Harvey sprang from his bunk and extinguished the feeble flicker that had given them light, then crept back again. He was young; he was weary; he was hopeful. He was soon asleep, rocked by the uneasy swinging and dipping of the vessel. Mr. Thomas Edwards, travelling man and gentleman patron of the best hotels, envied him, as he, himself, lay for hours awake, a prey to many and varied emotions.
But he, too, was not without a straw to cling to. He had his plans for the morrow; and, as tardy slumber at length came to his weary brain, he might have been heard to mutter, “I’ll sell that captain a line—a line—a line of talk; I’ll make him take it, or—or I’ll—”
His words ceased. Mr. Thomas Edwards had gone upon his travels into dreamland. And, if he could have seen there the face and figure of Captain Hamilton Haley of the bug-eye, Z. B. Brandt, and have listened to that gentleman engaged in the pleasing art of conversation, he might not have been so hopeful of selling him a “line of talk.”
CHAPTER V
THE LAW OF THE BAY
The bug-eye, Z. B. Brandt, lay more easily at anchor as the night wore away and morning began to come in. The wind that had brought the rain had fallen flat, and, in its stead, there was blowing a gentle breeze straight out the mouth of the river, from the west. The day bade fair to be clear. Still, with the increasing warmth of the air upon the surface of the water, a vapour was arising, which shut out the shore in some degree.
To one looking at it from a little distance, the vessel might have presented a not unpleasing appearance. Its lines were certainly graceful—almost handsome—after the manner of that type of bay craft. The low free-board and sloping masts served to add grace to the outlines. The Z. B. Brandt was a large one of its class, something over sixty feet long, capable evidently of carrying a large cargo; and, at the same time, a bay-man would have known at a glance that she was speedy.
Built on no such lines of grace and speed, however, was her skipper, Captain Hamilton Haley, who now emerged from the cabin, on deck, stretched his short, muscular arms, and looked about and across the water, with a glance of approval and satisfaction at the direction of the wind. He was below the medium height, a lack of stature which was made more noticeable by an unusual breadth of chest and burliness of shoulders.
Squat down between his shoulders, with so short and thick a neck that it seemed as though nature had almost overlooked that proportion, was a rounded, massive head, adorned with a crop of reddish hair. A thick, but closely cut beard added to his shaggy appearance. His mouth was small and expressionless; from under heavy eye-brows, small, grayish eyes twinkled keenly and coldly.
Smoke pouring out of a funnel that protruded from the top of the cabin on the starboard side, and a noise of dishes rattling below in the galley, indicated preparation for breakfast. Captain Haley, his inspection of conditions of wind and weather finished, went below.
A half hour later, there appeared from the same companion-way another man, of a strikingly different type. He was tall and well proportioned, powerfully built, alert and active in every movement. His complexion showed him to be of negro blood, though of the lightest type of mulatto. His face, smooth-shaven, betrayed lines that foreboded little good to the crew of any craft that should come under his command. His eyes told of intelligence, however, and it would have required but one glance of a shrewd master of a vessel to pick him out for a smart seaman. Let Hamilton Haley tell it, there wasn’t a better mate in all the dredging fleet than Jim Adams. Let certain men that had served aboard the Brandt on previous voyages tell it, and there wasn’t a worse one. It was a matter of point of view.
Captain Hamilton Haley having also come on deck, and it being now close on to five o’clock of this November morning, it was high time for the Brandt to get under way. Captain Haley motioned toward the forecastle.
“Get ’em out,” he said curtly.
The mate walked briskly forward, and descended into the forecastle. The two seamen in the upper bunks, sleeping in their clothes, tumbled hastily out, at a word from the mate, and a shake of the shoulder. The men in the two lower bunks did not respond. Angrily raising one foot, shod in a heavy boot, Jim Adams administered several kicks to the slumberers. They stirred and groaned, and half awoke. Surveying them contemptuously for a moment, the mate passed them by.
“I’ll ’tend to you gentlemen later on, I reckon,” he muttered. Jack Harvey, aroused by the stirring in the forecastle, had scrambled hastily out, and was on his feet when the mate approached. The latter grinned, showing two rows of strong, white teeth.
“Well done, sonny,” he said. “Saved you’self gettin’ invited, didn’t you? Just be lively, now, and scamper out on deck. Your mammy wants ter see you.”
“All right,” answered Harvey, and stooped for his shoes. To his surprise, he felt himself seized by the powerful hand of the mate, and jerked upright. The mate was still smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes that there was no mistaking.
“See here, sonny,” he said, “would you just mind bein’ so kind as to call me ‘mister,’ when you speaks to me? I’m Mister Adams, if you please. Would you just as lieves remember that?”
Jack Harvey was quick to perceive that this sneering politeness was no joke. He answered readily, “Certainly, Mr. Adams; I will, sir.”
The mate grinned, approvingly.
“Get along,” he said.
Pausing for a moment before the bunk in which Mr. Tom Edwards was still sleeping, the mate espied the black tailor-made coat which the owner had carefully folded and stowed in one corner before retiring. From that and the general appearance of the sleeper, it was evident Jim Adams had gathered an impression little favourable to the occupant of the bunk.
“Hmph!” he muttered. “Reckon he won’t last long. Scroop’s rung in a counter-jumper on Haley. Wait till Haley sees him.”
His contempt for the garment, carefully folded, did not however, prevent his making a more critical inspection of it. Drawing it stealthily out of the bunk, the mate quickly ran through the pockets. The search disappointed him. There was a good linen handkerchief, which he appropriated; an empty wallet, which he restored to a pocket; and some papers, equally unprofitable. Tossing the coat back into the bunk, the mate seized the legs of the sleeper and swung them around over the edge of the bunk; which being accomplished, he unceremoniously spilled Mr. Tom Edwards out on the floor.
There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he did so; a consciousness that here, in these waters of the Chesapeake, among the dredging fleet, there existed a peculiar reversal of the general supremacy of the white over the black race; a reversal growing out of the brutality of many of the captains, and the method of shipping men and holding them prisoners, to work or perish; in the course of which, captains so disposed had found that there was none so eager to brow-beat and bully a crew of recalcitrant whites as a certain type of coloured mates.
Tom Edwards, awakened thus roughly, opened his eyes wide in astonishment; then his face reddened with indignation as he saw the figure of the mate bending over him.
“Would you just as lieve ’blige me by gettin’ your coat on an’ stepping out on deck?” asked the mate, with mock politeness.
Tom Edwards arose to his feet, somewhat shaky, and glared at the spokesman.
“I want to see the captain of this vessel,” he said. “You fellows have made a mistake in your man, this time. You’d better be careful.”
“Yes, sir, I’m very, unusual careful, mister,” responded the mate, grinning at the picture presented by the unfortunate Mr. Tom Edwards, unsteady on his legs with the slight rolling of the vessel, but striving to assert his dignity. “Jes’ please to hustle out on deck, now, an’ you’ll see the cap’n all right. He’s waiting for you to eat breakfas’ with him, in the cabin.”
Tom Edwards, burning with wrath, hurriedly adjusted his crumpled collar and tie, put on his shoes and coat, and hastened on deck. Glancing forward, he espied Harvey engaged at work with the crew.
“Here, Harvey,” he cried, “come on. I’ll set you right, and myself, too, at the same time. I’ll see if there’s any law in Maryland that will punish an outrage like this.”
Somewhat doubtfully, Jack Harvey followed him. Jim Adams, leering as though he knew what would be the result, did not stop him. The two seamen, also, paused in their work, and stood watching the unusual event. Captain Hamilton Haley, standing expectantly near the wheel, eyed the approaching Mr. Edwards with cold unconcern. Perhaps he had met similar situations before.
Under certain conditions, and amid the proper surroundings, Mr. Thomas Edwards might readily have made a convincing impression and commanded respect; but the situation was unfavourable. His very respectable garments, in their tumbled and tom disarrangement, his legs unsteady, from recent experiences and from weakness, his face pale with the evidence of approaching sea-sickness, all conspired to defeat his attempt at dignity. Yet he was determined.
“Captain,” he said, stepping close to the stolid figure by the wheel, “you have made a bad mistake in getting me aboard here. I was drugged and shipped without my knowing it. I am a travelling man, and connected with a big business house in Boston. If you don’t set me ashore at once, you’ll get yourself into more kinds of trouble than you ever dreamed of. I’m a man-of-the-world, and I can let this pass for a good joke among the boys on the road, if it stops right here. But if you carry it any farther, I warn you it will be at your peril. It’s a serious thing, this man-stealing.”
Captain Hamilton Haley, fortifying himself with a piece of tobacco, eyed Mr. Thomas Edwards sullenly. Then he clenched a huge fist and replied.
“I’ve seen ’em like you before,” he said. “They was all real gentlemen, same as you be, when they come aboard, and most of ’em owned up to bein’ pickpockets and tramps when they and I got acquainted. I guess you’re no great gentleman. When a man goes and signs a contract with me, I makes him live up to it. You’ve gone and signed with me, and now you get for’ard and bear a hand at that winch.”
“That’s an outrageous lie!” cried Tom Edwards, shaking his fist in turn at Captain Haley. “I never signed a paper in my life, to ship with you or anybody else. If they’ve got my signature, it’s forged.”
“Look here, you,” answered Haley, advancing a step, “don’t you go an’ tell me as how I lie, young feller. Ain’t I seen the contract with my own eyes? Didn’t Scroop show it, along with the contract of that other young chap there? Don’t you go telling me I ain’t doin’ things legal like. I’ll show you some Chesapeake Bay law.”
“Well, Chesapeake Bay law is the same as the law for the rest of Maryland, I reckon,” exclaimed Tom Edwards hotly. “You’ve got no law on your side. I’ve got the law with me, and I’ll proceed against you. You’ll find Chesapeake Bay law and State law is much the same when you get into court.”
For a moment something like a grin overspread the dull features of Captain Hamilton Haley. Then he raised his arm, advanced another step forward, and shook his fist in the other’s face.
“I reckon you ain’t had no experience with Chesapeake Bay law,” he cried angrily. “But it’s easy to larn, and it don’t take no books to teach it. Do you see that fist?”
He brandished his huge, red bunch of knuckles in Tom Edwards’s face.
“Do you see that fist?” he cried again, his own face growing more fiery. “That’s the law of the Bay. That’s the law of the dredging fleet. There ain’t no other. Any man that goes against that law, gets it laid down to him good and hard. There it is, and you gets your first lesson.”
With a single blow of his arm, planting the aforesaid digest and epitome of dredging law full in the face of Tom Edwards, he stretched him sprawling on the deck, dazed and terrified.
Captain Hamilton Haley, having thus successfully demonstrated the might and majesty of dredging-fleet law, according to his own interpretation of its terms, proceeded now to expound it further. His anger had increased with his act of violence, and the veins in his neck and on his forehead stood out, swollen.
“See here you, young fellow,” he cried, advancing toward Harvey, threateningly, “don’t you go starting out uppish, too. Don’t you begin sea-lawyerin’ with me. I know the law. There it is, and I hand it out when needed. There ain’t no other law among the dredgers that I knows of, from Plum Point down to the Rappahannock. Some of ’em larns it quick, and some of ’em larns it slow; and them as larns it quickest gets it lightest. Now what have you got to say?”
Jack Harvey, thus hopelessly confronted, thought—and thought quickly.
“I signed for a cruise, all right,” he replied, returning the infuriated captain’s gaze steadily, “and I’m ready to go to work.”
“Then you get for’ard, lively now, and grab hold of that winch. You loafers get back and yank that anchor up. This ain’t a town meetin’. Get them men to work again, mate. Take him along, too.”
The captain pointed, in turn, to Harvey, to the sailors who had edged their way aft, to watch proceedings, and to the unfortunate Mr. Edwards, who had arisen from the deck and stood, a sorry, woe-begone object, unable physically to offer further resistance.
“Shake things up now, Jim Adams, shake ’em up,” urged Haley. “Here we are losing good wind over a lot of tramps that costs ten dollars apiece to get here, and little good after we’ve got ’em. How’s a man goin’ to make his livin’ dredging, when he pays high for men an’ gets nothin’ to show for his money? I’d like to get that fellow, Jenkins, out here once, himself. I’d show him this isn’t a business for school-boys and counter-jumpers. I’d get ten dollars’ worth of work out of him, and a good many more ten dollars’ worth that he’s got out of me, or he’d know the reason why.”
Thus relieving his mind of his own troubles, Captain Hamilton Haley, in a state of highly virtuous indignation, watched with approval the actions of the mate. The latter, seizing Tom Edwards, hurried him forward unceremoniously and bade him take hold at the handle of the winch and help raise the anchor. Tom Edwards weakly grasped the handle, as directed, in company with one of the sailors. Jack Harvey and the other seaman worked at the opposite handle.
Two men could have done the job easily, and the four made quick work of it. By the time the anchor chain was hove short, the mate and Haley had got the main-sail up. One of the seamen left the windlass and set one of the jibs; the anchor was brought aboard and stowed. The bug-eye, Brandt, began to swing off from its mooring, as the wind caught the jib, which was held up to windward. Easily the craft spun ’round, going before the wind out of the harbour and running across the bay, headed for the Eastern shore.
CHAPTER VI
THE WORKING OF THE LAW
“Shake out the reefs and get the foresail on her,” called Haley. “Lively, now, we’ve lost time.”
The mate repeated the order; the two available seamen began untying the reef-points, which had been knotted when sail had been shortened in the breeze of the previous day. It was simple enough work, merely the loosening and untying of a series of square knots. Harvey had done the like a hundred times aboard his own sloop. He hastened to assist, and did his part as quickly as the other two. Jim Adams, somewhat surprised, eyed him curiously.
“You’re a right smart youngster, ain’t you?” he said, patronizingly. “Reckon you’ll be so mightily pleased you’ll come again some time.”
There was something so insolent in the tone, so sheer and apparent an exulting in his power to compel the youth to do his bidding, that the blood mounted in Harvey’s cheeks, and he felt his pulses beat quicker. But he went on soberly with his work, and the mate said no more.
Ignorant of all things aboard a vessel, and too weak to work if he had been skilled at it, Tom Edwards stood helplessly by. The humiliation of his repulse at the hands of the captain, and his dismay at the dismal prospect, overwhelmed him. He gazed at the receding shore, and groaned.
The foresail was run up, and with that and the mainsail winged out on opposite sides, the bug-eye ran before the wind at an easy clip. She responded at once to the increased spread of canvas. Her evident sailing qualities appealed to Harvey, and lifted him for the moment out of his apprehension and distress.
“Now you get your breakfas’,” said Jim Adams, and the two sailors shuffled aft, followed by Harvey and Tom Edwards. Harvey was hungry, with the keen appetite of youth and health, and he seated himself with a zest at the table in the cabin. But the place would have blunted the appetite of many a hungry man.
It was a vile, stuffy hole, reeking, like the forecastle, with a stale fishy odour, uncleanly and shabby. A greasy smell of cooking came in from the galley. A tin plate and cup and a rusty knife and fork set for each seemed never to have known the contact of soap and water. Jack Harvey recalled the praise which his absent friend, Mr. Jenkins, had bestowed upon the quarters of the schooner, and that young gentleman’s disparagement of the comparative accommodations of a bug-eye; and he endorsed the sentiments fully. Compared with the cabin of the schooner, the cabin of the Z. B. Brandt was, indeed, a kennel.
There was little comfort, either, apparently, in the association of the two sailors. The fellow directly opposite Harvey, whom the mate had addressed once that morning as “Jeff,” stared sullenly and dully at the youth, with a look that was clearly devoid of interest. He was a heavy set, sluggish man of about thirty-five years, for whom hard work and ill usage had blunted whatever sensibilities he may have once possessed. Evidently he was willing to bear with the treatment, and the poor food aboard the vessel, for the small wages he would receive at the winter’s end.
The other man was slightly more prepossessing, but clearly at present not inclined to any sociability. He had a brighter eye and a face of more expression than his companion; though he, too, under the grinding labour aboard the oyster dredger, had come to toil day by day silently, in dumb obedience to the captain and mate. He was one Sam Black, by name, somewhat taller and larger than his comrade.
These two paid little heed to the new arrivals. It is doubtful if they really took notice of their being there, in the sense that they thought anything about it. Life was a drudgery to them, in which it mattered little whether others shared or not. They scarcely spoke to each other during the meal, and not at all to Harvey or Tom Edwards.
Presently there stepped out of the galley an uncouth, slovenly appearing man, who might have passed as a smaller edition of Captain Hamilton Haley, by his features. He was, in fact, of the same name, Haley, and there was some relationship of a remote degree between them, which accounted for his employment aboard the vessel. He was not so stout as his kinsman, however, and more active in his movements.
Whatever may have been the latent abilities of Mr. George Haley in the art of cooking, they were not in evidence, nor required aboard the bug-eye. Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards were now to behold the evidence of that fact.
The cook bore in his hands a greasy wooden box, that had once held smoked fish, and set it down on the table. Just what its contents consisted of was not at first apparent to Harvey. When, however, the two sailors reached over with their forks, speared junks of something from the box and conveyed them to their plates, Harvey followed their example.
He looked at the food for a moment before he made out what it was. It proved to be dough, kneaded and mixed with water, and a mild flavouring of molasses, and fried in lard. Harvey gazed at the mess in dismay. If it should prove to taste as bad as it looked, it must needs be hard fare. But he observed that the sailors made away with it hungrily; so he cut off a piece and tasted it. It was, indeed, wretched stuff, greasy and unpalatable. There was nothing else of food forthcoming, however, and he managed to swallow a few more mouthfuls.
The cook came to his aid in slight measure. He reappeared, bringing a pail of steaming, black liquid, the odour of which bore some slight resemblance to coffee. It was what passed for coffee aboard the bug-eye, a sorry composition of water boiled with several spoonfuls of an essence of coffee—the flavour of which one might further disguise, if he chose, with a spoonful of black molasses from a tin can set out by the cook.
Harvey filled his cup with alacrity, hoping to wash down the mess of fried bread with the hot coffee. He made a wry face after one swallow, and looked with dismay at his companion in misery.
“It’s awful,” he said, “but it’s hot. You better drink some of it. It will warm you up.”
Tom Edwards put out a shaky hand and conveyed a cup of the stuff to his lips. He groaned as he took a swallow, and set the cup down.
“Beastly!” he exclaimed; and added, “I never did like coffee without cream, anyway.”
Harvey laughed, in spite of his own disgust. “The cream hasn’t come aboard yet, I guess,” he said. “But you drink that down quick. You need it.”
Like one obeying an older person, instead of a younger, Tom Edwards did as Harvey urged. He drained the cup at a draught. Then he staggered to his feet again.
“I can’t eat that mess,” he said. “Oh, but I’m feeling sick. I think I’ll go out on deck. It’s cold out there, though. I don’t know what to do.”
He was not long in doubt, however; for, as Harvey emerged on deck, the mate approached.
“You tell that Mister Edwards,” he said, “he can jes’ lie down on one of them parlour sofas in the fo’-castle till we gets across to Hoopers. Then we’ll need him.”
Harvey did the errand, and the unhappy Tom Edwards made his way forward once more, and threw himself down in the hard bunk, pale and ill. Harvey returned on deck. The morning was clear, and not cold for November, but the wind sent a chill through his warm sweater, and he beat himself with his arms, to warm up.
“Didn’t get you’self any slickers, did you, ’fore you came aboard?” inquired the mate.
“No, sir,” replied Harvey, remembering how the man had cautioned him to address him; “I didn’t have a chance. They sailed off with me in the night.”
The mate grinned. “That was sure enough too bad,” he said, mockingly. “Well, you see the old man ’bout that. He sells ’em very cheap, and a sight better than they have ashore in Baltimore. Awful advantage they take of poor sailors there. Mr. Haley, he’ll fit you out, I reckon.”
They stepped aft, and the mate made known their errand.
Haley nodded. “He’ll need ’em sooner or later,” he assented. “May as well have ’em now, as any time. Take the wheel.”
The mate assumed the captain’s seat on the wheel box, and Captain Haley nodded to Harvey to follow him below. He fumbled about in a dark locker and finally drew forth two garments—the trousers and jacket of an oil-skin suit. They were black and frayed with previous wear, their original hue of yellow being discoloured by smears and hard usage.
“There,” said Haley, holding up the slickers approvingly, “there’s a suit as has been worn once or twice, but isn’t hurt any. As good as new, and got the stiffness out of it. Cost you seven dollars to get that suit new in Baltimore. You’ll get it for five, and lucky you didn’t buy any ashore. There’s a tarpaulin, too, that you can have for a dollar. I oughtn’t to let ’em go so cheap.”
Harvey hardly knew whether to be angry or amused. He had not shipped for the money to be earned, to be sure, and the absurd prices for the almost worthless stuff excited his derision. But the gross injustice of the bargain made him indignant, too. He had bought oil-skins for himself, before, and knew that a good suit, new, could be had for about three dollars and a half, and a new tarpaulin for seventy-five cents. But he realized that protest would be of no avail. So he assented.
“There’s a new pair of rubber boots, too,” continued Haley, producing a pair that were, indeed, much nearer new than the oil-skins. “Those will cost you five dollars. They’re extra reinforced; not much like that slop-shop stuff.”
The boots thereupon became Harvey’s property; likewise a thin and threadbare old bed quilt, for the bunk in the forecastle, at an equally extortionate price. Then a similar equipment was provided for Harvey’s friend, Tom Edwards, the captain assuring Harvey that they would surely fit Edwards, and he could take them forward to him.
Suddenly the captain paused and looked at Harvey shrewdly, out of his cold gray eyes.
“Of course I provide all this for a man, in advance of his wages,” he said, “when he comes aboard, like the most of ’em, without a cent; but when he has some money, he has to pay. Suppose he gets drowned—it’s all dead loss to me. You got any money?”
Harvey thanked his stars for Tom Edwards’s precaution.
“I’ve got some,” he said, and began to feel in his pockets, as though he were uncertain just how much he did have. “Here’s five dollars—and let’s see, oh, yes, I’ve got some loose change, sixty-three cents.” He brought forth the bill and the coins. Haley pounced on the money greedily. He eyed Harvey with some suspicion, however.
“Turn your pockets out,” he said. “I can’t afford to take chances. Let’s see if you’ve been holding back any.”
Harvey did as he was ordered.
“All right,” muttered Haley. But he was clearly disappointed.
“Can that fellow, Edwards, pay?” he asked.
“He told me he hadn’t a cent,” answered Harvey, promptly. “He was robbed after they got him drugged.”
Haley’s face reddened angrily.
“He wasn’t drugged—nor robbed, either,” he cried. “Don’t you go talking like that, or you’ll get into trouble. Leastwise, I don’t know nothin’ about it. If he was fixed with drugs, it was afore he came into my hands. I won’t stand for anything like that. Get out, now, and take that stuff for’ard.”
Harvey went forward, carrying his enforced purchases. An unpleasant sight confronted him as he neared the forecastle.
The two men that had been brought aboard the bug-eye, stupefied, had been dragged out on deck, where they lay, blinking and dazed, but evidently coming once more to their senses. The mate gave an order to one of the sailors. The latter caught up a canvas bucket, to which there was attached a rope, threw it over the side and drew it back on deck filled with water.
“Let’s have that,” said the mate.
He snatched it from the sailor’s hand, swung it quickly, and dashed the contents full in the face of one of the prostrate men. The fellow gasped for breath, as the icy water choked and stung him; he half struggled to his feet, opening his eyes wide and gazing about him with amazement. He had hardly come to a vague appreciation of where he was, putting his hands to his eyes and rubbing them, to free them of the salt water, before he received a second bucket-full in the face. He cried out in fright and, spurred on by that and the shock of the cold water, got upon his feet and stood, trembling and shivering. Jim Adams laughed with pleasure at the success of his treatment.
“Awful bad stuff they give ’em in Baltimore, sometimes,” he said, chuckling, as though it were a huge joke; “but this fetches ’em out of it just like doctor’s medicine. You got ’nuff, I reckon. Now you trot ’long down into the cabin, and get some of that nice coffee, an’ you’ll feel pretty spry soon.”
The fellow shambled away, led by one of the crew.
Jack Harvey, his blood boiling at the inhumanity of it, saw Jim Adams’s “treatment” applied with much the same success to the other helpless prisoner; and this man, too, soon went the way of the other, for such comfort and stimulus as the cabin and coffee afforded. Harvey deposited his load of clothing in the forecastle, and returned to the deck.
In the course of some seven miles of sailing, as Harvey reckoned it, they approached a small island which he heard called out as Barren island. Still farther to the eastward of this, there lay a narrow stretch of land, some two or three miles long, lying lengthwise approximately north and south. Off the shore of this, which bore the name of Upper Hooper island, the dredging grounds now sought by the Brandt extended southward for some ten miles, abreast of another island, known as Middle Hooper island.
Preparations were at once begun to work the dredges; and Harvey watched with anxious interest. Here was the real labour, that he had by this time come to look forward to with dread. He recalled the utterance of the dismal sailor aboard the schooner, “You breaks yer back at a bloody winder;” and he saw a prospect now of the fulfilment of the man’s description of the work.
In the mid-section of the bug-eye, on either side, there were set up what looked not unlike two huge spools. Wound around each one of these was fathom upon fathom of dredge line. Each spool rested in a frame that was shaped something like a carpenter’s saw-horse, and, in the process of winding, was revolved by means of a crank at either end, worked by men at the handles. The frame was securely bolted to the deck at the four supports.
Connected with each dredge line, by an iron chain, was the dredge. This consisted, first, of four iron rods, coming to a point at the chain, and spread out from that in the form of a piece of cheese cut wedge-shaped, and rounded in a loop at the broad end. Fastened to this was a great mesh of iron links, made like a purse, or bag, This metal bag was a capacious affair, made to hold more than a bushel of oysters. There were two larger iron links in the mesh, by which it could be hooked and lifted aboard, when it had been wound up to the surface of the water.
There was a locking device on the end of the support, so that the spool would hold, without unwinding, when the handles were released.
The huge spools were set up lengthwise of the vessel. On either side of the craft were rollers; one of these was horizontal, to drag the dredge aboard on; one was perpendicular, for the dredge-line to run free on, as it was paid out, or drawn in, while the vessel was in motion.
Captain Haley, at the wheel, gave his orders sharply. The sailors and Jim Adams, lifting the dredges, threw them overboard on either side, and the work was begun. The bug-eye, with sheets started, took a zig-zag course, laterally across the dredging ground.
Obeying orders, Harvey took his place at one of the handles of a winder; one of the sailors at the other. Presently appeared Jim Adams, followed by the disconsolate Tom Edwards. The latter, pale and sea-sick, seemed scarcely able to walk, much less work; but the mate led him along to the handle of the other winder. Tom Edwards was not without making one more feeble attempt as resistance, however.
“See here,” he said, addressing Adams, “you’ve got no right to force me to work here. I’m a business man, and I was brought down here by a trick, drugged. You’ll pay dear for it. I warn you.”
Jim Adams grinned from ear to ear, his expansive mouth exhibiting a shining row of white teeth. He put a big, bony hand on Tom Edwards’s shoulder.
“Don’t you go worrying ’bout what I’ll get, mister,” he answered; and there was a gleam of fire in his eyes as he spoke. “I reckon you might as well know, first as last, that I don’t care where we get you fellows, nor how we gets yer; nor I don’t care whether you come aboard drugged or sober; nor whether you’ve got clothes on, nor nothin’ at all. All I cares is that you’s so as you can turn at this ere windlass. That’s all there is ’bout that. Now you jes’ take a-hold of that handle, and do’s you’re told, or you’ll go overboard; and don’t you forget that.”
Tom Edwards was silent. He stood, hand upon the windlass, shivering.
“You’ll be warm ’nuff soon, I reckon,” was Jim Adams’s consolation.
They got the order to wind in, presently, and the men began to turn the handles. It was hard work, sure enough. The huge iron bags, filled with the oysters, torn from the reefs at the bed of the bay, were heavy of themselves; and the strain of winding them in against the headway of the bug-eye was no boys’ play.
Harvey and his companion at their winder were strong and active, and presently the dredge was at the surface, whence it was seized and dragged aboard. There it was emptied of its contents, a mass of shells, all shapes and sizes. Then followed the work of “culling,” or sorting and throwing overboard the oysters that were under two inches and a half long, which the law did not allow to be kept and sold.
“You need a pair of mittens,” volunteered Harvey’s working comrade, as Harvey started in to help, with bare hands. “You’ll get cut and have sore hands, if you don’t,” he added. “The cap’n sells mittens.”
The mittens, at a price that would have made the most hardened shop-keeper blush, were provided, and Harvey resumed work.
The seriousness of the situation had developed in earnest. It was drudgery of the hardest and most bitter kind.
“Just wait till the month is up,” said Harvey, softly; “I’ll cut out of this pretty quick. A sea experience, eh? Well, I’ve got enough of it in the first half hour.”
Spurred on by the harsh commands of the mate, Tom Edwards managed to hold out for perhaps three quarters of an hour. Then he collapsed entirely; and, seeing that nothing more could be gotten out of him for the rest of the day, the mate suffered him to drag himself off to the forecastle.
“But see that you’re out sharp and early on deck here to-morrow morning,” said Jim Adams. “We don’t have folks livin’ high here for nothin’. You’ll jes’ work your board and lodgin’, I reckon.”
Thus the day wore on, drearily. The exciting sea experience that Jack Harvey had pictured to himself was not at present forthcoming; only a monotonous winding at the windlass—hard and tiring work—and the culling of the oysters, and stowing them below in the hold from time to time. He was sick of it by mid-day; and, as the shades of twilight fell, he was well nigh exhausted.
“And only to think of this for nearly four weeks more,” he groaned. “Next time—oh, hang it! What’s the use of thinking of that? I’m in for it. I’ve got to go through. But won’t I scoot when the month is up!”
Toward evening, they ran up under the lee of Barren island, in what the mate said was Tar Bay, and anchored for the night. Almost too wearied to eat, too wearied to listen to the commiseration of Tom Edwards, who lay groaning in his bunk, Jack Harvey tumbled in with his clothes on, and was asleep as soon as he had stretched himself out.
CHAPTER VII
DREDGING FLEET TACTICS
Jack Harvey was a strong, muscular youth, toughened and enured to rough weather, and even hardship, by reason of summers spent in yachting and his spare time in winter divided between open air sports and work in the school gymnasium. But the steady, laborious work of the first day at dredging had brought into action muscles comparatively little used before, and moreover overtaxed them. So, when Harvey awoke, the following morning, and rolled out of his bunk, he felt twinges of pain go through him. His muscles were stiffened, and he ached from ankles to shoulders.
He awoke Tom Edwards, knowing that if he did not, the mate soon would, and in rougher fashion. The companionship in misfortune, that had thus thrown the boy and the man intimately together, made the difference in their ages seem less, and their friendship like that of long standing. So it was the natural thing, and instinctive, for Harvey to address the other familiarly.
“Wake up, Tom,” he said, shaking him gently; “it’s time to get up.”
Tom Edwards opened his eyes, looked into the face of his new friend and groaned.
“Oh, I can’t,” he murmured. “I just can’t get up. I’m done for. I’ll never get out of this alive. I’m going to die. Jack, old fellow, you tell them what happened to me, if I never get ashore again. You’ll come through, but I can’t.”
Harvey looked at the sorry figure, compassionately.
“It’s rough on you,” he said, “because you’re soft and not used to exercise. But don’t you go getting discouraged this way. You’re not going to die—not by a good deal. You’re just sea-sick; and every one feels like dying when they get that way. You’ve just got to get out, because Adams will make you. So you better start in. Come on; we’ll get some of that beautiful coffee and that other stuff, and you’ll feel better.”
By much urging, Harvey induced his companion to arise, and they went on deck.
It was a fine, clear morning, and the sight that met their eyes was really a pretty one. In the waters of Tar Bay were scores of craft belonging to the oyster fleet. They were for the most part lying at anchor, now, with smoke curling up in friendly fashion from their little iron stove funnels. There were vessels of many sorts and sizes; a few large schooners, of the dredging class, bulky of build and homely; punjies, broader of bow and sharper and deeper aft, giving them quickness in tacking across the oyster reefs; bug-eyes, with their sharp prows, bearing some fancied resemblance, by reason of the hawse-holes on either bow, to a bug’s eye, or a buck’s eye—known also in some waters as “buck-eyes”—clean-lined craft, sharp at either end; also little saucy skip-jacks, and the famous craft of the Chesapeake, the canoes.
These latter, known also as tonging-boats, were remarkably narrow craft, made of plank, about four feet across the gunwales and averaging about twenty feet long. Some of them were already under weigh, the larger ones carrying two triangular sails and a jib. It seemed to Harvey as though the sail they bore up under must inevitably capsize them; but they sailed fast and stiff.
A few of these craft were already engaged in tonging for oysters, in a strip of the bay just south of Barren Island, where the water shoaled to a depth of only one fathom. The two men aboard were alternately raising and lowering, by means of a small crank, a pair of oyster tongs, the jaws of which closed mechanically with the strain upon the rope to which it was attached.
To the southward, other vessels were beginning to come in upon the dredging grounds, until it seemed as though all of Maryland’s small craft must be engaged in the business of oyster fishing.
With an eye to the present usefulness of his men, more than from any compassion upon their condition, Captain Hamilton Haley had ordered a better breakfast to be served. There was fried bacon, and a broth of some sort; and the coffee seemed a bit stronger and more satisfying. Harvey urged his comrade to eat; and Tom Edwards, who had rallied a little from his sea-sickness, with the vessel now steady under him, in the quiet water, managed to make a fair breakfast.
They made sail, shortly, and stood to the southward, following the line of the island shores, but at some distance off the land. The hard, monotonous labour of working the dredges began once more. Jack Harvey, lame and stiff in his joints, found it more laborious than before.
Tom Edwards, somewhat steadier than on the previous day, but in no fit condition to work, was forced to the task. He made a most extraordinary, and, indeed, ludicrous figure—like a scarecrow decked out in an unusually good suit of clothes. He had no overcoat left him, but had sought relief from the weather by the purchase of an extra woollen undershirt from Captain Haley’s second-hand wardrobe. His appearance was, therefore, strikingly out of keeping with his surroundings.
In him one would have beheld a tall, light complexioned man; with blond moustache, that had once been trimly cut and slightly curled; clad in his black suit, with cut-away coat; his one linen shirt sadly in need of starching, but worn for whatever warmth it would give; even his one crumbled linen collar worn for similar purpose; and, with this, a bulky pair of woollen mittens, to protect his hands that were as yet unused to manual labour.
Watching him, as he toiled at the opposite winch, Harvey could not restrain himself, once, from bursting into laughter; but, the next moment, the pale face, with its expression of distress, turned his laughter into pity. It was certainly no joke for poor Tom Edwards.
Mate Adams brought on the other two recruits, after a time, and they took their places at the winders. They were not strong enough to work continuously, however, and the two and Tom Edwards “spelled” one another by turns.
The wind fell away for an hour about noon, and there was a respite for all, save for the culling of the oysters that had been taken aboard; and Jack Harvey found opportunity to speak with the two newcomers.