In ship and prison

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.