In the windjammer, the tropical doldrums are usually the scene of more or less fun. The scupper holes are plugged and a tremendous downpour soon fills the main-deck a foot deep with clean fresh water. The decks of deep-loaded ships are often so much under water that seaweed grows upon them, and they are consequently apt to be clean after the growth is removed. The main-deck’s hatches make a shallow amidships, and all across the broad width the water rolls with the heave of the ship. In the waterways it is often two feet deep.
In this huge tub the sailor takes his semi-annual bath. He does not bathe alone, neither does he overlook any of his belongings. Everything washable, from blankets to breeches, is laid out upon the white deck planks and rubbed with soap. After a foamy{168} lather is formed upon the large pieces, he will slide upon them like the small boy does upon ice, his feet gathering up a bow-wave of lather and dirt. Then the wash is dragged into deeper water for a rinsing.
At such times “skylarking,” as it is called, is indulged in freely. The men chase each other about the deck, splashing water and whipping each other upon the naked skin with wet clothes. Sometimes a sailor would be initiated into untying a most complicated knot which some wag would tie in his trouser legs, while a shipmate engaged him in conversation. It is said that, if cleanliness is next to godliness, the sailor’s soul is doomed, but this must surely be a fallacy, as no man can be very filthy who does not have to bathe but once or twice a year.
In the trade-winds’ belts, where the wind is steady and sail is seldom handled from one day’s end to another, many original kinds of amusements are indulged in upon ships whose masters stand for frolics. Checkers and squeaking fiddles, which are a part of all forecastle accessories, are laid aside, and{169} boxing taken up. There are never any gloves, and the test of skill invariably ends in a mix-up in which rules are superfluous and absurd. Dancing is common, and there are few sailors who cannot do a fair trick with the feet, if some one will produce a mouth-organ and play and “pat” for them.
We allowed the usual routine of this sort, and it did the men good, for they were a dirty set at best, much dirtier than American or English seamen. After a good shave all around they presented a passable appearance. Day after day the hot calm continued, and always at sunrise the sails of the English ship were upon the horizon. As we would head the same course to the Cape, this was not remarkable, but somehow the presence of the vessel worried me unaccountably.
Three days later, while it was still calm, we drifted close to her again and Crojack’s comments upon her master’s navigation brought forth a torrent of invective from both Garnett and Webster that would be impossible to equal.
It was now plainly evident the vessel we{170} were in company with was one of the English prison transports used for carrying convicts from England to the outlying colonies. The passengers aboard this one were to be transported for terms of years varying from five to that of an ordinary lifetime. They were, therefore, dangerous men, and had to be handled carefully. The armed guard of soldiers sent along to keep control were apparently numerous enough to handle them, but I knew well enough that a vessel of that kind should not have a fool for a commander.
“Why is it, Mr. Gore,” Miss Waters said to me as I came aft, “that sailors are so brutal and rough?”
“Are they?” I asked.
“What do you think of the officers of that ship? Are they such as you would term gentlemen by any stretch of the imagination? I’ve read sea-tales, and all of them picture the American captains and mates as brutes. Don’t you think it is so?” And she smiled wickedly.
“I think the man who writes or says all{171} the American or English officers are brutes is a bit prejudiced,” I answered. “Whatever roughness they have in their natures, though, must certainly have gotten there while they were sailors before the mast. Take that Garnett, for instance. All the deviltry he knows—and he has learned something—he picked up while a sailor before the mast. I’m sorry, however, that you don’t care for sailors.” And I turned away. When I looked aft again, I saw Miss Waters had gone below and I deplored my temper and stupidity. Here I was trying, without doubt, to be civil and attentive to a young woman, and what a mess I made of it. I was a poor lover, though a strong one, and I reasoned that a weaker and less sensitive nature could give me long odds at the game. My solace was my pipe, and while I smoked I felt my spirits return, for the voyage would be a long one. We were only half-way and much might happen yet.
All day the vessels were within hailing distance, and at noontime we saw the guard of six soldiers—there were a dozen or more{172} on board—taking a gang of convicts out on the main-deck to give them air and exercise.
As darkness came on, a squall of rain, accompanied by a light air, drifted the Arrow a mile or more to the eastward. Then it fell calm again and the night was hot and sultry.
I was very nervous that evening. Something oppressed me, and I chafed at the seeming indifference Miss Waters had shown that day for the passion I had been unable to conceal.
On turning in I found it was impossible to sleep, and I lay awake in my bunk thinking thoughts concerning Brown that I afterward tried to forget.
O’Toole’s step sounded loudly on the deck overhead, and the creaking of a brace sheave, when the slight swell made the ship roll, sounded loud and distinct.
It was four bells in the midwatch when I heard an exclamation from the second mate. At first I thought he was talking to the men in his watch, who usually lay, or{173} rather sat, in a group abaft the deck-house during the calm weather. With one on the t’gallant fo’castle as lookout and another at the wheel, there were ten men left with nothing to do but keep awake.
I was wide-awake when I heard the second mate’s voice again. This time he appeared to hail some one at a distance. Thinking this strange, I listened intently.
Suddenly I heard a low, regular sound. There was no mistaking the noise; it was the regular, rocking sound made by oars in rowlocks, and the swing of the oars was quick.
A man hailed us at no great distance, but I couldn’t make out what he said. Then the oar-strokes grew louder, and I raised myself on my elbow.
All of a sudden O’Toole roared, “All hands! Mr. Gore! Help!” and a rifle-shot rang out sharp and clear, followed by a terrific uproar alongside the ship.
I made a dive to the foot of my bunk and grasped a revolver that lay there on a small shelf. The next instant I burst through the{174} door of the forward cabin on to the main-deck.
In the darkness I heard O’Toole’s oaths near the port side amidships. I had no idea what had happened, but through the gloom I made out a crowd of men struggling about an object which I rightly guessed to be the second mate’s red head. Men’s faces appeared by the score coming over the bulwarks, and I realized that we were being boarded.
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