Swept Out to Sea Part 11

"Cap'n Symes he gin a look to wind'ard. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, ('Twas cur'ous, his name was Cap'n Symes, an' my name was Mister Symes, but we warn't neither kith nor kin), 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin'

right smart peart, an' I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes he casts an eye aloft. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a bloawin' right smart peart, and I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an'

breaches. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes he took a look at the clouds that was a-scuddin' acrosst.

'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, an' I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches, an' it's a right smart sperm, too.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an'

breaches, _an'_ its a right smart sperm-whale, too. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes, he gin a last look at the weather. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, and _I_ don't see fitten for to lower, still--if you're so gol-darned sot on lowerin', you can lower and be hanged to you.'

"I went for'ard and sings aout for volunteers, an' the boys jest tumbled over each other into the boat. We got the whale, and as I was a-swarmin'

over the side, thar stood Cap'n Symes with tears in his eyes.

"'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'forty years,' says he, 'I've sailed the seas,'

says he, 'man an' boy, man _an'_ boy, an' in all that time I never see no mate to compare with you,' says he. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'you're the Jim Dandyest mate as ever I sailed s.h.i.+pmates with,' says he. 'Mr.

Symes,' says he, 'daown in my cabin in the starboard locker aft,' says he, 'you'll find some prime Havana seegars, and the best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says he. 'That best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says he, 'an' them prime Havana seegars,' says he, 'is yourn for the rest of the v'y'ge.'

"'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'you can take them prime Havana seegars an' that best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says I, 'an' stick 'em overboard as fur as I'm consarned. All I asks is common sea-vility; an' that o' the gol-darndest commonest kind!'"

Ben told me this story while he ate. He was the liveliest kind of a companion. I liked him immensely from the start, and the longer I knew him the better I liked him. This was his first deep sea voyage, but he had been looking forward to it ever since he was in petticoats--unlike myself, who had only longed for the sea but knew I probably would never be allowed to follow my bent.

Now, it seemed, Fate had flung me right into the life I had so longed for. Had it not been for mother and the fears I felt for her in the mesh of Chester Downes' web, I should have welcomed this chance that had put me aboard the whaling bark Scarboro.

"And she's a fine old craft," declared the young second mate. "Maybe she's a bit tender in her bends, but she's sailed in every quarter of the globe and has brought home many a cargo of oil. We all own shares in her--in the bark herself, I mean--we Rogerses and Gibsons. I've a twentieth part myself in pickle against the time I'm twenty-one," and he laughed, meaning that his guardian held that investment for him--and a very good slice of fortune his holdings in the old Scarboro proved to be, at the end of the voyage.

But now we were at the beginning of it--all the romance and adventure was ahead of us. Before noon I was not sorry to be aboard of the bigger craft and looked with equanimity upon my own bonny sloop stowed amids.h.i.+ps. The wind had wheeled again and coming abaft, the bark shot on into the southward, trying to outrun the gale. Had I not been picked up as I was I might have been swamped in the Wavecrest.

For a week, or more, we ran steadily toward the tropics, and in all that time we pa.s.sed--and that distantly--but two steam vessels and only one sailing craft. There was no chance for me to get home. I had to possess my soul with such patience as I could, while the old Scarboro bore me swiftly away toward the Southern Seas.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH TOM ANDERLY RELATES A STORY THAT AROUSES MY INTEREST

Captain Rogers was not a harsh man, but he was a stern disciplinarian.

That he could not change the course of his s.h.i.+p to land me in some port, or to put me aboard a homeward bound vessel, is not to be wondered at.

He had both his owners and his crew to think of. I was thankful, when I saw the week's weather that followed my boarding the Scarboro, that I had been saved from further battling with the elements in the sloop.

Ben Gibson advised me to write fully of my situation and prospects and have the letter, or letters, ready to put aboard any mail-carrying s.h.i.+p we might meet. A steams.h.i.+p bound for the Cape of Good Hope, even, would get a letter to Bolderhead, via London, before I could get back myself from any South American port that the Scarboro might be obliged to touch at.

I knew, however, that the whaling bark was not likely to touch at any port unless she suffered seriously from the gales. Whaling skippers are not likely to trust their crews in port, for the possible three year term of s.h.i.+pment stretches out into an unendurable vista in the mind of the imprisoned sailor.

For that is what a sailor is--a prisoner. As the great Samuel Johnson declared, a sailor is worse off than a man in jail, for the sailor is not only a prisoner, but he is in danger all of the time! However, the prospect of the danger and hards.h.i.+p of the seafarer's life had never troubled me. I must admit that I was delighted to turn to with the captain's watch (that was Ben Gibson's watch) and take up the duties of a foremast hand upon the Scarboro. I wrote the letters as I was advised.

I wrote to my mother, of course, to Ham Mayberry, and last of all, and more particularly, to Lawyer Hounsditch.

To the latter gentleman I explained all I feared regarding Mr. Chester Downes and his machinations. To Ham I told the particulars of my having been swept out to sea and instructed him to find my mooring rope and save it, with its cut end for evidence; and if possible to learn who had helped Paul Downes, my cousin, cut me adrift and nail me in the cabin of the Wavecrest. To my mother I wrote cheerfully and asked her to have money sent me at Buenos Ayres, as that might be a port the Scarboro would touch at, or a port I could reach if I left the whales.h.i.+p.

I cannot say that I was continually worried by my state aboard the whaler. What boy would not have delighted in being thus thrust into the midst of the very life and work he had so longed to follow? I could not but feel that it was _meant_ for me to be a sailor, after all.

The Webbs had been seafaring folk, time out of mind. My father's father had tried to keep his own son off the water by giving him a college education and making a doctor of him. But the moment my father was sure of his sheepskin, he had looked about for a chance to go as surgeon on a deep water s.h.i.+p, and had gone voyage after voyage until his marriage.

Inside of a fortnight Captain Rogers had complimented me on my work and manner, and Mr. Robbins, the mate, said I was worth my salt-horse and hardbread. Of course while on duty Ben Gibson, the young second mate, and I must of necessity hold to "quarterdeck etiquette;" he was "Mr.

Gibson" and I was "Webb." We were punctilious indeed about these niceties of address. Off duty, however, we were two boys together, and rather inclined to sky-lark.

The other close friend that I made aboard the Scarboro during the first few days of the voyage, was old Tom Anderly. He was the bewhiskered old barnacle who had welcomed the possibility of getting oil in the bark's tanks from the dead whale, when I had first come aboard.

Anderly was a boat-steerer, an old sea dog who had sailed oft and again with the skipper, and who had lanced more whales than any other half dozen men aboard. Being in old Tom's watch I grew soon familiar with him; and from the beginning I saw that the old seaman took more than a common interest in me.

The old man was full of stories of whale fis.h.i.+ng and other experiences at sea. But it was not his fund of information, or his tales, that first of all interested me in Tom Anderly. I had told n.o.body--not even Ben Gibson--about the actual event of my being swept out to sea from Bolderhead, nor had I said a word about my father. The fact that he had been a sea-going physician would not help me hold my own with the crew of the Scarboro. At sea, according to the homely old saw, "every tub must stand on its own bottom."

"So you come from Bolderhead, do you?" quoth Tom to me, one day when we were lounging together forward of the capstan, and he was mending his pipe.

"That's where we live in the summer," I admitted.

"Jest summer visitors, are ye?"

"Well, my mother has a house there."

"Yes. Ye ain't a native, though, eh?" and before I could reply to this, he continued: "I been studying about Bolderhead ever since you come aboard. There was something curious happened at Bolderhead--or just off the inlet--and it's all come back to me now."

"What was it?" I asked, idly.

"Well, it's quite a yarn," he said, wagging his head. "I was running in the old hooker, Sally Smith, from Portland to New York. She carted stone. There warn't but five of us aboard, includin' the cap'n and the cook. But our freight warn't perishable," and he chuckled, "so speed didn't enter into our calculations. One day there come up a smother of fog as we was just off Bolderhead Neck. We'd run some in-sh.o.r.e. It fell a dead calm--one o' them still, creepy times when you can hear sheep bells and dinner horns for miles and miles.

"Well, sir! we lay there in this smother of fog and all of a suddent we heard somebody hootin'. Cap he halloaed back. 'Blow yer scare!' sings out the same faint voice. 'Keep it blowin'.'

"'There's somebody out yon tryin' to make the Sally,' says the Cap'n. I stepped on the tread of the siren and kept her blattin' now and then and, after some minutes, we heard a splas.h.i.+n' alongside and there was a man swimming in the sea."

"He had swum out from sh.o.r.e?" I asked, just to keep the conversation going. I wasn't really interested.

"No. His boat had begun leaking badly. It was too heavy to turn over, and before it sank he slipped into the sea and made for us. He had seen us before the fog shut down, and knew that we were becalmed. He'd just tied his shoes about his neck by the lacings and swum out with every rag of clothes on him--'cept his hat."