CHAPTER XXXVII. THE LAST STRAND OF MY YARN

When we came alongside the man-of-war, another small boat had already arrived. Lights were in the gangway, and forms showed along the rail. The vessel was a brig-rigged cruiser, not very large, but, judging from the heaviness of her spars that towered above in the darkness, she was very fast, capable of overhauling the majority of traders. She would not have caught The Gentle Hand in a breeze of any weight, and, as I gazed at her, I remembered the sail I had seen before dark, and to which I had called Bill’s attention while aloft. This vessel was evidently the one seen but not reported, and she had probably crept up on us in the darkness without our knowing it. Then came the rising forward among the men, planned and led by Shannon and Martin, who had plotted with the slave-driver ashore for some of the profits. They had intended taking the barque in themselves, selling and landing the cargo somewhere on either the Cuban or American coast, and then making 314another trip, or sinking her before being overhauled and found out. It was a game easily played among dealers who asked few questions and who paid cost prices. Clearing would not be difficult to men who thought nothing of forging papers, and who would close the mouths of certain officials of the Spanish ports well known to them by handing over a small percentage of the profits. How it all ended is now known, and I seemed to be the sole survivor of the affair.

We ranged alongside the cruiser, and the order came to peak oars. How the accurate obedience of the men and quick, certain movements brought back memories of the days when I wore the blue uniform and served frigate’s guns. Then we were fast, and I was ordered to stand up.

“Now then, up with you,” snapped the officer aft. “Clap that fellow in irons as he comes aboard,” he added to the quartermaster, who stood in the gangway, and who promptly laid a heavy paw upon my shoulder. I was seized by two sailors and hustled below without further ado, and when I arrived in the ’tween-decks, a fellow clapped the irons upon my wrists.

“Where’ll we put him?” asked one of the sailors of the master-at-arms, who was superintending operations.

The light from the lanterns shone upon me, and 315I must have presented a pretty hard spectacle. Several wounds that I had received had begun to bleed afresh, and the salt water mixed with the blood, completely saturating my clothing.

“You look like you had a clip or two, my friend,” said the master-at-arms to me. “Had a bit of a fracas, hey?”

The tone was familiar, and I looked hard at the man. Then, in spite of his clean-shaved face and uniform, I had no difficulty in recognizing old Peter Richards, bos’n of The Gentle Hand.

“Well, how in thunder did you get here?” I asked.

“Didn’t you get my note?” said Richards.

“I did, but am not the scholar you appear to be. Sink you, Peter, how did you play it on me so?”

Richards smiled grimly.

“You know,” he said, “when you first signed with old Watkins, I did not want to go in the barque. Your gaff set me on, John, and I thought you such a fool you would get in trouble. I knew what she was, well enough, but I would have stayed with her if they had treated me right. But folk in that business don’t treat people right. The whole game is one of wrong and oppression,--an’ you know it. When I left, I knew she was going out the next day, and tried to tell you, but you had just gone 316ashore, and when I found you had gone, I went as far as the place where you had the outfly with Curtis on account of the gal. I heard of the mess, an’ got to the long skipper’s boat in time to see him rowing you back to The Gentle Hand.”

“Did you know what he had in the chest, too?” I asked.

“No, but I knew he was up to something. I knew he couldn’t do much with the vessel he had, and I thought I would come along in your wake in this brig. We got here too late. Tell me how the trouble came about.”

I told as much as I could of the rising, and before I was through, an officer called him aft to give instructions about me. I knew he would do what he could, and hoped to have him stand between me and the end of the gant-line.

While he was gone, a master’s mate came up and took me in hand.

“What became of the rest of the crew?” he asked,

“They killed all hands,” I answered, sullenly. “I’m the only one left.”

“Not exactly,” answered the sailor, kindly. “Not exactly, my boy. There’s a pretty good lump of a Welshman and a fairly sized Dutchman already ahead of you.”

317“What!” I cried. “Did you pick up Miss Allen and Big Jones?”

“I haven’t the honour of the gal’s acquaintance,” said the fellow, “but we’ve got her aboard all right, and the men with her. Who is the young lady,--the skipper’s daughter?”

“Daughter of the trader,” I answered, with a feeling of relief. “Her father was killed with the rest. So she’s aboard, is she?”

“All safe, but we don’t hang women for piracy, so I don’t know what the old man’ll do with her. No, Sam, we won’t put him in the brig,” he said, addressing one of the men. “It’s too hot, too much like the hold of a slaver to suit him. I’ve always noticed these fellows are mighty particular about themselves. You can stow yourself there in that hammock to-night, my friend, and here’s some togs for you,” he continued to me, “and here’s a nip of grog for you. Stand by for a call to come aft and be sentenced.”

His tone was kindly, but so cool withal, when discussing my probable end, that I hated the fellow. Hadn’t I gone through enough? Must I be goaded and hung, after all? I changed my dripping clothes, with the help of a couple of men who loosed my hands for a few minutes, and then the order was passed to bring me aft to the captain for examination.

318Tired and exhausted as I was, I was hustled aft between two sailors, and brought to the poop, where sat the captain of the cruiser in a chair. He was only partly dressed, on account of the heat, and he smoked a long cigar of the kind rolled in Cuba. Richards had passed a word for me, and he looked less dangerous than I expected.

He was an intelligent officer, and, as I told my story, beginning at the time I was tricked into signing into the barque, he became interested, and I could see he believed much I told. While I talked, Jones was brought up, and, without hearing what I had already said, corroborated me in all details. Then we were allowed to go below and turn in, and for twelve blessed hours I knew nothing. Ernest was too far gone to talk that night, but the next day his story was found to be in the main like ours.

As for Miss Allen, she was unable to leave her room for several days, but when she could tell of the affair, her testimony did much to save our lives.

We were paroled and given the liberty of the ship while she cruised to the eastward along the coast of the Guinea Gulf and Bight of Benin.

Soon I found the cruiser, which proved to be the Hornet, was looking for a brig commanded by a fellow named Shannon, who had made a reputation on the coast for being a most desperate pirate and slaver. When the bos’n came aboard, they immediately 319gave chase to the barque. Then I explained the affair that happened in Funchal, and the encounter with the brig to the southward of that place. It was evident from my description of the fellow that it was the same man they were hunting, and they finally had enough confidence in my testimony to bear away again to the westward and start up the coast.

After two weeks’ cruising under the hot sun, we raised the topsails of a peculiar-looking craft that was heading down toward the slave coast. Her foretopmast was remarkably short, and, as we overhauled her, I had no difficulty in recognizing Captain Shannon’s vessel.

She saw us and stood inshore close-hauled, and when within a mile of the beach, backed her foresail and waited for us to come up. The brig fired a shot or two across her, and then called away three of her boats, which were filled with armed men, to go in and take possession.

We were to leeward, and the odour that came down the wind told plainly her occupation. Had it been night, Brannigan would have dumped the blacks he had aboard into the sea, for he was capable of anything, but the sun was shining now, and it was no use, for he had failed to recognize the Hornet as a man-of-war until she was close enough to see any such man?uvre from her tops. There 320was nothing to do but either get rid of the cargo, or get out of his vessel, and, as we could now see her deck plainly, Brannigan chose the only course to keep clear of the hangman’s noose. He lowered down his boats, and, as ours started in for him, he started for the beach, keeping up a rapid and well-directed fire from muskets until he struck the surf. His brig, which had been named the Black Jewel, after the manner customary among facetious slave-ship owners, was scuttled where she lay as soon as the blacks were taken out of her.

As the Hornet had been some time on the coast, just as soon as she put the slaves ashore, she stood away for home. We crossed the line, picked up the northeast trade, and made a straight course for the States.

I was allowed the freedom of the deck after I had made known my true rating, and had explained how I had once served in a war-ship and as first officer in several others. In this way I had a chance to meet Miss Allen.

“You are a rough sailorman, are you not, Mr. Heywood?” she asked one day, as we neared the Carolina coast.

“I suppose I may be classed as such,” I assented, “but I’ve held a master’s position once, and been mate of several ships.”

“Well,” she said, “I must confess that I like 321rough sailormen very much. You know I’ve been used to the society of gentlemen.”

“Your discernment in choosing acquaintance does you immense credit, Miss Allen,” I answered. “I’m sure I feel honoured.”

“I have always associated with men who could read and write, you know, and who have been to school. But I do like rough sailormen. They have much that is interesting about them,” she continued, calmly, without heeding my interruption.

“There are over a hundred on board this ship,” I asserted, getting my breath. “Possibly some of them could sign their names, or, at least, make a cross-mark opposite them. As for me, I fear so much learning would be dangerous in so rough a sailor.”

She flushed, and I saw at once that she had meant nothing disagreeable. Then she asked me straightway about Sir John Hicks.

“How was it he did not follow us?” she asked.

“Because he held the ladder for me,” I answered.

“And you let him stay below while you escaped,” she cried, her eyes flooding scorn and contempt. “You, a sailor, let him die, and ran to save yourself?”

“Only after he refused to go. I did all I could to persuade him,” I answered.

She looked long and steadily at me. Then she 322turned and went slowly below, and I saw her no more on board. We ran in between the Chesapeake Capes, and Jones, Ernest, and myself were soon given our liberty.

I took command of a coaster running general cargo to Havana, and before I sailed I received a letter from New York. I read it over and over many times on the run south, and finally decided to call on the writer at the end of the return voyage. But this matter has nothing further to do with the last voyage of The Gentle Hand.

Sometimes I wonder at the end of all those former shipmates of mine, all the strange, savage, and kindly crew of that old, ill-fated barque. Even Tim, the little American sailor, had a history. Where are all those faces, the strong, bad, saturnine, and jovial? They flit like phantoms through my memory,--men who have gone before. I have missed their voices often. In the deserted forecastle of some large, home-arrived ship, I have more than once half-expected to meet one or more of that last crew I sailed with as a man before the mast.

Far away offshore, in the middle of the southern ocean, I have heard that strange voice of the sea again, the low, far-reaching, vibrating murmur that thrills the soul of the listener until each fibre of his being responds. It is then the sailor realizes 323the vast world of rest and peace of the countless crews who have gone before, and wonders as though the cry came from some mighty invisible host, calling through the void of air and sunshine. He thinks of the men he once knew, and wonders. They were good. They were bad. They were a mixture of the two. But they were all human. And who shall say where they have gone?

The End