality. The men were starved and beaten and worked nearly to death. I am sure there would have been more than one fatality but for the courage and tact of Master Marshall. When the captain was in his drunken stupors, he would issue extra food to the men on his own responsibility, and so make up to them in a measure that from which they were unjustly deprived. In more than one instance, when the commander in some ugly mood had ordered a sailor to the lash, he would contrive to put off the punishment until later, and, on the skipper’s returning once more to his cups, the man was allowed to go. But there were scores of times when he could do nothing, for the Captain liked to do the lashing with his own hands.

For a wonder I escaped any direct altercation with the Captain until we had sighted the Bayona islands off the coast of Spain. It was early morning, the sky was overcast, and a heavy wind was blowing from the north-east. I was in charge of the deck and had sent Bill Howard up the mainmast to belay a rope which had broken loose. He completed his task, and started on his return to the deck. Just then a sudden gust of wind took off his tarpaulin, and sent it scaling toward the cabin hatch. It reached there as the Captain poked his head out for a squint at the weather, and struck him in the face with a force that must have stung him severely. With an oath he leaped to the deck, and, discovering Bill bareheaded, he turned upon him with the fury of a maniac.

“You low-lived cur,” he hissed. “I’ll teach you better than to throw your hat at me! Here, Master Dunn, tie the villain to the mast, and I’ll give him forty blows with the cat.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, it was the wind that took off Bill’s hat,” I started to explain.

“So you will excuse his devilish trick, hey?” he shouted even more furiously. “Well, let me tell you he shall be whipped, and what is more, you shall give him the blows yourself. Here, men, tie that fellow to the mast there.”

The last words were addressed to two sailors who stood near him and they sullenly obeyed.

“Bring me the cat,” the angry officer commanded when poor Bill, with his back stripped bare, had been bound to the stick.

One of the sailors soon appeared with the ugly lash, and the skipper, turning to me, remarked with a satanic grin:

“Here, take this, Master Dunn, and for every blow you give that does not draw blood on yonder fellow’s back, you yourself shall receive two.”

My blood boiled within me, but I answered him calmly enough:

“Never, sir! You may lash me, kill me, as you please, but Bill is innocent and not a blow will I strike.”

There was an instant hush, as the sailors, aghast at my temerity, held their breath, and the wind itself lulled as though anxious to know the outcome of my defiance. Then with the roar of a maddened bull, Captain Weston leaped toward me.

CHAPTER III
LEFT ON THE BRIG

Clenching his fist as he came, he struck at me with all his tremendous strength, and, had he hit me, I am certain I should have been killed, but I was on the alert, and jumped to one side in time to avoid the blow. At the same instant the wind came again with great violence, the brig suddenly lurched, and my assailant pitched headlong against the starboard rail, striking his head with a force that knocked him senseless. The fact that he was attacking me did not prevent my hastening to his assistance. But quick as I was, another was before me. It was the first mate. He had come on deck in time to witness the skipper’s fall, and was already kneeling over the unconscious man when I reached his side. Tearing open the Captain’s waistcoat, he placed his hand over the heart, announcing a moment later:

“He’s only stunned, Master Dunn. I’ll have him taken down below, and do all I can for him. But you’d better keep out of his way for a while, and he may forget the whole affair.” Then rising, he directed two of the sailors to carry him down into the cabin. “Liberate Bill,” he added as he turned to follow them.

I was not slow to obey that order, and as I assisted the old tar in putting on his shirt and jacket, he said:

“I’m obleeged to ye, sir, for what ye’ve done, but I fear ye haven’t seen the last of it, an’ I’d rather ben flogged than got ye into trouble.”

“It’s all right, Bill,” I assured him. “Come what may, I shall never whip an innocent man. I should have done the same for any of the crew.”

“I knows it, sir, but Bill Howard won’t forget ye’ve done it for him, as ye’ll see,” and he went back to his station.

A half-hour later Master Marshall returned to the deck, saying:

“He wasn’t hurt any to speak of. There’s a big swelling on the top of his head, and he’s a little dazed over what has happened. But it don’t prevent him from going back to his rum. He’s pouring it down again as if it were water, and in a short time will be drunker than ever. I only hope he’ll keep so until we are in port. Then you can light out for Lisbon and join Captain Tucker. It will be safer than to stay here and face his anger when he does come to himself.”

“I won’t do that unless I have to,” I answered stoutly. “I’m as ready to do my full duty by Captain Weston as ever, but I won’t aid him in abusing innocent men,” and I explained how it was that Bill Howard had aroused the skipper’s wrath.

“I knew it was something of the kind,” he returned warmly, “for I was on deck in time to hear what you said. But you never know what freak a drunken man will take. He may forget this whole affair, as I have intimated, or he may hold the whole matter against you until he’s had his revenge. My advice is to leave the brig as soon as we are in port.”

“Why cannot we appeal to the consul?” I questioned. “Surely he will take our word against that of a drunken captain.”

“He may not give us the chance to make any complaint against him,” he replied, “but we’ll see. I only fear he will vent his anger in some way on you before we can make any move to prevent it.”

I tried to think that he was altogether too apprehensive of coming trouble, though I confess I finished my watch with much heaviness of heart. Then, having determined to face the worst immediately, I went down to my quarters as usual for a much needed rest. No sooner had I entered the cabin, however, than I found for the present at least I had nothing to fear, as the captain lay in a drunken stupor.

Throwing myself into my berth, I tossed about for some time, thinking over the incidents of the last hour or two. It seemed therefore as though I had scarcely closed my eyes when there came a call: “All hands on deck!”

I leaped to my feet, ran quickly to the ladder, noticing as I ran that the captain was still lying there in the same condition in which I had found him on entering the cabin, and clambered to the deck. A single glance told me why we had been called. The storm, which was brewing during my last watch, now raged in full force and the brig, under shortened sail, was staggering along before it, while the huge waves were chasing her and threatening to engulf her.

Master Marshall met me at the hatch.

“How’s the Captain?” he inquired somewhat anxiously. “Is he of any use to us?”

“Not the slightest,” I replied. “He don’t even know that I have been into the cabin.”

“Then, Master Dunn, we shall have to fight out the storm for ourselves,” he declared. “That is why I have called you to the deck. You must share the responsibility with me. What more would you do than I have done?”

I ran my eye over the craft. All her top-sails were taken in, but she still carried her mainsail, her foresail, and her jibs. Under these she dove her bow into the waves. It was evident she was too heavy forward to ride easily under the gale, so I said promptly:

“I’d take in every stitch of canvas but the jib and mainsail, sir, and reef those down to just enough to keep her steady. Then I’d ease her off a point or two from her course; it’ll keep her from diving into the seas that are threatening to swamp her.”

“It’ll keep her off shore and give us more sea room,” he admitted, “and as neither of us is acquainted in here, it isn’t a bad idea;” and then he gave the orders necessary to put my suggestions into execution.

For hours we kept on under the reefed canvas, the storm scarcely changing in its violence. Drenched to the skin, chilled to the bone, hungry from long fasting, we were in poor condition to meet the night which was now fast approaching. Since noon our hatches had been lashed down, and we knew nothing of what was going on in the cabin. If the skipper had aroused sufficiently to realize we were struggling with the tempest, he gave no signs of it.

We looked for no help from him. Still, assistance was to be providentially furnished us.

“Sloop ahoy!” shouted the forward lookout.

“Where away?” asked Master Marshall, hastening towards the bow.

“Two points off our larboard, and bearing straight down this way, sir,” was the reply.

“She’s a pilot boat, sir,” Bill Howard declared a moment later to me. “I’ve seen ’em too many times in here to be mistaken.”

He was right, for within five minutes she had run near enough for her commander to hail us in English and ask if we wished him to send a man on board.

“Yes, sir,” responded Master Marshall at the top of his lungs. Then he said to me in lower tones: “This is a Godsend, Master Dunn, though I don’t see how he can put a man aboard of us. No boat can live in this sea.”

But the Portuguese commander was equal to the occasion. Working up under our lee, he tossed a rope to our deck, the other end of which had already been made fast to the waist of the man he was going to send over to us; and no sooner did this fellow see we had caught the line than he plunged into the sea and swam vigorously for us. We speedily pulled him on board, well drenched but none the worse for his voluntary bath. He could speak enough English to make us understand we were only about thirty miles out of Oporto, into which he could take us, notwithstanding the darkness and storm. Greatly relieved, Master Marshall surrendered the command of the brig to him, and under his orders we were soon headed for that city.

Slowly the hours wore away, and as they passed the wind decreased somewhat in its violence, and the sea became less boisterous. It was evident the storm was abating, and new hope filled the hearts of all. Then when the pilot at length declared we were approaching the outer harbor of our desired haven, a cheer broke from the lips of the worn and weary sailors. Five minutes later, however, the newborn hope was suddenly changed to the gravest anxiety.

“Breakers!” called out the bowman, and the pilot himself ran forward at the cry.

“It’s long reef, off harbor,” he said a minute later in his broken English. “Drifted too far south; I soon clear them though.”

But he could not keep his promise. An adverse current as well as an adverse wind was against us, and soon he declared our only hope was to anchor until morning, when with a flood tide and daylight to guide us, we might sweep over the reef. So we cast over our anchor, took in all sail, and anxiously waited for the morning.

But it was not an easy place for a vessel to ride, and before long we discovered we were dragging our anchor, and making straight for the breakers.

“Must take boats—only hope,” the pilot announced.

Before Master Marshall could issue a single order, however, there came a loud rap on the cabin hatch near which I was standing. Throwing off the fastenings, I pushed the cover back and out stepped Captain Weston.

In the darkness we could obtain little idea of his appearance, but his voice sounded out loud and clear, as he asked:

“What’s the trouble? Where are we? Why have I not been called?”

It was a rather embarrassing situation, but ignoring the last question, I replied:

“We are drifting on the long reef off Oporto harbor, and the pilot says our only hope is to take to the boats.”

“The pilot says so? Where is he? How came he here?” the skipper next demanded.

Master Marshall kindly, saved me from further reply.

“Here he is, Captain Weston,” he said, bringing the Portuguese forward. “He’ll tell you all about our situation.”

Confronted by the pilot, and, apparently now recognizing the danger the brig was in, the captain made no further allusions to our neglect of him, but listened attentively to what the fellow had to say.

Though dumbfounded that he was now for the first time brought face to face with the real commander of the vessel, the pilot made a short and straight explanation of the situation, ending:

“No time to spare, Capt’n, we soon be on reef.”

Captain Weston had but to listen to understand the force of these words. Already above the howling of the wind could be heard the noise of the waves dashing on the rocks, and every moment the sound grew louder.

“Clear away the boats!” he commanded. “Master Marshall, you and your watch may take the first one. Let the pilot go with you. Master Dunn, see that the second one is made ready for you and your men. I’ll go with you.”

His words were calm and dignified, and I felt sure that in the common danger that threatened us he had forgotten any animosity he might have felt towards me. So I sprang to my station, and saw that our yawl was lowered into the tossing sea.

Master Marshall was first off, clearing from the brig’s side without mishap, and then my men tumbled into their waiting craft.

“Ready, sir,” I reported to the skipper, who still stood near the cabin as though loath to leave his vessel.

“All right,” he responded pleasantly, coming promptly over to the rail. “You are younger and sprier than I, Master Dunn, and so I’ll swing down first, and you may follow.”

“Certainly, sir,” I answered, and watched him as he disappeared in the darkness down the rope. I even took hold of the line to steady it, for it was swaying violently with every heave of the boat.

A moment later I knew he had reached the yawl in safety, for the cord was relieved of his weight, and so I swung myself over the rail to follow him. The next instant the rope parted below my feet and I was left dangling in the air. For a minute I knew not what to do, then thinking if the line had given away at the stern of the craft, her bow was probably still holding fast, I drew myself up as best I could to the deck, and hurried over to the other fastening. Swinging for the second time over the rail, I endeavored to lower myself down to the yawl, but as I did so I became aware of two things: this rope was also loose, and someone else as well as myself was clinging to it. Before I had recovered from my astonishment at these discoveries, the voice of Bill Howard cried out just below me:

“Go back, sir! For God’s sake, go back, sir! The Capt’n has cut you loose!”

CHAPTER IV
A DASTARDLY TRICK

It was neither the time nor the place to question this astounding announcement, so I drew myself back to the deck of the brig as best I could, and the next moment Bill Howard landed beside me.

“What is it you say, Bill?” I now demanded. “The Captain cut me loose? Then how come you here? Tell me all about it,” for though I knew Captain Weston was angry with me, I could hardly believe he would vent his spite in an act which imperiled my life.

“It’s jest as I tell ye, Master Dunn,” the old sailor began. “I was a slidin’ down the bowline when I heerd him tell ye to let him go fust. Now ’tisn’t nateral for a Capt’n to leave a stranded ship ’fore his men, an’ I smelt mice ’t once. So when my feet touched the boat I stayed right thar, holdin’ on to the rope. His feet hadn’t more than struck the stern when I felt that end of the craft swingin’ off, an’ I knew what he was up to, an’ ’spected to hear ye go chunk into the water. I let go the line an’ leaned over the side of the boat ready to grab ye when ye struck. But ye didn’t come, an’ then I knew ye’d gone back to the deck an’ would come down the other rope. So I rose to my feet to catch hold of it agin, an’ jest then the Capt’n calls out: ‘We are all here, lads, clear away.’ Jack Slade was next to me, an’ hearin’ the command, he whips out his knife an’ cuts the line ’fore I could say a word. I caught it though, an’ tried to hold the boat thar till ye could climb down, but the waves swept her out from under me quicker’n a flash, an’ all I could do was to tell ye to go back.”

I grasped the honest fellow’s hand, saying with much emotion:

“It was kind of you, Bill, to try to thwart the Captain’s purpose, but you have lost your only chance of escape by it. You’d better left me to my fate.”

“Not by a long way!” he retorted emphatically. “I told ye Bill Howard wouldn’t forget your kindness, an’ I’ve come back to help ye out of this scrape.”

“How?” I asked incredulouslv. “We are drawing nearer the reef every moment, and once we strike, it will be all up with the vessel and with us.”

“We hain’t goin’ on any reef tonight,” he persisted. “I thought it all out while holdin’ on to that line. Thar’s another anchor in the hold. We’ll get it out an’ down, an’ ’twill hold us till high tide. Then we’ll cut the cables an’ go straight over the reef into the harbor. A vessel did it here much as ten years ago. I heerd ’em tell ’bout it when I was here on the Sally Ann from New Bedford.”

They say a drowning man will catch at a straw, and I certainly was given new hope by my companion’s words. Together we went forward, got off the hatch, and with much difficulty hoisted out the anchor, though we shipped considerable water while at the job. To bend on a cable and carry it astern, where we had decided to put it out, was an easier task. But as we were about to throw the iron into the sea, I suddenly let go of it, crying out:

“Look quick, Bill. We are no nearer the reef than we were a half-hour ago. I believe the anchor we already have out has caught and is holding.”

He glanced toward the reef, and then, letting go his own hold on the spare anchor, answered joyously:

“Ye are right, Master Dunn, an’ we can keep this iron to hold us after we are over the reef.”

Five, ten minutes, we stood there watching, ready to put out the second anchor if it were needed. The darkness was so dense we could not see far away, but our ears helped where our eyes failed, and the sound of the dashing waves grew no louder. At length convinced that the brig was no longer drifting, we crept under the lee of the cabin, and waited with what patience we could for the flood tide.

We had only one way of telling when it was safe for us to venture across the reef—as the water grew in depth the sound of the breakers lessened. When, therefore, their noise had practically ceased, we crawled out of our retreat and went over to the stern rail.

“Will it do to cut loose now?” I inquired.

“I dunno,” Bill replied. “We want all the water under us we can get, but won’t want to wait till the tide slacks. How long d’ye ’spose we’ve been here!”

“Four hours,” I answered, making the best guess I could.

The old sailor did not question my estimate. “Then the tide won’t be clear for two hours yet,” he responded. “We’d better wait a while longer, I reck’n.”

We crept back to our shelter, and, in order to form some idea of the passing moments, I counted slowly to myself. My comrade evidently proposed to leave all the responsibility of deciding the lapse of time to me, for he said nothing until I announced:

“An hour has gone by, Bill.”

“Then we’ll start,” he said. “If ye’ll take the wheel, I’ll go forward, an’ cut the cable.”

I went aft, loosened the fastenings of the wheel, and stood ready to head the brig for the reef as soon as she was free. The next minute, like a race horse, she whirled to the larboard under a mighty gust of wind, and dashed away. Before I could get her bow around we were on the reef, and a grating sound told that her keel was grazing the rocks below. It was only momentary, however, for a huge billow caught her, and lifted her clear of the obstruction before she could pound a hole in her bottom, and on and over the great barrier we swept unharmed.

By this time I had the craft headed for the harbor, and the creaking of cords and the fluttering of canvas forward told me that Bill, single handed, was trying to put sail enough on her to steady her to her course. He must have succeeded for she soon became easy and sped on before the wind straight for the town, the glimmer of whose lights I could now faintly see.

My only fear now was that we might strike some sunken ledge, since I knew nothing of the waters before me, or run aground on some shallow bank. But of this fear I was soon relieved, for Bill came aft and on reaching my side, said:

“Let me take her, sir. I’ve been in here afore, an’ reckon I can put her where she’ll ride easy till mornin’.”

Gladly I gave up the wheel to him, and busied myself getting our remaining anchor ready to throw overboard when we were in a place of safety. Steadily the waters grew less boisterous, then the wind blew less violently, and I knew we were getting behind the headlands which enclosed the harbor. The lights of the city also gradually became more distinct, and after a while we began to pass vessels which were out-riding the gale in safety.

I turned to my comrade. “Had we not better anchor soon?” I queried.

“If you say so, sir,” he answered promptly, “but I’m sure I can take the brig a mile nearer town.”

I made no objection to this, and ten or fifteen minutes later he handed the wheel over to me, saying:

“I’ll go forward now, sir, an’ let down the jib. Then we’ll put over the anchor.”

These tasks were soon accomplished, and then we went to the caboose, built a fire, and got what might be called our supper and breakfast in one, for we had eaten nothing since the previous noon. The meal finished, I asked Bill to go into the cabin with me for a much needed rest. But he flatly refused, saying:

“It’s no place for the likes of me, sir; I’ll just tumble into my old berth, while ye take the cabin. I’ll call ye, if I wake fust.”

It seemed as though I had barely closed my eyes when he aroused me. “It’s broad daylight, sir, an’ our boats are comin’ back to us,” he explained.

I sprang up and followed him back to the deck. The storm had broken, the sun was at least two hours high, and there, between us and the town and coming down toward us, were our two boats with their crews.

Silently Bill and I awaited their approach. I do not know what his thoughts were, but for myself I could not help wondering what would be Captain Weston’s greeting. I hoped the saving of the brig would appease his animosity, and we might now be friends. For the sake of peace I was ready to overlook his base attempt to leave me on the stranded brig. In this spirit I turned towards him, as he mounted the deck, and waited somewhat anxiously his first words.

“So the brig drifted over the reef after all,” he remarked not unpleasantly.

“We cut her loose at high tide, and sailed her over,” I answered, and in a few more words acquainted him with our experiences during the previous night.

“Lost her anchor, did you?” he commented when I had finished the tale, and I thought his tones were growing sharp and crusty.

“We thought it better to lose that than to lose the brig,” I responded as calmly as I could under the resentment which was welling up in my heart.

“Hump!” he ejaculated. Then he turned to Master Marshall, saying: “Send all hands to their quarters, sir, and give them their rations. Then call me,” and he stalked away to his cabin.

The moment he was out of sight the first mate grabbed my hand. Wringing it heartily, he said:

“You have done a big night’s work, Master Dunn. The whole city is talking about it. But tell me how you and Bill came to be left on the brig.”

“I think I’d better leave that for the Captain to explain,” I replied drily.

But Bill Howard had no such notion, and at a look from Master Marshall blurted out the whole story. As he proceeded the face of the mate grew grave, and when the old sailor was done, he turned to me, declaring:

“This is a serious matter, Master Dunn. To desert you at such a time was little short of outright murder. We must report it to the consul.”

“Let us wait a while,” I suggested. “If Captain Weston only treats me fairly now, I am willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“I suppose that would be the easiest way out of the unpleasantness,” he admitted, “but unless you are squarely dealt with, I am ready to lay the matter before the consul. Remember this.”

Thanking him for his offer, I asked about his own experiences the night before.

“There is little to tell,” he answered. “The pilot was able to direct us somewhat, and after several hours of fighting with the wind and the waves we reached the inner bay and were safe. Landing about midnight, the old Portuguese took us to a sailor’s inn, where we were cared for. Captain Weston had a harder time, and it was nearly morning before he reached the shore, a mile or two below the town: Staying there until light, he came to the city, where he finally located us. Scarcely had he joined us when the pilot, who had left us to go to his own home, ran back with the astonishing news that the brig was anchored in the harbor. The captain wouldn’t believe it until his own eyes had rested on the craft and then the way he ordered us to our boats and started us off here would have made you laugh. I had, of course, learned that you and Bill had been left on the vessel, but had supposed it was because the second boat broke away from her side before you could board it.”

Two hours later the captain had the anchor weighed and the brig brought within a few cable lengths of the pier, alongside of which he expected in a few days to lay her. Then he went on shore, and was gone until night.

I was in charge of the deck when he returned, and with a slight nod in recognition of my presence he passed on to his cabin. He did not appear again until about nine o’clock the following morning. Then he came over to the rail where I stood looking off towards a British frigate which was anchored a half mile farther off shore than the brig. There were many signs of activity on board the man-of-war, and I was confident she was getting ready to leave the harbor. The same thought had evidently occurred to the skipper, for as he reached my side he asked:

“Do you think she is getting under weigh, Master Dunn?”

His tones were cordial, and as pleasantly as I could I responded:

“It looks like it, sir.”

“I must communicate with her captain before she goes,” he then declared. “Will you take over a note for me?”

“Certainly, sir,” I answered with no thought of what the outcome was to be.

“Get ready the yawl, and I’ll bring the missive at once. There is no time to lose,” he said, and hurried away to the cabin.

The boat was lowered, and four sailors were at the oars when he reappeared. Taking the letter from his hand, I swung down into the craft, and gave the order:

“Heave away, lads!”

As we left the side of the brig, he called out:

“Deliver the letter to Captain Rawlins himself, Master Dunn.”

“Aye! aye! sir,” I responded.

We made quick time to the frigate’s side, and to my hail: “Ship ahoy! I have a message for your captain,” an officer standing near the starboard rail answered: “Boat ahoy! We are waiting for you. Come on board at once.”

A little surprised at this greeting, I climbed up the ladder and was received by a midshipman, who conducted me at once to the captain’s quarters.

That officer sat at one side of a long table, and a sub-lieutenant, who was evidently acting as his secretary, sat at the other. Saluting the commander, I presented the note I had brought, and stood there waiting for the reply which I supposed would soon be given. Slowly the captain opened and read the note, and then glancing up at me, he asked curtly:

“Your name?”

“Arthur Dunn.”

“You are from Massachusetts Colony?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your age?”

“Nearly seventeen, sir.”

“You have put down these facts?” he inquired now of the young lieutenant.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have rated him as an apprentice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well,” he remarked, and then turned to me, saying to my astonishment:

“There you are, Master Dunn, duly shipped on His Majesty’s frigate, St. George, and we hope to hear good things of you.” Then to the midshipman, who had shown me to the cabin and who had all this time been waiting, he said: “Take him forward, Midshipman Seymour, and see that he is furnished with the usual outfit.”

By this time I had recovered sufficiently from my astonishment to protest:

“But, sir, I did not come here to ship on the frigate. I came simply as Captain Weston’s messenger.”

A look of surprise passed over the face of the captain as he glanced again at the missive I had brought.

“You admit you are Arthur Dunn,” he then said, “and there can be no mistake. Yesterday Captain Weston made full arrangements to place you as an apprentice on board of this frigate. This note says he has sent you here for that purpose. We will have no further words about it. Master Seymour, take him forward as I have directed.”

I knew there was no appeal from this decision, and sick at heart at this new and dastardly trick of my enemy, I turned and followed my conductor to the deck.

CHAPTER V
AN UNFORTUNATE REMARK

It was perhaps natural that as I followed Midshipman Seymour from the cabin I should try to think of some way by which I might release myself from the unhappy situation in which I was now placed. But before I reached the deck I had concluded there was little hope of any attempt on my part proving successful.

I knew there was no appeal from the decision of the captain of the frigate. His word was law not only on board of his vessel, but in the port, on all matters that pertained to the government of his men. Even the consul would hardly dare to interfere in any matter that had arisen between him and one of his crew. The best he could do would be to report the affair to the home government, and months might elapse before it was considered, with a likelihood of its being summarily dismissed as of too trifling a character to claim the attention of the commissioners. A friendless American lad would stand little show in a contest with a British naval commander.

To escape from the ship at that time by my own efforts was also out of the question. The ship was already in motion. That meant my own yawl had been sent away and so I was not surprised to behold it more than half way over to the brig when I emerged into the open air. But had it still been there by the ship’s side, it would have been of no service to me. Admitted I could have evaded the officer who had charge of me and reached the boat, to return to the Young Phoenix in it would only have been placing myself again in Captain Weston’s power, while to make for the shore would have precipitated a pursuit in which not only all the boats of the frigate, but every vessel near enough to read her signal, would have speedily engaged. Furthermore, to attempt to escape and fail would be to subject myself to the ill-will of both officers and crew, and render my position on the frigate infinitely more uncomfortable than I cared even to think of. No one loves a runaway. So with the best grace I could muster I followed my conductor amidships, where I was speedily given a sailor’s outfit; then I was taken forward and assigned a berth.

“You belong to the main truck crew, and are in the fourth watch,” Master Seymour now announced. “Put on your rig, and go to your place at once,” and then he left me.

In fifteen minutes I had donned my uniform, stowed away my extra traps, and was ready for the deck. As I came out of the forecastle, an officer stepped towards me, possibly to point out my station, but I surprised him and my station-master by walking over to my place without guidance, and by the looks the latter gave each other, I knew I had made a favorable impression on them.

The frigate, under full canvas, and with a piping breeze from the north, was making straight out to sea. And if I do say it, she made a pretty sight. There is to my mind nothing much handsomer than a fine ship with all her sails set to a favorable breeze; and I could not help a thrill of delight as I took in the scene.

Yet how strange it seemed to me to be a part of it! An hour before there had not been the slightest thought on my part that I should ever enter His Majesty’s navy. But here I was, wearing the royal uniform, duly entered on the frigate’s roster, and starting out on a cruise whose destination I did not even know. It might be a return to the colonies, or a voyage to the far east. This did not much concern me. The things which rankled me most were that I was there against my will, and that in an instant I had been thrust out of the cabin and back to the forecastle, which latter fact was especially galling to my pride.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted, however, by a direct order from Midshipman Seymour. The main sky sail had in some way loosened and wound around its yard, marring the beauty and the symmetry of the ship’s rig. Noticing it as he was passing me, the young officer called out:

“Here, Dunn, hurry aloft there and straighten out that sail.”

I think he called me purposely to test the mettle in me, but I was equal to the feat.

“Aye! aye! sir,” I answered, and, springing to the nearest ladder, I ran up the mast without hesitation or fear. In another minute I was astride the yard, and deftly releasing the canvas, I tautened it to its place, returning to the deck amid the cheers of my station mates.

We were now outside of the great reef over which I had come in the brig two nights before, and our pilot was preparing to leave us. I had some time before noticed that he was the same man who had boarded the Young Phoenix the night of the storm, but had thought little of the fact. Pilots come and go continually, and it was no more strange that he should be hired to take the frigate out than that he had been secured to take the brig into the harbor. But the cheers of the sailors attracted his attention, and he glanced towards me as I swung off the ratlines to the deck. He stared at me for a moment as though he could scarcely believe his eyes, and then he turned to the officer of the deck, and said something to him in his native tongue. The lieutenant replied in the same language, and then with their eyes upon me they engaged in an earnest conversation for a few minutes. Little knowing how much it was to effect my future, I went back to my station.

Once out of the harbor, the bow of the frigate was turned towards the south, and, somewhat anxious to know whither we were bound, I turned to one of my mates, an old tar who had started the cheering which had greeted me on my return from the maintopmast, asking:

“Say, mate, can you tell me what cruise we are on?”

He shook his head. “They don’t let the likes of us know,” he explained. “We may be goin’ to the South Pole for all Pete Berry knows. Say, youngster, who be ye? Ye’ve seen a ship afore, and know a bowline from a rudder, that’s sartain.”

Thanking the old sailor for his compliment, without explaining how I came to be on the frigate, I told who I was, and the main facts of my sea-faring life.

“So yer name is Dunn,” he commented when I was through, “an’ ye’re no greenhorn. I’m glad o’ that. We’ve got more’n sixty aboard now, an’ don’t need another.”

The disgust of the old salt as he announced this fact amused me and we were soon chatting away like old chums. We talked of the ship, of her rigging, and of her sailing qualities. Inadvertently during our conversation I alluded to a few changes that I would make in the adjusting of her canvas to bring out her best speed, and with a quick discernment Pete asked:

“Have ye ever ben in the cabin, sir?”

“Yes, as mate,” I assented, my downfall coming vividly before me.

“I thought so,” he remarked curiously; “an’ wonder what ye’re doin’ here.”

Before I could reply we were piped to rations, and I was saved from appearing rude by not answering him. The rest of the day was passed in the usual routine of a man-of-war, and by night I had become sufficiently familiar with my duties to perform them as readily and handily as any of my mates. My deftness was no longer a surprise to them, however, for Pete had quickly circulated not only the facts of my sea experience, but the additional fact that I had been an officer on the brig I had just left—though this was a shrewd guess on his part, for I had not mentioned the vessel on which I had served as mate. Greatly amazed that I should leave such a berth to enlist on the frigate as an apprentice, they became certain there was a mystery connected with the incident, which my good luck the following day partially explained.

It came just after our morning rations had been issued. A midshipman came forward, and, calling me by name, said I was wanted at once in the cabin. Surprised at this summons I obeyed, and was ushered into the presence of the Captain, who sat in the same place at the same table, with the same sub-lieutenant opposite him as when I was there before.

“Good morning, Master Dunn,” was his greeting, and he spoke with a heartiness I had not expected.

“Good morning, sir,” I replied politely.

“You were mate on the brig Young Phoenix?” he then asked.

“Yes, sir, second mate,” I admitted, wondering what was coming.

“Did Captain Weston abandon you when the vessel was off the great reef during the night of our recent storm?”

“Yes, sir,” I assented, querying with myself how he could have learned of the fact.