Part 14

The clipper ship Conemaugh was noted for her long voyages. She was a product of the old school of wind-jammers and her skipper was a Yankee of Calvinistic views, who

“Proved his religion orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks.”

He met little Murphy, the ship’s pig, the morning the youngster was brought aboard. The little fellow was in the arms of his sponsor, James Murphy, able seaman, and the way he kicked and squealed made the black moke of a cook poke his head out of the galley door and grin.

“Take good care of that fellow,” said the skipper. “Them white hogs air wuth two black ones on the West Coast, so if we don’t have to eat him I kin swap him off easy enough.”

So Murphy was put in a pen under the top-gallant-forecastle, and Jim was detailed to scrub him and otherwise attend to his wants. With all this care it would seem that he could hardly help becoming a good pig. But he was like many youngsters who have the best of care lavished upon them; that is, he was thrown with mixed company. It is very hard, however, to separate the sheep from the goats, and as luck would have it Murphy’s lot was thrown with Jim, the sailor who had the worst reputation among the mates of any man aboard the ship.

The day the vessel put to sea the skipper mustered the men according to his custom, and made them an address.

“The master,” said he, “air greater than the servant, and the servant ain’t above the master.” Here he looked straight at Jim. “So saith the holy gospel,--an’ whatsoever saith the gospel is er fact,--an’ is truth. If it ain’t, I’ll make it so if I have to take the hide off every burgoo-eating son of a sea-cook aboard the ship.”

There were many men aboard there who had heard little of the Scriptures, but even if they had heard much they would doubtless not have cared to discuss them or any other matter with the skipper. His voice rose to the deep, roaring tone of the hurricane on all occasions, and when it failed to convince the listener of the owner’s logic, a sudden clap from his heavy hand generally ended verbal matters about as effectively as a stroke of lightning. Most of the men on board were used to kicks and curses, for the skipper reckoned he could handle any class of men that ever trod a deck. He had a fair sprinkling of all on this cruise. As the mates followed the skipper’s example in matters of discipline, the ship was as near to being a floating hell as anything above water could be.

Jim Murphy resented even the curses of the captain and mates, so he was rated among the after-guard as the worst man on board. His friendship for the pig was against him in the forecastle, and soon even the men of the starboard watch began to hold off from him.

“What d’ye want to fool with that porker fer? Yell never get er taste of him, hide or hair,” growled old Dan.

“He ain’t the only pig aboard this here ship,” answered Jim, “an’ I like him better than most.”

“Kind goes with kind,” observed the second mate, whenever he saw them together.

Remarks like this made by the second officer caused great amusement to the men of the starboard watch. But those who applauded the most were old Dan and his chum Bull Davis. These two worthies gave Mr. Tautline to understand that he was the wittiest second mate afloat, in the hope that he would “pet” them. When they found this was useless, the united curses of the whole crew were weak in expression as compared to the audible reflections of this worthy pair.

When the ship reached the latitude of the River Plate, old Dan came out openly for mutiny. He told with grim coolness and great detail of how he had taken part in an affair of this kind before. How he had crawled along the projecting sheer-strake outside the bulwarks towards the quarter-deck, while a companion had done likewise on the side opposite. How they had made the sudden rush aft and had engaged with their sheath-knives against the revolvers of the after-guard. A little more nerve in a few men who hung back and the ship would have been taken.

He had served part of a ten-years’ sentence for this, had escaped, and had been continuously afloat ever since.

Bull Davis was an escaped convict from Australia, and he seconded the old villain’s project in every detail.

One day, off the Horn, Dan was careless in modulating his voice when the second mate gave an order. The next instant he was sprawling in the lee-scuppers and the second mate was addressing him coolly.

“Don’t make no remarks about the weather in my watch. It’s a square wind, so up you go on that yard now a little quicker’n greased lightning.”

The devil was peeping from the old villain’s eyes as he gained the ratlines, but he said nothing.

When the ship ran into the southeast trade-wind, Murphy, the pig, was turned out on the deck to root at the seams. He would start down the gangways suddenly, without apparent reason, and go rushing along the water-ways at full speed, punctuating his squeals with deep “houghs” that would have done credit to a bear. On these occasions Jim, the sailor, was perfectly happy. He would call the little fellow to him and the pig would follow him like a dog.

“He is a cute little baste, an’ he makes me homesick,” Jim would say, and the mates and men would rail and curse at him for it. The only living thing on board the ship that was in sympathy with them was the blasphemous green parrot belonging to the carpenter. This bird would pray and curse in the same breath, and whenever Jim came near the galley would call out “pig,” “pig,” in a high key. Then it would curse him and pray for his soul.

One night Jim noticed that old Dan sat up late, sharpening his knife on a piece of holy-stone. Just before his watch turned out at midnight he awoke, and found that neither Dan nor Bull Davis were in the forecastle. He went on deck and walked aft, waiting for the bells to strike.

In a moment Davis appeared, coming out of the cabin with Mr. Tautline.

“There’s something wrong with the port backstay in the fore-riggin’,” said the sailor to the mate.

“What’s that?” asked Tautline.

“The lug-bolt in the lee fore-riggin’ is busted. You had better take a look at it afore away goes the backstay,” said Davis.

“All right. Wait here till I get a pipe o’ tobacco, and we’ll look at it.”

Jim hurried forward. He looked over the rail and peered into the blackness alongside. The phosphorus flared in a ghostly manner as the water rolled lazily from the vessel’s side, but everything appeared all right.

Suddenly a gleaming bit of something shot upward. He started back quickly, and a hand holding a knife struck savagely at his chest. The blade ripped his shirt from neck to waist, but did not wound him. The next instant old Dan arose from the channels and climbed over the rail to the deck.

“The wrong man, ye murtherin’ villain,” growled Jim.

“So it was, messmate,” said Dan, coolly.

“What’s the row?” asked Tautline, coming up to where the men stood. He saw something was wrong, but had not seen Dan come over the side.

“That busted dead-eye,” answered Dan. “I was just lookin’ at it.”

“Well, get out before I put a couple of dead-eyes in your ugly figgerhead. Slant away!” And Dan slunk around the corner of the deck-house.

As the good weather held, the galley cat came out of hiding and sunned herself in the lee of the galley during the warm part of the day.

Jim saw her and tried to make friends.

“Keetie, keetie,--nice leetle keetie,” said he, trying to stroke the brute on the head. But long confinement had told on Maria’s liver, and she reached out and drew several long, bloody lines on the sailor’s hand.

“Ye infernal shnake!” cried Jim; and he aimed a blow at the animal that would have knocked it clear across the equator had it not jumped nimbly to one side. His hand brought up against the galley with a loud bang.

“Let that cat alone. What d’ ye mean by trying to spoil a dumb brute’s temper?” roared the voice of Tautline, and his form came lurching down the weather gangway.

“Don’t strike me!” cried Jim, as they closed.

The belaying-pin in Tautline’s hand came down with a sickening crack on the sailor’s skull.

“Stop!” he cried again.

But Tautline was carried away by his passion and they went to the deck together.

It was all over in a moment. Tautline lay gasping in a red pool and Jim sat up, sheath-knife in hand, staring about him in a dazed manner. Then the captain and mate rushed up.

“Handcuff him! Put him in double irons!” cried the skipper, stretching Jim with a heavy blow.

The next day little Murphy ran up and down the deck. The ports over the water-ways had been knocked out as the ship was very deep; they had not been nailed in again. Murphy came to where Jim was lying in irons under the top-gallant-forecastle. He sniffed his bloody clothes and ran away with a squeal. The sailor called after him, but he did not stop until he reached the open port in the waist. Then he sniffed at the ominous stain on the bright deck planks and poked his head through the open port.

“Blood! Blood! Blood!” screamed the parrot in the galley.

Murphy started, slipped, and was gone. The cook rushed to the side, bawling out something that sounded like “man overboard,” and the noise brought the starboard watch on deck with a rush.

“That bloomin’ old pig,” growled Dan, looking over the rail.

There he was, sure enough, swimming wildly and striking himself under the jowl with every stroke.

The captain watched his pig drifting slowly astern for a moment. Then he turned to the mate. “All hands wear ship!” he bawled, and the men rushed to the braces.

“Mr. Enlis,” said the skipper, “you go aloft and keep the critter in sight. Take my glass with you.”

The ship was heavy, so before she could be wore around the little pig was lost in the blue waste of sparkling waters.

The mate came down from the ratlines with the glass and a smile which peculiarly emphasized the singleness of a solitary tooth. He did not like pork.

The skipper walked the quarter-deck and mused with his chin in his hand.

“That’s too bad. Too bad. Too bad,” said he. “I paid two dollars for that pig.” And his voice was as mournful as the sound of the sea washing through the ribs of a lost ship.

“Poor little pig,” muttered Jim, and he tried to look astern from his place under the top-gallant-forecastle. “Poor little pig!” And the tears ran down his dirty, sun-bronzed face.

“Wonder!” cried Dan, coming forward; “there’s a murderer for you. Crying over an old pig he won’t get a taste of, hide nor hair.”

“It’s all that young devil’s fault,” mused the skipper. “The master is above the servant an’ the servant ain’t the master’s equal. So says the Holy Scriptures. When a man takes up with them what is below him, he is gone wrong. That’s Jim with the pig. Yes, sir, the Scriptures say them very words somewhere,--I can’t call to mind exactly where,--but they are so. If they ain’t I’ll make them so, and I’ll hang that Irish dog when I get him to ’Frisco.” And he did.

_MY PIRATE_

We were sitting in old Professor Frisbow’s room in the West Coast Museum, and our host had been listening to accounts of wonderful adventures on deep-water. Each had spoken, and it was Frisbow’s turn. We settled ourselves comfortably, and he began:

“Few people remember the old town of St. Augustine as it was before the war, with its old coquina houses and flat, unpaved streets, that abounded with sand-fleas in dry weather and turned into swamps of mud and sand when it rained. Those who can look so far back through life’s vista will remember its peculiar inhabitants.

“The Southern negro, sleeping in the hot sunshine on the plaza, or loafing about the sea-wall talking to the white ‘cracker,’ was, of course, the most numerous; but there were also the Spaniards and Minorcans, who married and intermarried among themselves, that made up a large part of the population.

“St. Augustine was not a thriving town. Its business could be seen almost any morning quite early, when a few long, narrow, dugout canoes, with a swarthy Minorcan rowing on one side, and a companion sitting aft paddling on the other, would come around the ‘Devil’s Elbow’ in the Matanzas River, and glide swiftly and silently up to a break in the sea-wall and deposit their loads of mullet or whiting. Then the canoes would disappear with their owners, after a little haggling had been indulged in between the latter and the purchasers of the fish, and the quiet of the long, hot day would begin.

“It is astonishing how lazy one may become under the influence of that blue, semi-tropical sky, with the warm, gentle breeze from the southern ocean rippling the clear, green waters of the bay. Life seems a bright dream, and any unwonted exertion causes a jar to the nerves such as one feels when rudely awakened from a sound, pleasant sleep. During the daytime in summer no one but the negro and a few long-haired Minorcans would tempt the torrid sunshine; and even I, with my passion for sport, would seldom show my pith helmet to the sun during July and August.

“The inlets and rivers along the coast of Florida abound with all kinds of fish, from the little mullet to the mighty tarpon; and many a day’s sport have I had with them in either canoe or surf along that sandy coast.

“For a guide I often had an old Spaniard called ‘Alvarez.’ This old man lived alone in a coquina house of rather large size, and affected the airs and manners of a grandee. He associated with no one, and no one seemed to know anything about him, except that he came there on a schooner from the West Indies years ago, being then an old man. He had bought this house, and had continued to live there without any visible means of support other than the fish he caught. He always went to the store opposite the plaza, at the end of every month, and paid cash in Spanish or American gold and silver for his frugal supplies.

“I had been out ’gator-shooting, and was returning home after two days’ sport with a few good skins, when, on turning the last bend in South River about twenty miles from St. Augustine, I came suddenly upon an old man in a dugout canoe fishing. He had just hooked a large bass, and I started the sheet of my sharpie to stop its headway, and waited until he landed him. I then sailed up alongside of the canoe, intending to buy the fish and take it home with me, thinking, of course, that the old man would be glad to sell it. What was my surprise when he informed me politely that he did not care to sell it, though he had a score or two in the bottom of his canoe. This from an old long-haired Spaniard who seemed in the depths of poverty excited my curiosity, and I endeavored to start a conversation with him about the different fishing ‘drops’ in the locality. He eyed me suspiciously at first, and finally answered my questions with an ease that puzzled me greatly.

“There was one particular place, or ‘drop,’ for catching drum-fish down the South River of which I had often heard but could never find, so I ventured upon this subject to the stranger. To my great surprise he offered to accompany me to it any time that I should find it convenient, telling me at the same time that he lived in St. Augustine, and that I would probably find him there the next day. I thanked him, and, letting go, squared away before the southeast breeze and soon left him out of sight.

“The next day I was walking along the sea-wall smoking my pipe and thinking of this peculiar old fisherman with his mahogany-colored face and bright eye, wondering if I could get him to pilot me on an expedition to the southward. I had a rambling idea of spending several weeks in fishing down the Indian River, and I wanted some one to pilot me who knew the way through the inland passages. While I was trying to form some plan of this intended trip I saw a canoe come around the bend in the Matanzas, and, on its approaching nearer, I recognized the old man whom I had met the day before. I went up to him as he landed at the break in the sea-wall and asked him what luck he had had fishing. For a reply he showed me as fine a catch of red bass as I had ever seen, at the same time offering me a couple as a present. I took them; and after he had tied his boat to a ring in the wall, he joined me and walked part of the way home with me.

“On our way I asked him if he had ever been through the passages to the Indian River, and he smiled as he answered ‘yes.’ I then asked him if he would guide me through on a trip that I intended to make. He was silent for some moments, and finally said he would, provided there was no party going along with me. I then left him; and after going home with my fish I went around to see my friend the sheriff, to find out more about him. I was told that he was a peaceable old fellow, and as he fished a great deal he probably knew all the best places for miles around, that his name was Alvarez, and that he was a reliable man as far as any one knew.

“About a week after this we started out one fine day bound south. Although Alvarez was an absent-minded old fellow, and in spite of his peculiar manner, so different from the common class of dirty, poverty-stricken Spaniards, we got along together splendidly. I was never a great talker, especially when hunting or fishing, and the dearth of conversation on this trip was one of the most enjoyable features of it. Old Alvarez and I became quite good friends after this expedition, and I often used to question him about himself and his affairs. As long as the conversation related to his life in the town he would talk readily enough, but anything regarding his birth or former life he always avoided, merely saying that he ran away to sea when quite young, and that was all that could be drawn from him.

“My fancy often pictured him a pirate or ‘beach-comber,’ and, in fact, there was a rumor to that effect in the town. People said that he had treasures buried along the shore somewhere on Anastasia Island; and that if he chose to talk, more than one vessel that had cleared Cuban ports and had never been heard from could be accounted for. This was mere idle gossip and amounted to nothing, but once somebody had seen his canoe at midnight hauled up on the sand on a narrow part of the island some ten miles below the town.

“Sailing by, they had seen Alvarez walking up and down the beach with his head bowed forward as if looking for something. It was not the season for turtles’ eggs, so it was hard to imagine what he was looking for in the soft yellow sand. People, however, did not like to inquire too closely into his affairs, for when he was annoyed his face assumed such a sinister expression that it boded no good for those who were inclined to chaff him.

“One night a negro ruffian and a Minorcan forced an entrance into his house with the evident intention of securing his imagined treasure. The next morning Alvarez came out and told the sheriff that there were two dead men in his house that he would like to have removed. The sheriff, who was a Spaniard, came around, and there, sure enough, lay both; one shot through the neck and the other through the head, while two immense old-fashioned pistols lay empty on a table in his room. There were no signs of a struggle except a long smear of blood from his room to the hall where the body of the negro lay. He was easily acquitted, and afterwards became more stoical than ever, but he was never disturbed again.

“Although these things happened long before I knew him, I did not hear of them until some time afterwards, and I’ve often wondered since what made the old fellow take such a fancy to me.

“Alvarez and I used to shoot pelicans together. We would go down the river to a narrow part of the island and then cross over to the front beach. I had always remembered this place on account of a bunch of tall palmettoes that grew on the outside of the island and towered above the low bunches of scrub-oak. A more lonely spot it would be hard to find even in that wild country. Here we would make a blind for the night, and shoot the birds as they came in on the beach to roost among the sand-dunes. By the light of a full moon fair sport could be had in this way, and often we would secure a fine bird with long pencilled feathers.

“One night after shooting several birds we turned in on the sand, intending to spend the rest of the night there, as there was no wind. I awoke during the night, and, looking around, found that Alvarez had disappeared. I looked across the sand-spit and saw the boat all right, so I wondered where he could have gone. I arose, and, shaking the sand from my clothes, followed his tracks, which were plainly visible down the beach towards the clump of palmettoes that stood out sharply against the moonlit sky. On nearing them I saw a figure sitting on the sand under the largest tree, and on getting closer I saw that it was Alvarez with his head bowed forward on his arms, which rested on his knees. He started up suddenly on hearing me approach, and asked, sharply,--

“‘How long have you been here?’

“His voice sounded so different from what I had been accustomed to that I was quite startled, and stood looking at him for some moments wondering if he had gone mad. He returned my gaze steadily and gave me a most searching look. I finally answered that I had come to look for him; at the same time I wondered what he meant and tried to curb my rising temper. His fixed look relaxed and he turned his head slightly. I followed his glance, and saw that he was looking at the ground near the foot of one of the palmettoes. The sand about the roots was much disturbed, as if he had been digging for something.

“‘Alvarez,’ said I, ‘what have you been hunting for, and what do you mean by asking how long I’ve been watching you?’

“He remained silent for some moments, then rising, he placed his hand on my shoulder: ‘That’s all right, Mr. Frisbow,’ he said. ‘I have these nightmare fits on me once in a while.’

“‘Well,’ I answered. ‘It’s a strange sort of nightmare that makes one go rooting around in the sand like a hog.’

“He looked at me again with that curious expression, and then said, slowly,--

“‘I was a young man when I first came onto the Florida reef, and there’s many things happened about here and Barrataria before you was born. Some day I’ll talk with you about old times, but not to-night. It’s late. We go to sleep.’

“‘No,’ said I, ‘tell me what you mean. There’s plenty of time for sleep, and, besides, it’s too hot, anyhow.’

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘there’s just one thing I think about every time I come to this spot, and that is the fight which took place a couple of miles off shore, abreast this clump of palmettoes.’

“‘What kind of fight?’ I asked. ‘I never heard of any fight taking place off here.’

“He looked at me sharply, and I fancied the hard lines in his weather-beaten face relaxed into the faintest suspicion of a smile.

“‘Quite likely not,’ he answered, ‘but there was one off here a long time ago. It isn’t likely many people remember much about it, for the men who took part in it probably died years ago. It was between two schooners.

“‘There was one that carried fruit from Havana, and she started down the coast one night from St. Augustine, homeward bound, but without any lights. This was probably an oversight, or, perhaps, a desire on the part of her skipper to save oil.

“‘There was another schooner coming up the coast that evening, and she didn’t have any lights because she was all the way from the Guinea Coast loaded with ebony.’

“‘I don’t see why a vessel carrying ebony shouldn’t carry lights,’ I interrupted.

“Old Alvarez’s face showed a net-work of lines and wrinkles and the stumps of his yellow teeth shone bright in the moonlight.