CHAPTER VIII: ON BOARD THE “POLLY ANN”
When Raynor opened his eyes again he found himself lying on a bunk in a small cabin. Across the single port-hole which lighted it was a red calico curtain. Rough beams crossed the ceiling, from which swung a ship’s lantern, unlighted, of course, at that time of day.
He was on board a ship and a ship that was under way, for he could feel the rise and heave of her hull as she took the seas. With keen curiosity, he sat up. The furniture enumerated was all that he could see in the cabin. There was not even a strip of carpet on the floor, which was of well scrubbed planking.
He looked out of the port. All about him were tumbling green waves through which the schooner,—for he had long since guessed he was on board the craft that rescued him,—was driving smartly. He felt slightly dizzy and sat down on the bunk for an instant before he rose to open the door and find his rescuers and thank them. When he did so he experienced a shock.
The door was locked!
The briefest of investigations proved that it was locked from the outside, showing that he had been deliberately shut in, though for what purpose he could not imagine. He knocked impatiently at the door, hoping to attract the attention of somebody who could explain the mystery but nobody came. Raynor sat down on the bunk, again listening for any sign of movement without.
But none came for a long time. There was a great trampling to and fro of feet on deck and the timbers of the schooner complained as though she was being forced through the water, but this, and the constant rush of water along her sides, were the only sounds.
“Bother it all,” muttered Raynor, “this is a fine way to treat a rescued castaway. Anyone would think I was a prisoner.”
But at last there sounded steps outside and the rattling of a key in the lock and the door was flung open. The yellow-bearded man stood in the doorway, almost filling its frame with his huge bulk. He looked down at Raynor with a rather amused smile.
“I suppose you have been thinking that we don’t treat our guests very well on the Polly Ann?” he said in a deep, gruff voice.
“Well, I don’t see why I was locked in,” rejoined Raynor in a rather aggrieved tone.
“Maybe it didn’t occur to you that we might have private matters on board that we don’t want strangers peering into,” was the calm reply. “You know you were not invited on board.”
Raynor felt a sudden twinge of remorse. After all, he owed his life to this man. He began to thank him but the other silenced him with the wave of a hand.
“That was nothing. Anyhow, I got a fine bear pelt out of it. One of the finest I ever saw. But to get down to business. Have you any idea where you are?”
“On board the schooner Polly Ann,” rejoined Raynor, with an oddly uncomfortable feeling.
“True enough, but do you know anything about her?”
Raynor shook his head.
“Well, she’s Terror Carson’s craft. I’m Terror Carson. If you’d ever been in the northern seas, where we are bound, you’d have heard of me.”
The man uttered his sinister name with some pride. He squared his huge shoulders and stroked his glowing beard with evident satisfaction. Raynor felt his heart sink. There was something wrong about this schooner and this man.
“You are going north trading?” he asked, intending to demand being put aboard the first steamer or other vessel bound for the states that they encountered.
Terror Carson burst into a mighty laugh that seemed to shake the cabin timbers.
“Yes, we’re going trading. Trading in our own line,” he said, and then he beckoned to Raynor to come out into the main cabin from which six smaller ones, similar to the one the young engineer had occupied, opened.
“See those?” he asked, and pointed to three bright brass cannons that were ranged at the stern inside closed ports. “We use those in our trading. You see we are what the courts of law and the international boundary authorities call: ‘seal poachers.’”
“Seal poachers!” Raynor shrank back. He had heard of these wild, lawless men of the north who defied the international boundary rules and even war-ships sent to enforce them. Not a few of them, as he knew, had been captured after hard chases and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. He could hardly bring himself to speak his next words.
“But of course you will put me on board the first vessel we sight,” he said, “you see, Captain Carson, I——”
“Oh, no, we can’t lose you now,” chuckled the yellow-bearded man, “you know too much. We need an assistant cook and I think you are just the man for the job.”
“Do you mean to say that, against my will, and against the law——” began Raynor, but Terror Carson checked him.
“You forget we know no law,” he said.
“Well, then, against my will you mean to enroll me as one of this lawless crew.”
“That’s about the idea,” drawled Carson amiably.
“But if we are caught by some British cruiser, I shall be imprisoned as one of you!” burst out Raynor frantically.
“That’s something you will have to take your chances of. You shouldn’t have fallen overboard from the Cambodian and then this wouldn’t have happened. You see I know some of your story and have guessed the rest.
“While you were asleep I took the liberty of reading your papers. Here they are,” and with all the grace in the world, Terror Carson handed the bewildered young engineer a package and a wallet which had been abstracted from his inner pocket.
“Now we will go on deck,” said Terror Carson, “and I’ll show you the scene of your future labors. You will berth and have your meals in the cabin and not with the men.”
Raynor felt grateful for this at least, for he judged the crew of a craft like the Polly Ann could be little better than a lot of desperadoes. But he was not prepared for the array of villainous, hard-bitten countenances he saw when they reached the deck. The schooner was under full sail and racing northward like a swift sea bird.
Except for the man at the helm, and a short, stocky man who was standing by him and gazing up at the rigging, the men were all lounging about, some squatting under the weather bulwarks. The short, stocky man proved to be the mate, Mr. Wiggins, a real “down-east bucko,” Terror Carson described him as being. The midship decks were piled with lashed down dories and from the stern davits hung a smart whale boat.
Aft of the foremast was a squat, white house with an iron pipe projecting from it. Terror Carson led the way there with Raynor at his heels. The men’s eyes followed them, some with scowls and some with curiosity.
From the door of the galley, or ship’s kitchen, for that is what the white structure was, there issued a cloud of steam as they approached. Suddenly, in the midst of the volume of vapor, there appeared the round, good-natured, freckled face of a lad of about Raynor’s own age. His head, of bright red hair, was uncovered, and he wore a very dirty apron about his waist.
“Noddy Nipper,” said Terror Carson, nodding toward Raynor, “here’s our assistant cook. Make him work, and if there’s any nonsense report him to me. That’s all.”
With an upward look at the sails, he turned on the heel of his big sea-boots and strode off aft, leaving the half-stupefied Raynor staring at the red-headed youth.